Toilet Talk 

When your week goes to poop, it’s only natural to #fbf to when it was worse. Here’s to having some really shitty luck. Literally. 

Nothing strikes more fear into my heart than rising water in a toilet bowl. Even realizing my alarm clock failed me, or discovering I’ve worn my black panties that say, “Only if You’re Lucky” on the ass, with my white skinny slacks, to school doesn’t hit me as hard and sudden as realizing poop water is about to run like Niagara Falls all over my linoleum. 

Am I right? Or, am I the only one who uses half a roll of toilet paper AND forgets to courtesy flush? Surely I’m not the only tool who has felt this cold fear. Surely. 

Let me tell you what is worse than an overflowing toilet onto linoleum: an overflowing toilet onto carpet. Before I move on, can I express my utter disgrace for whoever thought carpet in a bathroom was a good idea? IT’S A HORRIBLE IDEA. 

Years ago, I lived with my boyfriend’s mom. Not only was the bathroom adorned with 80’s-special red counter tops, and gold finishes everywhere, the entire floor was carpeted. It was terrifying. 

How can one confidently use a bathroom with carpet under their feet? Not only did my skin crawl wondering how many pee germs, courtesy of my boyfriend, and God-knows-what creepy crawlies were inhabiting the carpet circling the toilet, but the fear of overflowing the toilet was a very real, daily emotion. 

I’m known among my family and friends as the Toilet Paper Monster. I know, glamorous. Basically, I can easily use half a roll of toilet paper in one trip to the bathroom. My dad says every time, and I’m not shitting you, every time, I come over, “Better make a run to Costco, Katie’s here”. Not funny anymore, Dad. 

I see not one thing wrong with wanting an extra clean derrière. 

Not only was I known, in my childhood home, as one who possibly ate toilet paper-for what other explanation was there-I was a professional toilet overflowerer. All I had to do was yell, “Mom!”, in a panicked tone for her to come, immediately, running with the mop, a plunger, and bleach. 

Well, back to the 80’s bathroom nightmare. After an especially long crappy day (see what I did there?), I was running, pinched cheeks, to the bathroom (what a wonderful visual. I’m trying to make this as minimally unsavory as possible, but we are talking toilet paper and overflowing toilets here). 

After I had done my business and used my usual half-a-roll share, the time came to flush. I stopped. A hot sweat immediately dampened my skin. 

Had I flushed? Did I courtesy flush? 

I looked.

*shudders* 

Nope. 

What do I do? What do I do? 

I’m just going to have to flush and pray. 

OK. Here we go. 

Nope. I can’t do it. Maybe we can just forget about this toilet. It’s a loss. 

No. Flushing has to happen. It must be done. 

*Deep breath*

3, 2, 1, FLUSH

I think it’s going to go down. 

Momentary relief flows through my veins. That is, until…

That doesn’t sound right. Wait. No. 

No, no, please, Lord Jesus, no! 

I jump up-pants around ankles-and whip around to face the pain. 

DEAR GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY. 

Bile is rising, my stomach is clenched firmly in fear’s fist, and my mind is blank. 

I’m not here. This isn’t happening. I refuse to believe it. 

Nope, this is very real. What are you waiting for, asshole? 

I frantically lift the top to the tank. I pull the bobber-ma-jiggy, like my exasperated mom taught me. It does nothing. 

Racing against the clock, I get on my hands and knees, onto the ill-fated carpet, and reach for the water valve. 

It’s not going to stop. 

THAT is going to be all over the carpet. 

How will I tell Linda? 

How will I ever live this down? I will forever be The Girl Who Stained My Carpet With Her Poo Water. 

I almost faint. It’s all too much. It’s bare-assed, primal fear. I can only   imagine what the scene would look like if someone walked in. Anyone witness to the mess I was, would immediately be struck blind. *shudders*

With the water shut off, the offensive contents have finally ceased rising. Precisely a millimeter above the edge-the point of no return-it’s stopped. 

I’m stunned, relieved, physically and mentally exhausted, numb. 

With a sweat-lined lip, I mouth, “Thank you, baby Jesus. Thank you”. 

