Reason #46 That I Don't Eat Wheat

Somehow I managed to get a haircut all by myself today, send a package to a bloggy friend, AND catch up on Anne's blog. Then, I decided that I needed to blog a particular story for her, in hopes that she won't feel so alone in her plight of peeing with small children in public toilets. In addition, my aforementioned bloggy friend needs some laughter at my expense. Also, I am nasty and I like to share.

Recently I went on a wheat binge. I do this every 3-6 months until my body screams no more wheat and then I stop eating wheat for another six months. I increase the amount of magnesium I take when I eat wheat or I would never shit ever again. The problem is that my body hates wheat and too much magnesium and sometimes there is a critical failure.

This time the failure was complicated by two things: Walgreens and Egg. You see, I needed to use the restroom in a very urgent way. I was four miles from home. I had Egg with me. As I strode desperately into the store I might have misjudged the feeling of gas for something a little more sinister. And possibly totally fucking shit myself.

I got into the bathroom and realized that I had to hold Egg while violently emptying my bowels because there was no fucking way I was going to put him on the ground. As I undid my belt and jeans and pulled everything down I realized that I had a little problem. Here is where you need to avert your eyes if you are at all squeamish. Really, it is very bad. I shit on my feminine napkin. Shit of a supremely muddy nature. On my pad. For some reason this was even worse than just shitting in my underwear, although I thought the cleanup would be a breeze. Just throw it away! Finish pooping! It's all good!

Now, remember that I am holding Egg on my lap. Figure in the fact that shitting on one's pad while furiously speed walking through Walgreen's really makes for a um....mess? So much of a mess that while attempting to clean up my general ass region I smeared shit on THREE out of five fingers on my right hand in three different wiping attempts. While trying to hold Egg and not let him touch the toilet paper, the ground, my fingers, or anything else.

Have you ever walked into a toilet stall and wondered how the holy fuck someone got shit on the toilet seat? You think that shitting is a straightforward event that does not involve stray fecal matter? Well, dear readers, I now know how that shit happens, although I cleaned up my mess before I left. Egg and I went straight home and we both bathed before doing anything else that day. For those of you that say, "I don't know how you can not eat wheat," this should answer any and all questions. I am positive that this was the second worst shitting mah pants episode of my whole entire life.

And The Winner Is...

Missed teh contest? Go here for the pooper scooper! Well, the poop post is not complete, but the drawing and WINNAR!! is finally here! I chose to label cookies and have Egg draw one of them from the milk jug*. Totally random! Egg can't even read! Also, Egg did not read any of the poo stories, so he was not swayed by your crappy comments. Pun intended! I'm silly today! Wheeee!

I labeled all of them, and decided that in case a sticky note fell off, the cookie drawn would determine the winner. So the cookie names are as follows:

• Yellow = Redneck Diva
• Blue = Parkingathome
• Red = Jenni
• Green = Anon (who contacted me privately about his/her comment)
  

Here Egg is contemplating the work at hand.

The milk jug has been mixed and is ready for drawing!

 He pulls out Redneck Diva but NO COOKIE!! It does not count!!

He goes back in for another draw...

And...the YELLOW COOKIE!! Redneck Diva is the WINNARRRRR!! Kristen, contact me with your official mailing address! (We'll pretend that I don't already have it, okay?)

*Thanks to Crazy Neighbor Lady for the toy! It was a Christmas present for Egg and is so cute. MOOOO!

I Came All Over My Kitchen

This post is slightly embarrassing for me to write, for two wildly different reasons. Or maybe three different reasons? Whatever. One, I have yet to post the winner of the poo book contest. I Swear On Baby Jeebus that I will post the winner tomorrow. I also swear that I have some seriously legitimate reasons for not posting in the last week or so, which is my second reason for embarrassment. I have been busy with a minor kitchen remodel. In light of all the monetary and earthquakery suffering that has been going on in the world I feel like an asshat to talk about the amazing shit that has been going on in my kitchen. My third OMG EMBARRASSED is showing the world pictures of my kitchen and then asking for your opinion on something. Because although I really want your opinion it feels a little like exposing my soft underbelly. And then more of the feeling stupid for having the ability to make my kitchen pretty. And talking about it. You may take me out back and shoot me now.

