All About Poo

Quick Warning: As if the post of this title wasn't clue enough, I'm about to embark on a expose' detailing all things personal and poo-related. Consider yourself warned.

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My husband does not think I poop rose petals.

After all, in dire moments, he's seen me in action.

To make matters worse, we seem destined to live forever in a one-bathroom house, and I cook what can kindly be described as a "high-fiber diet."

So, needless to say, there have been moments in our marriage when I wouldn't have cared if it was Oprah in the shower next to me.

I had to go.

And pronto.

Granted, I'm a little ashamed of this. I know a lot of you out there have a clear no-poop-zone around your significant other and would never think of dropping trow near the loo while in clear sight of your husband.

And you're right. It's not exactly a lady-like thing to do.

But me? I just envy your extreme sense of (bowel) control.

Because I just don't have it myself.

And, the fact is, neither does my husband.

Honestly, he almost seems proud of his bodily functions. I've told you all before how he may be in the running for the title of the World's Most Gaseous Man. And, though he can be gentlemanly in almost every other way, he makes no bones about passing wind.

Loudly.

Stinkily.

Often animatedly.

It's disturbing, really.

And, at times, it's driven me to run out of the house, stick my head out of the speeding car, or force the man to shower repeatedly, so as to wash the toot-stench off him.

I'm not kidding. His gas sticks.

I know it. He knows it. Even Marvin the Dog knows it.

The poor hubs often suggests Marvin and I retreat to the guest room when he's having a particularly "rough" night, for, as he says, "your own safety."

And my own sanity.

He considers it a compliment to come home and tell me how gassy the lunch I packed him made him all afternoon. And, in turn, he blames my "high-fiber" cooking for any and all tummy rumblings he experiences in any (and all) evenings.

When I dare to blame his bowels on, perhaps, a lack of self-control, he maintains the issue is genetic.

Which may be the case because I've been this man fart his way through a bowl of the blandest broth.

Still, there's no bones about the No. 2 in our house.

I poop. He poops. Marvin the Dog poops.

Everybody poops.

We're OK with that.

Until last night.

I made a stir-fry I found on a blog, which shall remain nameless to protect the innocent and potentially gaseous.

It tasted delicious.

And infinitely spicy because I stupidly decided to improvise, substituting ground red pepper for red pepper flakes. (Hint: Not the same thing.)

Which, in short, lit our stomachs on fire with the flame of a thousand suns.

Still, we ate it. Every hot, fibrous, veggie-and-brown-rice-filled bite of it. And we finished it off with some fresh blueberries for dessert.

Then we walked the dog and watched a movie before hitting the showers.

We hopped in bed, both reading our respective books, when it hit me.

You know. "It."

I'd noticed some fumes coming from myself, and not just my husband, earlier that evening, but I had put them aside.

Until "It" hit me like a ton of bricks.

I barely made it the two feet into our bathroom before yelling out in pain, and, well, poo-ing.

For 20 minutes straight.

And not quietly, either.

I was emitting uncontrollable sounds. Wild animal sounds. Sounds my husband said sounded like a "woman in labor."

I poo-ed like I'd never poo-ed before.

After it was all said in done, I had to shower again to wash the sweat -and the stench - I'd worked up off.

I slunk back into bed, shamed.

Because even though we're public poo-ers, my painful moans and groans were a new frontier for the both of us. I'd crossed into a whole new level of gross, and I was pretty sure my husband was never going look my way again.

Until, he did.

He turned toward me, with sincerity in his eyes, and asked, "Are you all right, baby?"

I looked at him, shocked, managing only to eke out the obvious: "It hurt so bad."

That was it, I thought. The final nail in my marital coffin. I just let him audibly witness not only the ugliest, loudest Wife Poo known to man, but I admitted that it was painful.

But, to my surprise, the hubs didn't turn away in disgust.

He simply took me in his arms and muttered, "It's OK, babe. I know. But you did really, really good. I'm proud of you. You did great."

I lay there, enveloped in the arms of the man who loves me so much that he'll let me poop loudly in front of him. I buried my face in his undershirt and sniffled my tears away loudly.

Until 15 minutes later, when it was his chance to dash into the bathroom and perform his rendition of The Poo Monologue.

Ahhh, married life. It's all about taking the good with the crappy.

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I have to apologize. I was having blogger's block yesterday - those of you that saw my Tweet know - and this load of crud - no pun intended - is what I came up.

Which just affirms to me that I must never, ever experience blogger's block again.

Because a girl can only write about her own poo once in every 10 years or so without losing some followers.

We'll return to all non-poop-related posts back here tomorrow! Happy Tuesday, everyone!

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