We’d been tasked, The Guy (at the time) On My Couch and I with wrangling the children outdoors because the window guy was indoors, ripping out our old drafty windows and installing brand-spankin’ new ones. The house was an investment, and we couldn’t WAIT to have windows that properly opened and shut so that we could do things like, “feel the warm breeze” without the cats jumping out the windows in a desperate effort to save themselves from our formerly white (WHITE!) carpet.

(Pointless aside: who the fuck installs white carpeting? Answer: not I)

We’d spent the day gardening with el kids (a couple of neighborhood kids thrown in for good measure), laying down grass seed and puttering around doing old people shit. Dave, on the other hand, was indoors working on something very important – perhaps a game of Civ 5, I can’t be sure – I’m no gamer, so they all look the same to me (read: equally baffling).

Finally, we sat in the garage, sweating our nards off and talking to the window guy who was done with the install for the day. He explained that he was waiting for his partner to come and pick him up, but that he’d be back tomorrow to install some whoo-dillys and whacha-ma-callits. I just nodded, happy to be out of the blistering sun and away from the bugs, if only for a moment.

Soon enough, a child-napping van pulled up into our driveway – perfect for both kidnappers and tradespeople alike – and his “partner” popped out. When I’d envisioned “partner,” I assumed he meant an older, more grizzled version of himself, someone who likely wheezed upon any exertion – like getting out of the child-napping van. But no, his partner was a woman.

She practically ran into the garage, begging to use my bathroom.

“Sure,” I said, sympathetically. My parents had performed a procedure when I was quite small in which they replaced my own bladder with a squirrels, which means I have to pee approximately every four seconds, while somewhere, skulking around Illinois, is a squirrel who hasn’t peed in over seven years.

“It’s right behind this wall,” I gestured. She dashed inside as we continued talking shop – a euphemism for listening to someone who knows a lot about whoo-dillys talking wildly about Mr. Gadget shit while I sat there, nodding and trying not to drip sweat into my eyes – with the Window Guy.

The minutes crept past us as we jabbered on, The Guy On The Couch and The Window Guy, while I began counting the mosquito bites that had formed a particularly awesome pattern on my legs. Soon, my mind drifted and I began to look for patterns in the bites. Just as I thought I saw Jesus composed entirely of mosquito bites, imagining the lines of people who may line up to see my legs and pray over them for upwards of two days – or until the bites subsided – she flew back out of the house. She’d been gone so long I’d assumed she’d found Dave and had begun to talk to him about video games or sealing wax, or other fancy stuffs.

“Thanks again,” she said to me, as I nodded sympathetically. “I’ve been holding that a REALLY long time.”

“No problem,” I said to her, “happens to me all the time.”

“Yep,” The Guy (then) On My Couch affirmed. “Her bladder is the size of a Fruit Loop.”

The Window Guy and his partner made their way back to their child-napping van, where I hoped they would go home WITHOUT kidnapping innocent children, and I turned to The Guy (then) On My Couch, “Holy fucks, I gotta pee, motherfucker.”

He looked at me, deadpan, “This is my surprised face.”

I flicked him off on the way into the cool house, the sweat on my face practically freezing as I walked indoors and into the bathroom, ready to evacuate 2.5 ounces from my bladder.

It hit me like a freight train as I flicked on the bathroom light: the incredible, unmistakable stench of shit. I googled a bit, eyes watering, before closing the door and turning the fan on. Didn’t need that getting out into the general circulation.

After I made my way to the upstairs bathroom and back to the garage to watch The Littles, I pulled The Guy (then) On My Couch aside, “Holy balls, Ben,” I said, “She dropped a HUGE deuce in there.”

He laughed, “Really?”

“Yup,” I replied, my eyes wide as dinner plates. “I’m kinda shocked.”

“Me too!” He agreed with me. “Who goes and takes a monster dump at a complete stranger’s house? Isn’t that what gas station bathrooms are for?”

“Yes,” I said, eyes still open so wide they nearly fell out of my head. “That and weird creepy gas station bathroom sex.”

I thought for a minute.

“It’s always my fucking luck,” I confessed. “Or maybe it’s everyone’s thing – I can’t seem to find a bathroom to use that someone before me hasn’t taken a warm, steaming dump. I’m always fucking afraid that stench is going to get in my hair. I can’t TELL you all the times I’ve walked into to a bathroom to take a pee and I’m stuck gagging at the remnants someone’s dinner from the night before.”

“You do pee a LOT,” he replied flippantly.

