First mistake was watching the investigative reporting show on some satellite station last week. Maybe it was called, “A million things to ruin your life”, I’m not sure. It started out innocent enough. How many bacteria are in your kitchen sponge. I watched, somewhat disconnected, because I don’t use sponges in the kitchen. They gross me out. I also chuckled as they showed the flying bacteria coming from the kitty litter box, and smiled out the window at our cats, knowing they were outside.
No, the problem came when they were showing how much fecal matter, yes…poop, is on your toothbrush. I should’ve walked out of the room then. But like driving by a car crash, I sat hypnotized by the very thought of brushing my teeth with a little Crest, whitening agent, and speckled spots of sh-matter. In my defense, it was Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs who was hosting the show. I love Mike.
Anyhoodles…On the show, they flushed the toilet, used a special light to see how far the water spray covers your bathroom and showed the results. Along with that, they tested toothbrushes for fecal matter. By the time they came to Mike brushing his teeth, I was curled in a fetal position on the couch, yelling for hubs to plop a couple Alka Seltzers in a cup.
I’ve raised all kinds of animals. I’ve fallen in cow pop, sat in the chicken coop, cleaned up animals after they’ve given birth, and rode home with a pig on my lap. I can handle a little animal poop. I’m also a mother of four. Baby poop…no problem, I can change diapers with my eyes closed. Talk about poop in my mouth, and I resemble a cat with a hairball.
Hence, the traumatic event that happened two days ago.
At the end of a shopping trip with my daughter, she had to use the store’s bathroom. Ok, she’s 21 years old, but there’s safety in numbers and I decided to go into the bathroom with her. I don’t know if it’s because we shopped all day or the little old lady that was trickling the faucet as she proceeded to wash her whole face with the edge of her hankie, but all of a sudden I knew I wasn’t going to make it home without taking a little tinkle myself.
That’s when it happened.
I remembered Mike’s show on fecal matter on my toothbrush. I stood up, and as I’m pulling up my jeans the automatic flusher…flushed! I lunged for the door in my frantic escape to avoid flying fecal matter. (no, it was not my poop, but someone, someday, had pooped in that toilet, I’m sure). As I clung to the little flip on the door, pulling, tugging, cussing, crying, the door would not open. By this time, the toilet was still whooshin’ behind me, I panicked. The door would not open. I held my breath. There was no way I was going to open my mouth. I had my lips puckered inward, jaw locked, and there was no way I was going to yell for help and chance ingesting a little sh-matter.
I don’t know if it was the banging, or the little old lady who notified my daughter, but she opened the door. She’d never looked so beautiful. She was my angel in denim and lace, backlit by the white light from the wash area. As I flung myself upon her body, holding her close, I wiped my face on her shoulder and gasped, “Thank you.”
I’ve set new rules up for my holiday shopping experience. 1. No drinking allowed. 2. Go to the bathroom at home before I leave. 3. In case of emergencies, remember that the bathrooms at “Shopping trip from Hell” store has doors that open out, not in.