11.06.01
And then, perhaps to keep me humble, I spent the remainder of the day as an object of derision.
I was at work, and I had to poop, so I went into our bathroom, and did my business*.
I grunted and groaned and about popped buttons off my shirt, until I managed to produce a turd of such massive proportions that people would actually believe me that Shaq used our bathroom, if I were only to show them the poop as evidence of such.
I have heard stories about men so proud of the gigantic-ness of a particular bowel movement, that they were loathe to flush it without their friends and loved ones witnessing it first.
This was poop of such magnitude, except that I was horrified to have produced it.
So, I flushed. And flushed, swore a bit, then flushed some more.
It sort of went down the toilet, stopping about half-way, apparently lodged in the pipe.
I repeated the swearing and flushing cycle, until I gave up and came out of the bathroom.
Tina queried me about the length of my visit to the bathroom, and the large numbers of flushing noises issuing forth from the bathroom.
I told her to see for herself.
So, she did. And then she flushed the toilet a few times.
And laughed and laughed and laughed at me.
And then the entire population of Iowa City that I know personally decided that our bathroom was the best one in town, and I had to experience the joy of every single person I know coming out of the bathroom and telling me about how someone went poop and didn't flush, or that our toilet was broken, or even that someone dropped a huge log in the toilet and that was gross, all punctuated by Tina snickering, snorting, guffawing, and rolling around on the floor clutching her sides as she suffered spasm after spasm of debilitating laughter.
At my expense.
Several hours after she left, someone called the salon from the main store line, so I thought it was someone in the office, to inquire about our toilet being broken. I figured that someone that used the toilet had gone and complained to the office, because you know how old ladies are, and I certainly didn't take it upon myself to claim responsibility after all of the commentary and laughter. Then the guy (it was a guy, btw) said that he'd heard it was my fault, and because I could clearly make out Tina blowing out a lung or something in the background, I realized that the caller was her fiance, John.
So I went and got the damned plunger from the janitor's closet on the other side of the store, walked back to the salon with it, thoroughly plunged the toilet, gagged a few times, and then decided that I didn't really feel like walking the plunger back through the store, figuring that it might dribble or something. It's currently behind the toilet tank.
And you totally know that Tina's going to share this story with Carol tomorrow when I'm not there, and I will NEVER EVER live this down at work and will have to start taking laxatives before using the facilities, or get told, "Hey, if you're going to take a dump, go break the store's bathroom!" every single time I have to go potty.
*Oh, don't even pretend to be surprised that I'm finally discussing my own fecal matter. I've shared stories about other people's poop, my menstrual cycle, and lots of throwing up. You have to admit that this was inevitable. Babies.