Not really acknowledging what is, apparently, common knowledge, I continued. “But do you know what’s the worst?” I didn’t wait for a reply, “It’s when they’ve used that canned air freshener shit and I’m sitting in peach-scented poo. That shit never works like it’s supposed to – rather than mask the odor, it just ADDS to it. Fucking gross.” I shuddered as I dry-heaved a little. “Blech.”

He just nodded, laughing too hard to reply.

A lifetime later, a company sent me yet another bizarre item, which I promptly put into my box of items that were to be moved to my new home. As I was taking very little from our house, save for one set of the couches and a few odds and ends, I’d happily accepted anything anyone wanted to send me. You never DO know what you’re going to need.

The PR rep would occasionally email me to ask me about the item, which was called “ReJuvenescence,” and I promptly ignored her emails – my life was in boxes, and no, I hadn’t had a chance to try their new product, which sounded, each time I got the email, like something you’d use on your vagina.

It’s not.

Finally, once I was settled in my new place, I unpacked the box and stared into it – a little shocked. The wee box was filled with toilet paper plastic thingies (sadly no toilet paper). The instructions informed me that I was to peel some stickers off, pop a roll of TP on them, then relax and enjoy. Or something like that, I don’t really read instructions.

I wrangled the thing onto my toilet paper holder, curious as to what the nuts it would do. I hoped that it would:

A) Sing to me

2) Clap and/or cheer

73.7) Return my bladder to normal, human size.

It did none of those.

What it did do, however, was make my bathroom (and subsequently) my toilet paper smell kinda… nice. Not like that bullshit pine tree air freshener “nice” (which only serves to remind me of my days as a teenage delinquent), but sorta… good.

But let’s be honest with each other, Pranksters, I’d be more impressed if it sang Christmas Carols or various versions of the Pina Colada song.



34 thoughts on “Princess Peachy Poo

  1. I work at a small mom n pop furniture store and I can’t tell you how often a customer will come in and drop a load in our restroom … stinks up the whole store … Who goes poo at a furniture store ? they drive past umpteen gas stations they can stop at ( which I would bet money those restrooms get cleaned FAR more often than the one here) … WHY ? I ask ….Why?

  2. In my office building, there’s a handicap bathroom (small room with one toilet bowl, a sink and a locking door) on each floors (12 of them). That’s the place I use if I absolutly need to do number 2 at work (as opposed to my own bathroom). It’s great. Nobody hears you and nobody even knows YOU have been there (you can sneek in and out without being seen). Yet some people still do that business in the normal 3 stall bathrooms and leave the whole elevator corridor smelling like shit for hours.

  3. I have a confession.

    I have IBS. Which means I have been Princess Peachy Poo on more than one occasion. Let me just take this moment to apologize for all of us out there. Whether we’re just inconsiderate or we truly can’t wait, we leave our stink. And it’s wrong.

    1. Aha , you got me … I will definately keep that in mind from now on … I honestly probably should already being that I have 2 good friends that suffer with IBS …. So for my previous ignorance , I apologize and I promise I will try to be more understanding from now on ….. I know that it is an awful disease to be inflicted with ….

  4. “(Pointless aside: who the fuck installs white carpeting? Answer: not I)”

    My mother got white carpeting in her bedroom this past summer. She also has a walker. One set of tracks go from her bed to the door. The other set go from her bed to the bathroom.

    You’re right, Don’t get white carpet.

  5. I too have a tiny bladder. My hubby calls me tiny tank. Though, in an ultrasound while pregnant, the tech told me I had a HUGE bladder and it fills very quickly. She had me “empty” then we got back to the ultrasound, she literally watched my bladder fill up in about a minute. She said it was the strangest thing she’d ever seen. So, I shoot that back at my hubby when hes giving me shit about having a tiny tank. 🙂
    Also? I dont have a sniffer so the shit smell does not affect me…all yall come to my house to do your IBS business. (though I doubt said hubby would like it)

  6. My grandma had things she put in her TP rolls that would sing. Depending on the occasion she would change it up. Happy Birthday, Star Spangled Banner, Christmas Carols. She always found the craziest, funniest things. I think a clapping one would have been better.

  7. Hey Aunt Becky? I know I’ve been AWOL and I am terrible. But I’m catching up (again) and I just have to say you are so brave and beautiful you move me to tears. You’re gonna be okay, girl, and I’m rooting for you because you so deserve it. <3

  8. Went to the restroom in a fastfood place last weekend, right after someone who had decided to use her perfume to cover the poo smell. I’m not sure which is worse: leaving the restroom feeling like you smell like poo or leaving the restroom smelling like someone’s reeky perfume AND poo.

    I have SBS, too. (Squirrel Bladder Syndrome) In fact, I now I have to pee just from reading this post. BRB.

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