So! Let's ignore the previous paragraph of shame and get to the pictures and opinion giving, okay?

This is what my original counter top and back splash looked like (pretend the pic was a true "before" shot and I hadn't already started to hack at it), all white tile with Grout of Horror. I fucking hate tile counter tops. HATE. The grout would mock me, saying, "I could be cleaner, you know." Bastard.


This is the counter after all the demo work was completed. TB and I did all the demo and removal work. It saved us money and I got to imagine certain that I was taking out my frustrations on certain people. It was very theraputic.

Here is what this half of my kitchen looks like tonight. The Corian counters were laid professionally. I LOVE THEM. The tile back splash is my handiwork. Looking at the picture above is where you might be able to understand me having a medium-sized kitchen-gasm. It was a lot of work, but ooooh so pretty.


Here is where your esteemed opinion comes in, mah innernet peeps. Do you like the pencil molding tile on the top of the 1" squares or not? (above with, below without)



You may have to click on the pic and scrutinize the tile a bit. I haven't sealed or grouted the tile yet, but you can get an idea of what it will look like. I am leaning toward without, but I don't know how much of it is based on the price of the pencil molding. It is three-ish dollars per eight inch piece.

In conjunction with our the kitchen makeover, my lovely MIL was visiting to help wrangle Egg while we kicked the shit out of the tile. So, having Egg determine the winner of the poo contest with pictures and all was not possible without acting totally bizarre or telling her what I was doing. Neither seemed acceptable so you all were left hanging. So sorry! Tomorrow, poo book winner!

Poop Giveaway!

Remember when I said I purchased "What's Your Poo Telling You?" and I said when I finished reading it I would give it away to my dear readers? Well, that time has come. Fucking finally, huh? I think after the last two posts we all need some laughs and poop. Here's how it will work, official rules and all that:

1. Post a comment with your best poo story. It must involve poo from your ass or your immediate family's ass. No stranger poo stories!

2. Your comment must be on this post by 12:00am PST Saturday, January 15, 2010. That's 3am on the east coast for you non-math types.

3. I will have my official number drawing baby pull a number at random out of a jar. I will post a picture of the drawing! Cute babies pictures! YAY!

4. The winner must give me an address to mail the book to, and I will PERSONALLY AND WITHOUT MALICE sign the book for you. Personalized inscriptions are 20 cents extra, tax included. (Kidding! It's free! Unless you want to send me twenty cents!)

4b. I will post the winning poo story with a link back to the winner's blog (if applicable). If you would like to remain anonymous to the innernets at large, please say so in your comment!

5. On the day that I announce the winner, I will post my MOST TERRIBLE poo story EVAR!! Involving CAR and FULL TERM PREGNANCY poo. So terrible that it has never been told on Sam's Stories. Hopefully that day will be the Monday immediately following the end of the giveaway contest thingy.

6. If you have any questions, please contact me at samsstories at gmail dot com.

7. This giveaway is not sponsored, paid, threatened or containing blow jobs. I purchased the book with my TB's very own money. I just love poo. And books. And my readers.

Now, you might be wondering how to describe your poo accurately. I have a handy chart for you! This way we all can fully understand what type of poo you or your family member is having in the story. When I first found this chart I meant to post about it, and then fucking life and diaper changes got in my way. But today! I present the Bristol Stool Chart. Very handy for daily discussion of your poo with friends, family, neighbors, and people on public transportation. I especially like using this when on a lengthy flight. People really appreciate this kind of information!

