A Pooping Story
I apologize in advance to those of you readers (all 2 of you) who don't find pooping funny, but this post is about poop.
In lieu of actually pooping, I've decided to write a post about my last memorable pooping experience in the hopes it will help things along, or at last get me in the mood.
For a non poop-related post, please check back tomorrow.
Last Sunday, spiceboy and I met our dear friend ABS, in the East 30's for dosa. Have you ever had a dosa? If you haven't, drop what you're doing and go and have one RIGHT NOW. Dosas are basically the Indian version of a crepe--made with rice flower and stuffed with yummy fillings, the most common of which is curried potatoes. This is known as a masala dosa. Yum.
As the waiter placed our steaming, lovely dosas in front of us, I was hit by a wave of dizziness. I was still was slightly woozy from the remnants of the previous night's drinks (lots of wine and a couple vodka drinks thrown in at the end for fun), sloshing around in my stomach.
Okay, here's where the poop talk starts.
Even as I ate my dosa, sipped my mango lassi, and made happy conversation, my stomach was making foreboding sounds and I was feeling a little cold and clammy--sure signs of imminent pooping doom.
That morning before we left for brunch, spiceboy and I had some coffee, and he took care of his business before leaving the house. You see, spiceboy is regular as can be, and coffee has an almost instantaneous effect on him. He basically sucks down his morning brew, counts to ten, and heads to the bathroom with a copy of my Us Weekly.
As you have learned from my earlier posts, it’s not QUITE that easy for me. So I left the house that morning, feeling slightly bloated but with no urge whatsoever to poop.
Until I sat down to eat my dosa.
I tried to brush the sick feeling away and enjoy my brunch, but by the end of the meal, the situation was dire, indeed. I was shaky and sweaty, yet cold. My stomach was cramping and burning, and suddenly the air around me seemed too thick, too heavy and fragrant, and I needed to get outside.
We stepped out onto the sidewalk and I tried to act totally normal as we said goodbye to ABS. But as soon as he disappeared around the corner, I breathed in huge gulps of air and started looking for a cab. “We have to go. NOW.” I said to spiceboy.
After years of living with my odd habits, spiceboy has become the ultimate pooping cheerleader. When he’s out of town, he’ll sometimes call and ask, “Did you poop today?” And when he’s in town and I suddenly run to the bathroom, he always calls out in a cheerful voice: “Good luck, we’re all counting on you!”
So when he saw the expression on my face, he immediately jumped into action.
The problem: There was not a cab to be found. All of the cabs that flew by us on Lex were either off duty or occupied. Betting against the poop clock, spiceboy hurried me over to Park, where he waved frantically at every passing cab and I stood back, jumping from foot to foot and trying hard not to think about how embarrassing it would be to have an accident right there on Park Avenue.
And that’s when, seemingly out of nowhere, a cab screeched to a stop in front of me. I flung myself into the backseat and gave our address. The driver twisted in the seat and looked at me for a long moment, and I swear there was sympathy in his eyes when he said, “Right away, ma’am, right away.”
And with that, he flew up Park Avenue at an alarming speed, weaving in and out of traffic, cutting people off, and running red lights while I took deep breaths and chanted you can make it you can make it you can make it to myself. As we zoomed uptown, I met the cabby’s eyes once again in the rearview mirror and once again, I got the feeling he understood.
I had my hand on the door handle before we even turned onto our street. As we skidded to a stop in front of our apartment, I scrambled from the cab, hastily thanking the cabby on my way out. And do you know what he said to me?
He said, “Good luck, ma’am.”
Good luck! I paused for a moment in my poop-induced frenzy. See, I told you he understood me! In a city of mean cabbies, drunk cabbies, sleepy cabbies, and slow cabbies, I had somehow been graced with an understanding cabby. In that moment, I loved him very much. He was like my fairy cab-mother.
“Have a great day!” I called back to him. And then he was gone.
spiceboy held the front door for me as I dashed toward the building, and grinned at me as I pushed past him. I was filled with love for spiceboy in that moment, too. How can you not love someone who, after over four years together, still finds your poop funny?
As I ran to the safety and comfort of our tiny bathroom, he called after me through the echoey halls, “Good luck, we’re all counting on you!”
