the curse of the gifted

I have a gift. A seventh sense, if you will (in addition to my current sixth sense, which is being "a little bit psychic"). At any given moment, I will have a sudden urge to pee. And, when this urge pops up out of nowhere, I know the reason why - but there's no arguing with it. I must pee. And I'm going to suffer for it.

What's the reason that prompts my bladder, you ask? I can only assume that it's because my bladder has a very close relationship with the office bathroom just down the hall. And that bathroom must be whispering to my bladder:

"Come and see me now. The air is now at its dookiest. Come now!"

And, because my bladder is an asshole, it sets off the pee trigger. Which forces me to breathe in dookie-scented air for a good three minutes while I pee and wash my hands. It's uncanny, though. I can go for hours and hours without having to pee, but somehow, some way, five minutes before I feel the tingly pee pain in my pants, someone is undoubtedly in the bathroom releasing their hell hound of a shit and dookie-ing up the air for my arrival.

It's a bitch of a seventh sense, really. Stupid bladder.

MFEO

So I'm dating a boy. Have been for 5 months or so. I think we might be perfect for each other, as evidenced by a recent IM conversation that took place after the Jamaica trip was upsetting the natural order of my colon:

notlisa (5:05:14 PM): oh, by the way

notlisa (5:05:18 PM): i never pooped today

notlisa (5:05:22 PM): what-the-eff

newboyfriend (5:05:35 PM): ummm

newboyfriend (5:05:40 PM): you've got to be kidding me

notlisa (5:05:48 PM): i even had a big ol' fruit salad and an iced coffee for lunch

notlisa (5:05:56 PM): and coffee for breakfast

notlisa (5:05:59 PM): that's it.

notlisa (5:06:04 PM): oh, and a wishful thinking, "let's get this party started" cigarette this morning

newboyfriend (5:06:55 PM): I'm going to have some words with your bowels

notlisa (5:06:55 PM): i'm about to head home where i plan on having cigarette after cigarette until this Rosemary's Poopie decides to finally make its evil way into the world

newboyfriend (5:07:02 PM): ha ha ha

newboyfriend (5:07:05 PM): I love it

notlisa (5:07:21 PM): so annoying

newboyfriend (5:07:40 PM): no kidding...


Isn't he just dreamy?

nancy drew in the loo

What? Rhyming is fun, y'all.

And no, this is not another post about poo. Although that would go well with my rhyming scheme...

My work bathroom is freezing today. So cold that my friend Lynn claimed it was causing her leg hairs to grow their own leg hairs. That's some cold shit.

I just found myself in the handicapped stall (no, I'm not handicapped - but I'm a tall lady and enjoy the extra leg room), freezing to death and wondering if I had peed yellow icicles, when I reached for the toilet paper and noticed that the source of the cold air (and possibly evil itself) was coming from the toilet paper dispenser.

My mind begins to churn. "How is this possible? Is the toilet paper dispenser really a portkey? Should I just not touch the thing and drip dry so I'm not transported somewhere else while my pants are around my ankles? That would be awful! So embarrassing! Wow, Harry Potter references aren't even topical. Bless my heart. Where the hell is that cold air coming from?"

So, like any good self-respecting Nancy Drew, I decide to investigate (after I decide to wipe). After I check the other stalls and the sinks for co-workers, I get down on my hands and knees, looking up inside the dispenser for some sort of hole that would create a draft. Nothing. I feel around inside the dispenser for a hole. Nothing. "Where is this steady stream of freezing air coming from? And, if we had office mice, would they be smart enough to use this space to refrigerate their cheese?"

The bathroom door opens and I'm jolted back to my senses. It is only then that I'm aware that I'm crawling around with my HANDS ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR AT WORK. All caps are necessary because THAT IS DISGUSTING.

So, for the sake of hygiene, I've washed my hands of both the germs and the detective work. Some mysteries are better left unsolved, I suppose. If not, we never would have gotten that great TV show.

holy shit. (a more clever title than one might initially think)

A few months ago a couple of my friends and I were lounging around a friend's apartment, enjoying No Pants Day. No Pants Day is an all-too-rare treat that happens when massive amounts of alcohol are consumed the previous night, causing party participants to collectively pass out in one location (usually in what is called "9-Spoon", where everyone faces the same direction and sleeps in a big spooning formation). The following day, the apartment crashers must abide by the following rules:

1) No pants are allowed. The name is not Pajama Pants Day, it is No Pants Day. If they must, participants are allowed to wrap a blanket, afghan or throw around their nether region.

2) Someone must provide breakfast and Gatorade. If breakfast and Gatorade are not readily available at the friend's apartment, someone must go out to retrieve them. Again, under no circumstances are pants allowed. This is why God invented drive-throughs, both of the fast food and convenience store variety.

3) At least three movies must be watched. Past and often-recurring favorites include Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, Super Troopers, Reality Bites and Sixteen Candles.

4) Appropriate underwear is highly recommended.

On this particular No Pants Day, one of my friends Lynn had an unfortunate stomachache. This is hardly uncommon, given the nature of traditional No Pants Day Eves and their natural association with buckets of hard liquor. Lynn eventually wrapped her lower half in a blanket and excused herself from the movie-watching festivities to spent some alone time in the bathroom.

Ten minutes later we hear - through the bathroom door - Lynn erupt in giggles. She throws open the door and yells "You guys! Get in here and look at this!! OHMYGOD!!!"

Three of us immediately jump up without even the slightest hesitation.

The Boyfriend (who was actually just Best Guy Friend at the time) remained seated on the couch, expressing his disgust for our bathroom interest.

"You guys are jumping up and running to look at her poop! That. is. sick. Sick. and. wrong."