Poo

I bought this book today when I was at Barnes & Noble:

It has already made two members of my household happy and TB isn't even home from work yet. I am thinking of letting everyone in my family (and possibly Neighbor Lady) read it and then passing it on to a bloggy reader. Would anyone be interested? There is also a calendar that one could purchase that sounds delightful. I am easily amused.

Seriously? What The Fuck.

I am typing this one handed. Back in the day (Tuesday maybe?) this would have meant something dirty but this day it simply means that my other hand is holding a baby that just right now took a noisy shit. Dude is sitting next to me saying, "Duuuude. That was loud. He just shit himself on the fucking couch, didn't he?" Luckily TB just walked in from his Man Cave and happily offered to make Egg whole again. Or at least less pants full of poopy. Dude is still staring at me mournfully but now I am typing with TWO hands. Score!
The reason I am typing this post is not to explain the previous post. Nope! No time right now to discuss peeing in the shower. Instead, this is a bathroom post of another nature entirely. One that you cannot discuss with certain members of my family because they might get pissed (no pun intended) and maybe hurt and offended. But seriously? I cannot be silent any more about this situation. I CANNOT and I must bring it to you, my bloggy peeps for guidance and what the fuckness.

Let's say, hypothetically that you know some people. And those people just built a very nice custom home on a piece of property. The people are very nice themselves. But somehow, there is this bathroom issue that I cannot resolve in my head, hypothetically. The main guest bathroom-the one that you would use as a dinner guest but not as an overnight guest- has an issue. There is a toilet and a sink as per usual. I assume this to be for pee and poo and then washing hands, right? That is what I would do at someone's house if I were a guest for a few hours and I needed to use the bathroom. Maybe not poo but most likely pee, depending on need of course.

Now, when I use the restroom I wash my hands afterward. I use soap and water and then I dry off my hands on a cloth towel. Unless I'm in a public restroom and then it is likely a paper towel or stupid fucking air machine in which case I dry my hands on my pants in a strategic way to look like I didn't just dry my hands on my pants. Except! In this particular hypothetical bathroom there is no soap. And no towel, cloth or paper variety. Or air machine of doom. Nothing. Nada. No fucking cleansing/drying tools whatsoever. So what the fuckity fuck, peeps? Are you not meant to use the bathroom? Or just not meant to wash your hands? If that is the case, then shouldn't they just have not included a sink in the bathroom since they built the house and designed the plans just so? Please give me your guesses. I am at a loss. And there are wet spots on my pants from drying my not soaped hands on them.

And The Band Played On...

I am still totally knocked up and contracting like a fucking something or other that contracts. Words are not my strong suit today. Tomorrow I get a hand up my hoo-ha to check and see if there is any more progress on the cervix front. I am currently thinking that I'll be ready in a week, (as if I have any choice in the matter). I have a few more things around the house to finish, and Chicken doesn't go back to school until January 12th. I am 37 weeks today, and my due date is January 25 if you haven't been keeping close track of my uterus at home. Don't worry, The New Girl. I will be damned if I pop out this baby without notification to the blog world. I should have a wireless Sprint card at the hospital with me, and if not I will have someone guest post my every movement. Even bowel movements, because this wouldn't be Sam's Stories without poop, right?

Chicken came home on Saturday. His luggage came home on Sunday, and I am sure glad that he was up until 1am on Friday night with his dad and step-mom washing all his clothes so that he could arrive home with clean, fresh-smelling laundry. HA HA HA. Just kidding. They were up until 1am. Chicken did log in 3 hours of sleep Friday night and showed up on Saturday totally fucking wrecked and exhausted. But his clean laundry bore the unmistakable scent of cigarette smoke. Nothing like washing your clothes only to have them smell like you just spent 8 hours hanging out in a bar. A bar NOT in California of course, because you can't smoke in a bar here anymore.