Good luck, indeed.
In lieu of actually pooping, I've decided to write a post about my last memorable pooping experience in the hopes it will help things along, or at last get me in the mood.
For a non poop-related post, please check back tomorrow.
Last Sunday, spiceboy and I met our dear friend ABS, in the East 30's for dosa. Have you ever had a dosa? If you haven't, drop what you're doing and go and have one RIGHT NOW. Dosas are basically the Indian version of a crepe--made with rice flower and stuffed with yummy fillings, the most common of which is curried potatoes. This is known as a masala dosa. Yum.
As the waiter placed our steaming, lovely dosas in front of us, I was hit by a wave of dizziness. I was still was slightly woozy from the remnants of the previous night's drinks (lots of wine and a couple vodka drinks thrown in at the end for fun), sloshing around in my stomach.
Okay, here's where the poop talk starts.
Even as I ate my dosa, sipped my mango lassi, and made happy conversation, my stomach was making foreboding sounds and I was feeling a little cold and clammy--sure signs of imminent pooping doom.
That morning before we left for brunch, spiceboy and I had some coffee, and he took care of his business before leaving the house. You see, spiceboy is regular as can be, and coffee has an almost instantaneous effect on him. He basically sucks down his morning brew, counts to ten, and heads to the bathroom with a copy of my Us Weekly.
As you have learned from my earlier posts, it’s not QUITE that easy for me. So I left the house that morning, feeling slightly bloated but with no urge whatsoever to poop.
Until I sat down to eat my dosa.
I tried to brush the sick feeling away and enjoy my brunch, but by the end of the meal, the situation was dire, indeed. I was shaky and sweaty, yet cold. My stomach was cramping and burning, and suddenly the air around me seemed too thick, too heavy and fragrant, and I needed to get outside.
We stepped out onto the sidewalk and I tried to act totally normal as we said goodbye to ABS. But as soon as he disappeared around the corner, I breathed in huge gulps of air and started looking for a cab. “We have to go. NOW.” I said to spiceboy.
After years of living with my odd habits, spiceboy has become the ultimate pooping cheerleader. When he’s out of town, he’ll sometimes call and ask, “Did you poop today?” And when he’s in town and I suddenly run to the bathroom, he always calls out in a cheerful voice: “Good luck, we’re all counting on you!”
So when he saw the expression on my face, he immediately jumped into action.
The problem: There was not a cab to be found. All of the cabs that flew by us on Lex were either off duty or occupied. Betting against the poop clock, spiceboy hurried me over to Park, where he waved frantically at every passing cab and I stood back, jumping from foot to foot and trying hard not to think about how embarrassing it would be to have an accident right there on Park Avenue.
And that’s when, seemingly out of nowhere, a cab screeched to a stop in front of me. I flung myself into the backseat and gave our address. The driver twisted in the seat and looked at me for a long moment, and I swear there was sympathy in his eyes when he said, “Right away, ma’am, right away.”
And with that, he flew up Park Avenue at an alarming speed, weaving in and out of traffic, cutting people off, and running red lights while I took deep breaths and chanted you can make it you can make it you can make it to myself. As we zoomed uptown, I met the cabby’s eyes once again in the rearview mirror and once again, I got the feeling he understood.
I had my hand on the door handle before we even turned onto our street. As we skidded to a stop in front of our apartment, I scrambled from the cab, hastily thanking the cabby on my way out. And do you know what he said to me?
He said, “Good luck, ma’am.”
Good luck! I paused for a moment in my poop-induced frenzy. See, I told you he understood me! In a city of mean cabbies, drunk cabbies, sleepy cabbies, and slow cabbies, I had somehow been graced with an understanding cabby. In that moment, I loved him very much. He was like my fairy cab-mother.
“Have a great day!” I called back to him. And then he was gone.
spiceboy held the front door for me as I dashed toward the building, and grinned at me as I pushed past him. I was filled with love for spiceboy in that moment, too. How can you not love someone who, after over four years together, still finds your poop funny?
As I ran to the safety and comfort of our tiny bathroom, he called after me through the echoey halls, “Good luck, we’re all counting on you!”
Good luck, indeed.
posted by east side girl at 2:23 PM
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