As someone who’s suffered with IBS on and off throughout adulthood, I have some pretty good poop stories. There was the time I shit my pants (well, partially: I almost made it) at Macy’s while pushing my toddler in a stroller frantically looking for a bathroom. Then there was that afternoon I had to pull over to the side of a country road to shit in the woods (OH MY GOD, there are no bathrooms for miles in upstate New York).
Or, ummm, how about that time I was alone on a deserted beach, couldn’t find a bathroom, dug myself a make-shift Port-a-Potty in the sand, did the deed, and buried it for safe-keeping? This is the first time I’ve shared that one in public, actually. You’re welcome.
I mean, I thought nothing could top that last story. That is, until a week or so ago when I had the divine pleasure of pooping in my kid’s potty.
Yes, really. And I know I can’t be the only one who’s done it.
Let me start from the beginning. That day, we were having some work done on our sewage system. There is an ongoing back-up issue in my apartment. I’ve had poop coming out of my bathtub and sewage coming out of the kitchen sink at times. (I swear: poop problems follow me everywhere.) Luckily, the work they’ve been doing seems to be fixing it.
Anyway, so the water was shut off all day so they could do that work. I was told at the beginning of the day that I would be able to use the toilet, just not flush. It was a school day so my kids were out, and since it was only me here all day working from home, I figured that would be fine.
So there I am at my laptop, working, eating breakfast, drinking coffee, when the guys working on the pipes come up to tell me: “Oh, no. Nothing can go into the toilet, nothing at all.”
Oh, shit, I thought. Like, really: OH SHIT.
Because, you know, I’d just had breakfast and drunk my coffee. I expected to be able to have a toilet to poop in. I HAD TO GO AT THAT VERY MOMENT. And when I have to shit, I’m not usually the type of person who can just hold it, especially under pressure.
I suppose I could have walked my ass to the pizza place around the corner to use their toilet, but I wasn’t sure they were open yet, and I was told it would just be a few hours until I could use our toilet again (which also turned out to another lie, but hold that thought).
So, I did what any respectable human being would do. I got out my son’s old potty from the closet, and thinking fast and on my feet, I put a plastic grocery bag in it, and pooped. I mean, I wasn’t going to let the poop just sit in the potty like that, right? I tied up the bag, put another bag around it, and put it in the closet, thinking I’d dump it in the toilet in just a little bit, when I’d be given the green light.
Now, you might be asking why I didn’t just take out the shitbag (because, let’s be frank, that’s exactly what it was) and dump it outside in the trash bin. Don’t worry: I considered it. But, I live in an apartment and I really didn’t think my refuse belonged in a shared trash bin. I mean, we’re not talking about baby poop here, folks. Adult human shit has one rightful place, and that is in a toilet.
Plus, I really, truly thought that the work on my house was going to be done soon, and I would be able to use said toilet.
Well, the work took all fucking day. All. Fucking. Day. You pretty much can never trust a plumber when they say they are almost done. I knew that before, but now I really know that.
As for the shitbag? Let’s just say that by the end of the day when I dealt with it, I understood for the first time what the phrase “shitbag” really means. And my advice is that you should definitely save it for your worst enemy.