What do I do now? 

The water level wouldn’t allow a plunger, even a mere pube would reverse what my fervent prayers and sweating worked so hard to prevent. 

By the utter grace of God, the water starting draining, and a white bowl dotted with my disgrace started to show. 

I am the luckiest bitch on this planet. 

No one has ever heard my story. It was a very hard, embarrassing story to tell. Maybe my words can help save someone’s dignity, or at the very least, their flooring. 

Public service message of the day: FLUSH BEFORE YOU WIPE AND DON’T EXPECT AN ENTIRE ROLL OF TOILET PAPER TO FLUSH. 

It won’t. 


Porta-Poop Revisited

This past weekend, a good friend and I went to the Genoa Candy Dance. I had assumed that people would be dancing and throwing candy around. I mean, isn’t that what it sounds like it would be?? To my dismay, the Candy Dance was just a bunch of over-priced vendors and food trucks (apparently there is a dinner and dance event in the evening). The food truck part was, however, much appreciated. What I did really like about this event was that it was held in Nevada’s oldest town/settlement. For a history lover, it is a real damn shame that I had never been to Genoa before. I fully plan on visiting again sans tons of people pushing to get to a stall selling crocheted rabbits.

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Turned to Poo

I was trying really hard to pull an Eat, Pray, Love during my massage today. No, I did not try to sneak in a sandwich (maybe next time). I tried to meditate and think of nothing. I tried the mindful practice strategies that I’ve taught to my students. I tried to concentrate only on my breath and the sensations of the stress being kneaded out of my body. I tried. But, as with most things in my life, I failed. Epically. 

All I could do was think. 

This past month has felt like a fucking nightmare. Parts of the nightmare I can get into, others I can’t and won’t divulge.

Obviously, if you’ve been following my blog, or you know me personally, you know I left my boyfriend. I will never publically bash the man I gave five years of my life to, but I will say that I had thought I had already grieved the end of our relationship. Before I ever even got out of it. Well, I hadn’t grieved. Not even fucking close. Finally cutting the cord was harder than I thought it would be. In fact, to date, it was/is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. 

I’ve never been the one to dump. I’ve always been the dumpee or the jackass who gets cheated on. I’ve always been the one beating the dead horse, holding on for dear life to something that had been long dead. 
When I decided to decline the job offer in England, I knew that despite my not jetting off to change my life abroad, I would still need to make massive changes at home. You don’t always have to pull an Under the Tuscan Sun or EPL to change your life for the better. 

Well, “for the better” has not appeared yet. In fact, almost daily I wish I can go back in time to when my life was a familiar pile of poo, because this new poo smells terrible. 

Yeah, I know, time heals all wounds. And all of that garbage. 

The most eye-opening thing I’ve realized lately, I thought of during my massage today. 

Every single good thing that has happened this past year has turned to utter shit. 

For ease of reading, I’ll just make a stinking pile of shit list:

1. The “writing” gig for Bliss Babe was a joke. 

2. I epically failed my first Master’s class and am in the appeal process still. 

3. While my decision to not go to England was based on logic and lack of cash money, it still sucks to think I could be drinking tea and eating crumpets right now (actually, I’d be asleep, because it’s 5 in the morning there as I write this). 

4. Even though it was inevitable, the relationship I gave my all and five years of my best years to failed. 

So, all of this to say, this is why I’ve been MIA on the blogging front. 

Oh, I forgot one more:

5. After not blogging for a month, I’ve likely lost most of my followers. 

YAY. 

The Apartment

OH BOY, GUYS. I thought I was good, but I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be to move into a new apartment without the guy I spent almost five years with. Alone. Just me. 

The night before last I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and a late night trip to Home Depot was necessary. I almost starting crying in the pipe fittings isle. I felt alone, scared, and stressed. 

I feel better off and on. One moment I’m excited for my new makeup table that used to be my entry table, and the next I’m feeling horribly heartbroken that I won’t be tripping over his behemoth shoes anymore (this is craziness, as who would miss this…).