It is hard for me to imagine thinking that smoking in your home is okay when you have children. Especially when at least one of those kids (Chicken) has a family history of asthma. It makes me sad that Chicken had to spend three weeks inhaling smoke, and that his siblings live like that every day. I was a smoker for about 15 years. I get it. But I never smoked inside my house, even when I was a single adult. Inflicting your addiction on your children is just plain wrong. *sigh* At least Chicken is home, happy, and safe. Soon all his clothes will be clean and fit for use, too.

Random Snippet

Sam: I am going to work on a project.
TB: A project? What kind of project is that?
Sam: The kind where I pull down my pants and try to push poo out of my butthole.

Some Serious Shit

Some of my dear readers have wondered what the fuck is wrong with my ass. Although I have posted all about killing bathrooms hither and yon, I don't believe I have explained the issue satisfactorily. I have battled poop for longer than I can remember. When I was six months old I attempted to take a poop and wound up with twin scars from a double hernia. The post that explains the situation in a little more detail (with pictures!) is here. No, my belly does not look like that anymore, and hasn't for a few years. That is what I looked like at 115-120 lbs.

I believe I suffer from Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). I spoke with my doctor about it at one point maybe six or seven years ago and he slapped the diagnosis on me along with a hearty, "Sorry, can't do anything for you." At the time, there were medications for IBS sufferers on either end of the spectrum, the chronic constipation and the chronic diarrhea. In my case they had nothing. What was wrong with my bowels, you ask? I get constipated until at some point my body says, "Fuck this shit!" and I have massive diarrhea. Occasionally the cramps that accompany the diarrhea are so bad that I start throwing up, likely a combination of pain and my body being so fed up with the pollution that any usable exit is utilized.

My symptons have been mostly under control for the past five years with my gluten-free diet. The magnesium that I have been taking has combatted the effects of medication that make a normal person constipated and I have been fairly happy with my ass. I expected that going off all the medication and getting pregnant would mean a reduction in the amount of magnesium needed and happier bowels all around. Nope. I had conveniently forgotten that the most horrific bowel issues in my life (excepting the double hernia incident) have been while pregnant.

The cycle length of "no poop- OMG poop!" has been helped by the magnesium, however I am still struggling. At this point it looks like the cycle is lasting about a week. Just about the time where I am thinking, "I haven't been shitting enough lately" I am starting to notice an unpleasant feeling in my bowels and then running to the bathroom for an extended visit. I am afraid of taking too much magnesium and spending every day in the bathroom, so at this point it is a trial and error clusterfuck of guesswork.

Why am I writing about my ass in lurid detail? Two reasons:

1. Someone might read this and say, "Hey! That sounds like my ass! Maybe I shall seek help/eliminate an allergen from my diet/cry a little for our twin bowel issues."

2. Someone might read this and say. "Hey! That sounds like XYZ and I have THE CURE. You should do ABC and you will have a happy ass forevermore."

Because, at the end of the day, no one wants their life to be ruled by an asshole.

Twat Stories

Today I finally gave in to curiosity and put the site meter back up on my blog. I missed laughing at the various search terms that lead people to Sam's Stories. Within a few short hours, my goal was realized. Recent searches include: "torture fuck stiries", "twat stories", "emailmanner", and "stories of humping". By the way, if you are looking for "stories" you might want to learn how to spell it. As I chuckled out loud about "twat stories" Chicken asked, "What does twat mean?" I cannot believe that he didn't already know that word.

I'd like to address the bra-wearing public at large right now. If you do not wear a bra, you may skip this paragraph. Ready? Okay. A bra is an undergarment. This means that you wear it UNDER your fucking clothes. There are 3.2 million different styles of bras out there for you skinny little bony chicks that wear cute little summer shirts. Please pick a bra that works with the shirt you are CURRENTLY wearing. This means look at the shirt. Look at the straps on your bra. If the straps are clearly visable then pick another fucking bra. I don't care if it isn't the most comfortable bra you wear. Either take off the fucking bra and let your tits free or put on another shirt. Thank you.

