I spent Sunday evening in the hospital. ::jazz hands:: Let's back up.
As you may recall, seeing as how I am a shit godmother and life is too short I went to my goddaughter's birthday party wearing my bravest big girl panties yesterday. I drove the 90 minutes to the OC, armed with a positive attitude and my best quip to the question "Do you have kids?" (this particular Sunday I was feeling the "no, just free time and money" response.)
Giant, open house style birthday party with 3 million kids, parents doing the "I've got my shit together" lisp (is that a CA thing or an international thing?) and a reptile show. I got her a badass cabbage patch kid and was ready to piss sunshine all over their front lawn and kick those giant lizards in their gizzards.
I did swimmingly. I was my usual mutey self around family with the exception of my grandparents.
A little background - my family is giant, awesome, and a little nutty. If you have met a Mexican person in Orange County, CA, congratulations you have met one of Stork's relatives. I, however, am a bit of a wildcard in the clan - I'm the only one who has never lived there whereas 99% of them have lived within a few miles of each other their whole lives. So, just because of distance, with a few awesome exceptions - some old some recent - most of them don't really know me too well. Example - because of the magical Book of Face, the last couple of years people have come up to me at our Christmas party with genuine surprise saying "I didn't know you were funny!" This is my one defining characteristic apart from an increasing resemblance to Rodney Dangerfield... but thank you for enjoying my quirky web presence.
ANYHOO. Not one tear shed, not one horrible moment of explanation required, and even when I found myself holding one of the bajillion babies present, my only thought was 'hello small human, you are delightful'.
So the shit show was not in the children or in the giant reptiles, but in the back pain I had all day that slowly went from 'this is odd' to 'if letting that burmese python swallow me would make me feel any better, excuse me while I slather myself in BBQ sauce'.
So I spent Sunday evening in an ER getting pumped full of drugs and trying not to screech (if for no other reason than it getting in the way of the acoustics of listening to other patients - which is some awesome morbid entertainment). Twas a kidney stone, I got sent home with some medication and apart from ruining my saintly mother's trip to San Diego for the evening, I feel much better.
I am home-home. I arrived an hour after Bub left for work this morning. In celebration of my return and in protest of my absence, in the hour that they were alone Luna peed in her crate and Phoebe barfed all over the couch. I'm all for these dogs displaying emotion towards me seeing as how they both normally feel the sun rises and sets in Bub's ass, but I don't need their love to be quite so... moist.
So a wee bit of pain, but the medication should help me slowly regain my Christmas spirit.
(I am so doing this next year).
I am poop shy. Only in the most dire of circumstances do I poop outside of my own house, and even though I've been with him nearly 10 years, I can't stand Bub even being aware that I poo much less being within a few feet of me doing so.
I'm a business pooper. Whereas for men it seems to be more of a religious experience, I'm in, I'm out, I'm aware of my surroundings - I get the damn job done.
At my in-laws house, there are two bathrooms available to me. One is right next to the living room where people tend to congregate, and the other I have come to believe was specifically designed for everyone to hear you doing your business.
The Bathroom of Poocoustics is without a fan. The B of P sits directly at the top of wooden, echoey stairs. Those stairs are directly next to the living room where people congregate, and if you were to stand in that bathroom and whisper to yourself, it would echo down those lovely stairs into the whole house so that it sounded like a shout. In addition, there is a vent in the B of P that travels directly to the basement - and though I do not have direct proof, I'm fairly certain it's an even louder portal of sound. (I have heard people whispering in the basement from the B of P, and it sounds like they're doing it in my ear).
My initial method of dealing with the Poopacolypse was to try to stay as constipated as humanly possible whilst we were there. This worked brilliantly - although a little uncomfortably - the first year. Year two, I made it a few days, had to go, clogged the toilet and then Bub had to unclog it for me. I spent two hours facedown in our bed instructing him to never, ever, look at me again.
My current method of choice is to let my poo dictate when I will take a shower. Turn shower on, do my business, take shower. I'm a little worried, however, that since this method occasionally leads to two showers a day that my in-laws may think I have OCD.
On the other hand, this isn't too different from spending Christmas with my extended family... Different kind of shit, same concept. Everyone will hear your personal shit because of proximity and echo-capacity. So the question of the holidays for me is really who do you want to be listening to what kind of shit?
Sidenote: And I'm sure my discussion of poop today isn't going to help matters, but the spam comments o porn have reached a fevered pitch. (I can't even repeat the description of a website someone tried to advertise on here... not because of imaginary lady-like ways but because it will surely attract the perviest of beasts). So I think I'm going to take the 'anonymous' option out. This means if you have something snarly to say you'll have to fight me like a man, and I can fairly retaliate by hunting you down and pooing on you in front of your extended family.