Lynn showed us her twosie treasure and we all had to laugh. She had been in the bathroom for over ten minutes and barely had one goat-poop-sized ball to show for it. How is that not funny? We all had a good giggle and then resumed our positions on the overstuffed couches.

A few months later, the above event somehow crept into our conversation. The Boyfriend (no longer Best Guy Friend) had apparently been haunted for months and now felt it necessary to have a sit-down with me.

The Boyfriend: "I want you to know how much I love you."

Not Lisa: "Are you breaking up with me in a really fucked up fashion?"

The Boyfriend: "No. But I do have something very serious that I need to tell you. It's important that you remember this for always and forever."

Not Lisa: "Hmm... okay."

The Boyfriend: "I love you so much that I can't even begin to describe it. It's an embarrassing amount. I'm ashamed of it sometimes because dudes aren't supposed to feel this way, unless they're in an Oxygen movie. But - no matter how much I love you - I will never, ever, under any circumstances come and look at your poop."

I didn't know what to do with this. My friends and I have always been very open in our poo-communication. I was raised this way. My mom taught me how to count by making me take inventory of my poop in the toddler trainer potty. I paused for a bit before responding.

Not Lisa: "What if my poop came out looking like the Messiah and I needed a second opinion before taking a picture to upload on eBay?"

The Boyfriend: "Only if the Messiah had a holy halo created by pee. That's the ONE exception."

Fair enough.

the shoe game

When it comes to Number Twos at Work, I am a huge hypocrite. I find myself feeling the urge - the down-town-push-down, if you will - and every time I find myself going through the motions of a pooping pep talk. "Everyone does it! It's a natural thing and it's no big deal! No one even notices. You don't have a one-person handicapped bathroom for personal retreat anymore, so you're going to have to suck it up like everyone else and pick a stall! Really, it's UNnatural for you to hold it. Now get in there and drop some business! People could care less!!"

And so I go, relishing in the fact that it's natural. Everyone does it. No need to feel embarrassed that a co-worker walks in mid-push. She poops, too!

Fast-forward three hours...

My relentless green tea addiction prompts me, once again, to visit the Ladies. I have a different agenda this time, though. No longer do I need the pep talk to push me over the hump of the pooping stigma. I have to pee! There's no shame in that! I can do that with the door open if I want, while two lesbians make out in the corner*!

So in I go, with all the confidence of... well... someone who has a lot of confidence. I pick the third stall (it's my favorite, as it's a taller toilet and I'm a bit of a leggy bitch) and take my time. Then I remember that the stall door next to me was closed and its occupant has been extremely quiet the whole time. There's the awkward silence that occurs when no toilet paper is being shuffled, no fluids are being released, no pants are being zipped. She's waiting it out; holding out for me to leave so she can finish up undetected. I know her game. She's lying in wait, knowing that if she were to be identified she wouldn't be able to look me in the eyes later as she passes me in the hall.

My hypocrite soul will not stand for this. She must be outed! Cue The Shoe Game.

I quietly finish my business and sneak a quick peek at her shoes from under the stall door. She's been ID'd! The rest of my day is chock full of hide-and-seek fun, looking at every woman's shoes as I pass them in the hallways. No chance that I'll be caught sitting at my desk reading blogs today. No way. I'm a woman on a mission.

Once I find those shoes, it's all I can do to restrain myself from pointing, giggling and saying "You dirty work pooper! I know it was you!! You dropped bombs like Hiroshima!"

Bless my heart.

*story for another time, my friend. Story for another time.

i faked it.

Every week, someone from my group of girlfriends (aka "The Core") cooks dinner and everyone else shows up at her house armed with many a bottle of wine. Last night, it was my turn. I cleaned, I cooked, I entertained, I taught piano lessons... and then I was exhausted.

Boyfriend has had an especially rough week and really needed some couch time with his lady, so I had promised earlier in the day to come over to his house after dinner to comfortingly coddle and pet him on the head. When the ladies left me, I could see this was no longer an option. There were wine glasses all over the place, Butterfinger wrappers strewn about, and pans with coagulating cheese sitting in my kitchen. It was also 11:15 p.m.

I'm normally a late-night person, so the time wasn't really an issue. However, I am inherently selfish and really needed to clean my apartment and lay on my couch while I finished off the leftover wine.

So, like any good single gal desperate to make her man happy, I faked it.

I don't normally condone faking it. Unless, you know, you're really sleepy. But last night, I reached back into my bag of tricks and that's all I could come up with. The phone call to Boyfriend went something like this:

B: "Well, hello!"
NL: (very sadly and possibly in pain) "Hi."
B: "How was dinner with your ladies? You don't sound too good."
NL: "It was fun, but something is going on downstairs."
B: "I warned you about your cooking."
NL: "It really better not be my cooking. I think it was that Mexican food that I had for lunch."
B: "What was for dinner?"
NL: "Chicken enchilada casserole."
B: "With extra cheese?"
NL: (sheepishly and defeated) "Yes."
B: "What else?"
NL: "Salad."
B: "With cheese and ranch?"
NL: "You know there's no other way to eat a salad."
B: "Mmm hmm. How was your day?"
NL: "It was good. Work was a little crazy and... wait. Sorry, this sucks. I have to call you back."

I hung up, watched TV for exactly 6 minutes, then called him back.

B: "Are you okay?"
NL: "Yeah, sorry. This whole experience is really gross to narrate."
B: "It's okay. You stay home and feel better. Better yet, I'll come over and pet your head on the couch instead."

I immediately felt incredibly guilty, but relieved (no pun intended) at the same time. Men accuse women of being manipulative all the time, and I've probably fallen into this category once or twice, but never have I used Big Potty Problems as a means to an end.

Although I did fart at a bar one time to get a guy to stop hitting on me. That's entirely different, though. And normal... right?