Now, let's address my intestinal issues briefly. I know that you are tired of poop stories. Really, I know. Imagine how tired I am of living a life that contains so many poop stories. Recently I have killed the bathrooms of the following establishments:

• Wal Mart
• Local scrapbook store
• JC Penneys
• Lenscrafters

On Saturday I added my favorite nail salon to the list of dead and/or dying bathrooms. During my pedicure I had to ask the nice lady to stop TWICE while I vacationed in the bathroom for an extended period of time. These stops had to be carefully timed so that my feet weren't covered in mud/wax/etc. and I could walk, sit, and shit without fucking up the nail polish. I am happy to report that I did not shit myself. WHAT THE FUCK BODY?!

Today Chicken and I went to lunch and picked up a gallon of my favorite obsession: Chick Fil A sweet tea. Yes, I can make it at home. Yes, I am a sorry excuse for a Californian if I am drinking sweet tea by the gallon. But it is fucking tasty, people. TASTY. It is also one of the few sweet items that I can currently enjoy. After lunch I attempted to visit my favorite scrapbook store that recently downsized to a smaller suite. This is not the one that I recently killed with my ass by the way. I made it all the way to the parking space when my stomach decided that it was in the mood for killin'. I beelined it to the library instead. I prefer spacious bathrooms with multiple stalls for my dirty work and I have no idea what the new facilities at the scrapbook store are like.

At the library Chicken checked out his third Piers Anthony book. Go Chicken! I am safely at home now and near my favorite room. Dear Intestines and Other Poopy Places Inside: I am done. I give up. Please stop harassing me. Love, Sam.

Not A Random Event

Remember the Lenscrafters technician that asked me about IVF last week? I had decided that her comment was a random event and that she was a perfectly normal human being (relatively speaking). Then I saw her again today. She was adjusting my glasses when Chicken noticed an interestingly shaped glasses case. We commented that it looked like a pill. Ms. Technician stating that in her opinion it looked like a suppository. I made a super subtle motion (pointing down to the cooterus area and then up again) to Chicken to explain what a suppository was so he could keep up with the story that was unfolding. I quietly explained that it was a medicine thing, not a fun thing.

Ms. Technician went on to state that as a child she had terrible tummy pain that was not helped by oral remedies and that she had to turn to suppositories to alleviate the issue. It was tramatic for her she said. Uh...er...um... Thankssomuchbyenow!

Don't get me wrong, she was very nice and I was not in the least offended. Chicken's face was so red from laughing and shock that I grabbed a mirror for him. The conversation made our day. As we walked out the door, I said to him, "I am SO blogging this."

Inappropriate and Involving Poop (Again!)

Alternate title: What happens when Sam attempts to be sensitive regarding IVF.

Today Chicken and I went to the local mall to acquire a new prescription and pair of glasses for me. I had an appointment time of 12:20pm, I was there the requested ten minutes early and everything was going to be just fine. As I wandered through Lenscrafters I started to feel a little weird, nothing specific but just a little not good. I made it through the paperwork section of the appointment and began the technician lead initial eye tests when my stomach decided to let me know that a bathroom was required. I waited, started to sweat and cramp and then pocketed my pride. I asked to use the bathroom, citing unhappy pregnancy tummy. In other words, I totally fucking lied.

The bathroom was an employee only room, and the technician waited OUTSIDE the door for me. My stomach rolled and rebelled but did not cooperate. I gave up, told her that I needed to reschedule and thought that I might make it to the public restrooms where I could crap anonymously. Uh, not so much. I had to request the restroom a second time and although I met with more success I am slightly embarrassed with the manner in which the paint fucking peeled off the walls as I shit my ever-loving brains out. After five (or six) flushes I opened the door and realized that I was standing in the break room where an employee was just sitting down to lunch less than ten feet away from the scene of the crime. Oops.

I rescheduled my appointment and fled to the bathrooms of JC Penneys, where I spent much time trapped on the toilet texting poor Chicken. Apparently he was warning innocents as they approached the bathroom, but to no avail. I cannot count how many people decided to park themselves in the stalls on either side of me, but if you were one of those poor people I offer my condolences.