Yesterday, my aunt, mom and good friend  (plus her hubby) helped me move my new bed and couch into my apartment. The presence of loved ones in my new place helped immensely with making it feel more like home. It also helps as I put more and more of my things inside. 

It’ll get better. It just takes time. Time is a bitch, though.

Here is a video I took the night I got my keys. I’ll video again when everything is in place. 

But Don’t Do That

Guys, I’m freaking out. Today, when I was at the factory outlet mall, I needed to use the restroom. Generally, I tend to avoid public restrooms like the plague, because, well, they are filled with foul smells and people with leprosy. I’m not even kidding. Just ugh. Even Starbucks bathrooms are questionable these days. There’s just nothing quite like your own bathroom, your own germs, and your own smells. 

There’s something more. It isn’t just that every single time, I shit-you-not, every.single.time I walk into a public restroom someone just unloaded their barrio burrito from hell, it’s that I have a fear of vomitting. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, knowing it’s happening. Just no. 

I’m the kind of teacher who, when one of my students throws up, looks like they are about to throw up, or comes out of the bathroom a sickly shade of green, I’m out the door, down the street, gone. Nope. Nope. Nope. 

I’m the friend who will leave your drunk ass in the bar bathroom if you’re puking. I don’t even care. Maybe it sounds cruel, but I always tell the bartender to hail you a cab. So, it’s OK. 

I’m also this girlfriend. Yup. 

I had my boyfriend help me recreate one of my favorite memes. Even getting this close is questionable. To add to the effect, he made pretend gagging sounds and all that fun stuff. Great work, babe. 

So, back to the bathroom nightmare today. There was a woman in the bathroom making extremely questionable noises. I’m always hypersensitive to the noises that go on in the stalls next to me. So much as a cough, and my heart starts beating faster and I break out into a sweat. When I hear anything other than tinkle tinkle, I freak the fuck out. 

Forcing myself to accept the very real fact that a foot away from me someone was upchucking was unthinkable. Thus, I decided to make up what she was doing instead. So, the woman in.the.very.next.stall was either:

A. Dropping bowling balls into the toilet, which would account for the impressive splashing sounds

B: Plunging the toilet, exuberantly, which would account for the heaving breathing

C: Having a watermelon seed spitting contest, which would account for the spitting

I practically flew out of that bathroom. The damn bathroom at the mall is at the end of this winding, endless hallway. The whole way, I ran, breathless, sweating, shaking. 

It felt like I was never going to see the light of day again. Finally, finally, I saw the light, exited, found Bath & Body Works and tried to forget about my worst nightmare come true. 

Travel Movements

Am I the only one who stresses about the bathroom situation at airports and in *gasp* airplanes

Is it just me who plans, or tries to plan “movements” so as to avoid the flying germ coffin in the sky? 

I positively detest using the airplane bathroom. I don’t think detest is a strong enough word. Loath? Does that emphasize my hate and horror enough? I think I’ll go with ‘detest’, it sounds more full of disgust. 

What I despise about the bathroom is that it’s more like an entryway coat closet, in a home for small people, than a restroom. 

It’s absolutely not a restroom, anyway. There is no resting once in its claustrophobic grip. Just to get your pants down, you practically have to molest all four walls, with every part of your body.

I’m the kind of person who prefers to have no part of my body touch any part of a bathroom. It’s a challenge. It’s an art form. I hover, I flush with my foot, I will kick the door down to get out. Anything to touch nothing. 

Why are the bathrooms so fucking small? I mean, really? I could easily give up the snack station for a larger bathroom. Who needs shitty peanuts and the worst watered-down soda when you could use a bathroom that you don’t have to have sex with to use? I’m for a larger bathroom, hands down. 

Right along with my fear of public bathrooms, be it a horrifying porta poop or a nasty shit box in the sky, I fear pooping in public. Period. I want to get in and out as fast as humanly possible. Diddle doddling around waiting for the deed to be done, is far, far too dangerous in a bathroom where someone else, a stranger, is also doing the deed right next to me. No thanks. 

I can’t relax enough to poop when someone could possibly hear the dreaded ‘splash’. Nope. No way. I’m already feeling the anxiety coming on. 

