Lack of Patience

There are some things I can wait forever for. I don’t mind standing in line at the grocery store as long as there are pictures of Eva Mendez on the beach or comparisons of Jennifer Anniston’s boobs from their current state to two years back. I can wait while sitting in line at the drive through even though the woman in front of me with the minivan and six kids takes forever to order. I can sit for a little while (actually not too long) with an empty glass at the corner bar (which is why I always get pitchers, guaranteed self service for at least 45 minutes). I don’t mind listening to long winded stories that could be told in half the time. I can even sound interested when the FA tells me about his most recent poker run.

But when it comes to taking a shit, there is no waiting.

Saturday night was fairly uneventful. The evening started with a little Southern Comfort and Coke while I was typing out the last posting. 5:00 the bar opened. The Renter and I took up two big garbage bags full of clothes for the bartender. After pitcher number two I was feeling really full, so I unbuttoned my pants and unzipped just a bit. I had a button down shirt on and it was untucked so no one could tell. As usual, the time came to use the bathroom. I got up, walked out the door and into the restaurant. I passed three people but kept my focus on the bathroom door. Once I got in the bathroom I looked in the mirror. The shirt that was supposed to be covering up my unbuttoned pants was actually hooked on the button. Great.

The evening went on, a couple games of pool were played, numerous shots consumed and some mighty tasty chicken wings eaten. 10:00 came and I was ready for bed. Karaoke was going to start soon and I wanted to avoid that at all costs. Which even meant not using the bathroom before I left. Hey, I live a block away, no big deal, right? While a grown man (soon to be, crap, 30) should be able to hold his bodily functions, most grown men don’t have to put up with a thing called the Renter.

By the time I got home I had to go. As I walked in to the bathroom the Renter decided to sit on the toilet seat lid. She was not using the toilet, just sitting on the lid so I couldn’t use it. I had four pitchers of beer and three shots of Southern Comfort waiting to be discharged. In a moment of panic, I whipped open the shower curtain and began to pee. Only problem was that’s not all I had to do. What I first thought was a fart turned moist and warm. The Renter, still sitting on the toilet, thought it was a fart too until she smelled it. “Uuuuuhhhhh!” she yelled, which in turn made me laugh and fart solid again. Well, it wasn’t exactly farting solid, it pretty much like oatmeal (sorry if you’re eating right now). The Renter knew this was serious and got off the toilet. This is where my memory gets a little fuzzy. According to the Renter I had stuff coming out before I even sat down. Everything made it in the toilet, well, everything that wasn’t already in my shorts (thank goodness for tighty whities!). The smell was bad. To make matters worse I shut the bathroom door to keep all the odors contained in the tiny bathroom. The Renter bent over the tub and vomited, and vomited again, and again. You know me, I couldn’t stop laughing. Here I am, sitting on the toilet with my shorts full of crap and I’m laughing my ass off because the Renter is puking in the tub. I have tears rolling down my cheeks right now as I type this. I took off my shoes, tossed my jeans and underwear in the tub, wiped very well and went to bed.

This morning when I took a shower there were some brown marks in the tub. I tried to rinse it down the drain with just the shower head but that wasn’t working. So I used the blue washcloth that was sitting on the side of the tub. I’m not sure but I think the Renter might use it to wash her face.