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and Chicken and I eventually ate lunch and returned to the scene of the original crime. This is where I proved that I not only kill bathrooms with reckless disregard for lunch time or human life, but say the most ridiculous things. I am still a bit embarrassed to talk about being pregnant in front of strangers, but it is relevant at an eye exam so I mustered up the courage. When the technician asked if I had a recent physical I indicated that I had, and mumbled something about getting pregnant. She asked, "Oh, did you do IVF?" and then my brain came to a full stop.

I stammered out a "no" but I was not content there, no sir. I attempted to explain that we had not utilized any sort of medical help/intervention/etc. but it just wouldn't come out properly. I was worried about saying that we did it "naturally" because I didn't want to offend or imply that anything was unnatural. I blurted out "we did the whole penis in vagina thing" and then wished for instant death.

The technician looked at poor Chicken sitting there and my boy did not bat an eye. Go Chicken! Then she muttered something about him already having sex education to which I heartily agreed and then we went on with the exam. Five minutes later I exclaimed, "Gee I suppose I could have said that we did it the old-fashioned way and it would have been a bit more appropriate." The technician seemed to agree.

Later, much later, I realized that maybe asking if we used IVF wasn't a little more information than was necessary and likely none of her business. I suppose that my "penis in vagina" comment may have helped her along the path of minding her own fucking business. In the mean time I amused and embarrassed myself all at the same time.

Vacation, Now With More Poop

"I wish I could toss my own salad," says Chicken while we discuss Reina's recent brush with a cling-on and her subsequent cleaning of her balloon knot with her tongue. It is good to be home. I really missed the Chicken when he was vacationing without me.

Yesterday we visited a local grocery store in Visalia, California where the friendly cashier informed us that if Chicken needed to use the restroom, "She probably wants the key." Later in a truck stop just north of the grapevine, a friendly gentleman tells Chicken that he is using the wrong door as Chicken attempts to enter the men's room. Chicken ignores him and walks into the bathroom. Then the man says, "This is the men's room," and Chicken retorts, "I know. I can READ." Chicken is so pissed he is unable to fire off anything witty but really wants to scream, "Fuck you! I have a penis you stupid fucker." The man was so disconcerted that he chose to pee in a stall instead of at a urinal. Apparently longish hair on a boy in Central California is less common than in Southern California because we haven't had any gender issues in quite a while in our home area. Maybe we just got super lucky this weekend.

We were at Don Pedro Lake, about 40 miles north-ish of Merced, California this week. I had never heard of it but apparently it is the fifth largest lake in the state. It is a narrow lake with many fingers, and Chicken describes it as a llama on a unicycle with a bunny on its back and a satellite on its head. (??) Chicken tried wake boarding and tubing behind a speed boat, as well as swimming in the lake and hiking. He was in heaven. The houseboat had a water slide that began on the second story and ended right above the lake which Chicken used as much as possible. Watching Teddy Bear hit the water after coming full speed down the slide was hilarious. Too bad I realized that floating in the lake was the only way to get a good shot of the action. I'm not about to take a camera with me out into the water.

I avoided all the water activities except for the aforementioned floating. I was able to float on my tummy in a mesh floaty thing and I enjoyed the shit out of it. Teddy Bear and Chicken dug some some clay mud from the bottom of the lake and gave me a clay massage of some sort. Eventually I had to pull off my bathing suit bottom while in the water and get all of the small rocks out of it. It was not super comfortable, but I was thankful for the murky lake water. For a moment or two I worried about fishes snacking on my privates but then I figured it might be nice.

The last time I was on a houseboat I had some poop issues. I understand this comes as a total surprise to you. I was a wee bit nervous about this trip, and by Saturday morning I had not taken a single shit. Not even a tiny little bit. The last time I had been to the bathroom was the scrapbook store incident on Wednesday. I finally broke down and ventured into the bathroom shortly before we docked at the marina. Note to dear readers: check the status of the poop tank before taking a shit.