Call me a freak. Call me high maintenance. Call me what you will, but I can’t poop comfortably unless I have my In Touch, my Costco toilet paper, my room spray, and my personally cleaned toilet. 

You can say vacations are a bitch in regards to the bathroom situation. 

Nervous Poos

3 more sleeps and I will be heading to visit my sister from another mama. This will be the first time I’ve traveled further than one state over since my trip to London in 2010! To say I’m nervous about the flight is like saying, “I’m just a little in love with baked goods.” 

I adore travel. I want to see the world, yet flying is so, so fucking scary. I am a control freak to the nth degree. If I could sit in the cockpit, I would feel a little better. I would feel a little more at ease if I could be on the lookout for birds or other planes, or whatever else there is to watch out for in the sky. I would feel more in charge, and thus safer, if I could say, “A little to the left”, “Whoa, let’s ease up on that throttle”, and “Are you sure you checked the landing gear?” 

I would be that person they want to tie up and store in the cargo hold. 

This time around, I’ll be traveling with just me, myself, and Ivana (she’s my alter ego). I’ve never flown alone. I’ve always had someone to annoy with my constant questions and worries, “Are you really sure we aren’t going to die?”

I feel like a super, take the Bulls by the horn, independent woman. That is, until the morning of my flight. I’ll most likely be having to use the restroom every 10 minutes, and I’ll question whether or not to take my “huggy pillow” with me on the flight-to keep me safe, obviously. 

I’m not a real chatty person when it comes to talking to strangers. When some random person says something like, “The weather has been crazy lately”, my response is usually something along the lines of, “I don’t like hot dogs”. And then I want to kick myself for not saying something easy, like, “Hasn’t it?”

So, I’m dreading the inevitable flight talk. 

Basically, I’m dreading the flight, in its entirety. 

Someone reassure me *sucking thumb in fetal position*

Super Wimp

One of my new favorite bloggers I am following inspired my new blog post today. RobynChristi posted about being a scaredy-cat. I can relate ALL TOO WELL. Anyone who knows me, knows I am the person who checks the door 45 times before leaving. Usually that’s not enough, because I’m certain I was finally robbed and the door will be wide open, so I go back to check once more (do I want to admit that this is usually after I’ve gotten in the car, buckled up, found my chosen Pandora station, and started the car?) 

I count the walk back to my motel, by the airport in Oakland, from the Bart station, on NYE 2014 as the most terrifying thing that ever happened to me. I was certain the entire time that I would be shanked. I also have never walked so fast in my entire life. In wedges. My leg muscles were cramped up for days. 

The house I lived in in Elko was situated on a lonely dirt road, far from the main road. Getting out of my car at night was terrifying. It was pitch black and there were so many glowing eyes everywhere (they were jackrabbits, but still…) I would run so fast, once my feet hit the dirt, I basically flew to the door. My heart would be pounding out of my chest the whole terrifying journey. Once I was safely inside, I was sure I evaded certain death. This was EVERYDAY. 

If I could lock myself into my bedroom at night with several different locks, I would. Two different chain locks would make me feel best, but I always figure that’s overkill. Summer proves a challenge for me, as it is too hot, so the door has.to.stay.open. OPEN. 

Summer is not a good time for my nerves. 

Am I the only weirdo who is certain that robbers, boogeyman, and psychopaths can sense when someone leaves their bedroom door open and that’s how they choose their victims? Leaving my door open at night is like a huge, welcoming invite to come eat me alive. I just can’t deal. 

Some nights, I try to shut and lock the door when I know my boyfriend is fast asleep. It usually doesn’t work, because sleeping in a pool of his own sweat usually wakes him up, and then he gets mad that I did it again. He thinks I’m a psycho. He’s suggested therapy more times than I want to admit. 

So, I think if there were a Guinness record for “Most Terrified Person”, I would get it hands-down. I’m not sure if I should be mildly proud or immensely embarrassed. Either way, I’m already counting the days until it starts getting cool enough at night so I can barricade myself in the bedroom and get a decent night’s sleep.