Number 2

As you can probably tell from the majority of this blog’s content, I haven’t been in a relationship in a very long time.  But guess what?  I got into one and it’s been eight months.  How did that happen, you ask?  Well, I don’t know.  If you know me, I have a tendency towards doing all things with an air of vulgarity, and my farts are kind of an inside joke-turned-legend.  I blame it on growing up with a household of brothers.

Somehow or another, The Boo Boo has stuck around.  We’re now cohabiting, which I find very interesting because you can’t ever hide how often you take showers, and you are forced to expose all of your mysterious feminine wiles like sleeping with your mouth open and wearing really sexy lingerie mismatched tshirts and sweatpants to bed.  Meow.


But as lovely as it is when a man still loves you whilst observing a trickle of drool find its way through his chest hairs, there was once a “first” for that that wasn’t lacking an ounce in embarrassment (probably on both our parts…I don’t know, I’m speculating).  Really, there’s always a “first” in disgusting behaviors that must occur at some point or another in a relationship.  At least for most things.  I am of the moral camp that believes that no matter how in love and comfortable you are with someone, the area of the buttocks when toilet time is concerned shall always remain a mystery.  NOBODY’S POO SMELLS LIKE ROSES.  I repeat: NOBODY’S POO SMELLS LIKE ROSES.

That’s an easy rule to follow when you’re in a relationship but you each have separate places and jobs and other fun escapes where you can silently and discreetly drop the kids off at the pool without the other even realizing your body did such a thing.  For the first few months we were together, I did just that.  One moment we were going out for ice cream and I was all Dr. Jekyll and prim and proper, and the next, I was in a stall at work going all Mr. Hyde on that ceramic throne’s ass.  Ya feel me?

Alas, we decided to take the plunge and move in together – into a 1 bathroom home.  At the same time, I decided to quit my shitty corporate job and work full time for The Boo Boo.  This meant being together nearly 24/7 with absofruitly zero alone time to do my business.  As such, we’ve silently installed a routine and set of rules:

1. Never ever ever, under any circumstances, enter the bathroom when the door is closed unless explicitly knocking and asking for entrance permission (only allowed if shower is running, duh).

2. Fan running?  Stay away.  Stay far away.  Perhaps put some music on as distraction as well.  Just a casual suggestion.

3. Post-incident, light scented candle and/or spray linen-scented Glade, and leave fan running until the end of time.  If weather permits, open window.

4. Do not leave any evidence behind.

This last rule was just added by yours truly as of today, though until today I’d never been the perpetrator.  On a few occasions, I’ve had to flush a series of characters straight from the “Left Behind” series.  We have a few laughs, and it’s done.  Of course, The Boo Boo is embarrassed, but it’s all good in the hood and we move on.

My pride that I have never nor would ever do such a thing has remained a source of happiness for myself – until today.  That illusion was crushed in a matter of moments.  I had utilized the bathroom a couple hours before and had gotten distracted by work and had to run to fix a situation, thereby forgetting a few of the latter rules.  This afternoon, as I was working on some files for a client, I heard The Boo Boo start laughing from the other room.

(Laughter) “Gross, oh man.”

“What babe?”

(More laughter)

“Babe – what happened?  Did you leave something behind again?” (Laughter from me).

“No – didn’t.”

“What?  What do you mean?”

“Babe – you’ve gotta clean the toilet when you’re done.  Don’t worry I got it.”



Boo Boo came in to the kitchen to find me simultaneously cracking up (because it’s effing hilarious and if it were someone else I’d piss my pants laughing), crying (because it wasn’t someone else, it was me), and yelling “BARKLEY!!!” in an attempt to blame the situation on the dog.

It worked, once – blaming my bodily functions on my dog.  One time I had to pee while I was outside, so…just kidding, that was actually Barkley.  But seriously, one time Boo Boo got up off the couch to go do something in the kitchen, so I took the moment of solitude to let out a SBD (silent but deadly).


It was pure relief, until about two seconds later when he decided to come back and sit down next to me.  He took a sniff of the air and said “pew…did Barkley fart again?”

“Ew, I know.  Yeah, I just heard him do it.”

That was awesome.  Ah, the joys of cohabitation.


(Oh, if only Barkley were more nimble.)



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