Fearing the worst I attempted to flush soon into the process. I was dismayed to see my little rabbit turds stubbornly refuse to exit the premises. Water was entering the bowl, but my friends were not about to exit without a fight. I pushed on the flush button some more and then some more and then I noticed a VERY BAD smell that did not smell like my ass. This is when I noticed a bit of murky water in the shower. In denial I kept flushing, determined to make the poops go away.

I did not want to tell my in-laws that I had taken a shit. I continued to flush until it became obvious to even me that the tank 'o poo was FULL and the liquid yuck that had been collecting for a fucking WEEK was backing up into the shower stall. Also, a few small stragglers were still in the bowl, floating and looking very merry for shit. My poop mocked me.

I left the bathroom to whisper to Teddy Bear about the problem, which quickly became Chicken announcing, "My mom's poop is backing up into the shower!" OMFG. Minutes later we docked, the shit tank was emptied and the problem was solved. We unloaded the boat, got in our respective vehicles and I wondered if I would ever be able to shit on a houseboat again.

---

I still need to work on the rest of the pictures, however I thought you might like to see a couple right now. The first is Chicken preparing a tostada on a flour tortilla. The amazing part is that the tortilla is slathered with refried beans. Chicken DOES NOT eat beans except for green beans. No beans will he eat EVER. But Friday night he decided to try them and he LOVED them.

The last picture is Chicken and Teddy Bear watching the sunset on the lake. I love my boys and I am so glad to be at home.

Full of It

Apparently my body thinks that 1/2 hour after I eat lunch is the perfect time for emergency evacuation. While I have heard that a healthy system will need to eliminate within an hour of eating, my body normally does not work that way. One would think, "YAY POOP!!" because pooping is one of my favorite things, but in certain situations pooping is a little...less than optimal. Yesterday I was in the scrapbook section of Walmart clutching my $10 gift card in my greedy little hands when the need struck. Luckily, there was a bathroom super close and although I fucking killed it there was a plentitude of stench that preceeded my visit.

Today, I was at a small, local scrapbook store. Do you see a trend here? *shut up Anna and let me scrapbook* I was happy, full of food, looking for this and that when OMG my tummy rumbled. Now, let me set the stage. I am in a small store. There is one bathroom and one employee and NO ONE ELSE in the store. I have to take a monster shit and it is not going to be pretty. I am too far from home and I have a basket with scrappy stuff in it. I head to the bathroom.

The first visit wasn't too bad. The second one was a little more intense but doable. The third visit to the poor, tired bathroom was a little frightening and involved three or four flushes. You know the toilets that are really full of water and the water rises a bit as it is flushes? They are super scary when you've just deposited the equivalant of a medium-sized goat after it is has been through a blender on liquify. This is when praying types start muttering pleas of mercy to their god(s). Luckily everything ended up where it was supposed to and I made it through without incident.

The moral of this story? Be prepared to shit my brains out after lunch and plan accordingly.

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I am watching a Project Runway rerun and they are making dresses with flowers and plants. One of the contestants said, "I've got a pile of green and the only thing I want to do with it right now is smoke it." You go girl.

Wish Me Luck

Today, Tuesday the 22nd of January, 2008 is the day I begin my Teaching Credential program at CSUSM. I am taking 19 units this semester. I'm a bit scared/stressed/worried and how the fuck do I think I can pull this off with my ridiculous, run-down, illegitimate body? Well, fine my parents got married before I was born, but STILL. I feel well and truly fucked.

*breathe in* *breathe out* *scream a little in silence* *kick helpless animals* *ahhhh....*

It will be okay. The diarrhea and fever and general fuckedness that I dealt with over the holiday weekend is over, with the exception of a multitude of noxious, burn your nose hairs type farts that are continuously emanating from my foul, foul ass. For those of you in WalMart late this evening behind me in check stand 11, I truly apologize. As they used to say "My bad!"

Good night and wish me well. I'll see you on the other side.

"Coot"

Just to give you a slightly larger glimpse into the brain of the Sam, last night I had a dream that I was in a department store shopping for underwear. Not fancy, frilly, lacy, barely there underwear but the kind you wear when your monthly visitor (we call her Aunt Flo around Sam's place) comes to town. Generic, comfy, cotton undies that can take a beating. Or a bleeding. Ha ha. I crack myself up sometimes.

I'm shopping for undies in my dream and I come across a specialty section. Underwear made for special people I suppose. One brand catches my eye. It's called "Coot" and it has a special absorbent layer in the rear area to deal with the occasional shart*. It absorbs both liquid and odor, so even though you may shart at work, you don't have to worry about running home and changing your panties. The "Coot" will take care of it for you.**

*Shart: verb, to intend to fart and end up shitting. The term is only valid while wearing clothes. Toilet sharts are just called "taking a shit" or "pooping" or "dropping a deuce" or my favorite "going to my office and working on a project"

**I swear I had this dream last night. Really. I'm that crazy.

Smells Like Teen Spirit

Calling all housekeeping type people: You know how when you get over-zealous about your cleaning and at the end of it all you can only smell bleach or Pine-Sol or whatever you cleaned with all day long? Your poor nose is so saturated with chemicals that you couldn't smell fresh cut grass if you were laying on it while it was mowed. Today that happened to me. Just without the cleaning part.

Also, I hate the smell of Pine-Sol with a fucking fantastic passion. I want to barf each and every time I smell it, but I keep using it just because I have it and I cannot WASTE it for heaven's sake. I swear some Clean Elf Demon is refilling the bottle each night after I use it. Fucking Clean Elf Demons and their demon seed. One would think that I wouldn't have Pine-Sol in my house (duh?) but when my dad died I cleaned out his house and he had it. Because while he lay dying, the Clean Elf Demons were putting it in his house for me to find and not be able to ever use all of it or throw it away. Fuckers.



All of this blah, blah, blah is just a very long-winded way to say that I shit so much today that all I can smell is shit. I did not know that it was even possible, but the smell was so bad and the shit so plentiful that it smells like someone shit in my nostrils. Someone else I know shit today, a painful Cry For Mommy type shit. I feel for her and her family. Really. As smelly as she is normally, having a three-hour shit must have just about fucking killed the poor dogs with their keen sense of smell. Bitches.

My shits were more of the lengthy, time-delayed type, continuing on for most of the day and evening hours. When finally I finished, I showered good and well. With both hands and much lathering and rinsing and repeating. I still smell shit.

Uh? Sorry!

I'm messing with my blog template. Yes, I know I have a boilerplate template right now that makes you:

A. Jump for joy because there is NO blue.
B. Hurl in sadness because it lacks the blue.
C. Jump while hurling in my general direction.

I promise it will be:

A. Better
B. Worse
C. The same

When I get done. Which should be soon, because the Teddy Bear is in Palm Springs and the Chicken will be:

A. In bed by 8:30pm
B. Gone to be with his grandmother and do churchy things tomorrow whilst I sit at home with my heathen soul and talk to the Internets. And wonder the ultimate question: Am I the only person on the earth that doesn't know what pornotube is?

Also, the lists. Too much, I know. But I'm on the toilet and I like my toilet time to be super organized. Like so:

A. Pull down clothes from waist area, revealing pee and poop holes for peeing and pooping.
B. Sit down on toilet.
C. Pee. Or pee and poop. SOME people (you know who you are) can sit and poop and FORGET to pee. How? How is that even possible?
D. Wipe appropriate areas.
E. Stand
F. Clothe the nether regions.
G. Flush.
H. Wash hands.
I. Dry hands.

See? Totally organized. I practice every day.