Two Cans of Foot Spray

I’ve just discovered that under my bathroom sink there are two cans of athlete’s foot spray and two bottles of toilet cleanser. Both nearly full.

Now why did I feel the need to buy two, or how did I forget that there was the other one in there when I made the purchase at the store? In reference to the foot spray, I know that I have had brief periods where I think that my feet might be stinking a bit more and I snap into defense mode. I don’t want the next women I sleep with probably six months or so from now to have to endure anything. So I suppose that I could forgive myself because I’ve only faced the tootsie trouble once or twice in my lifetime and so I didn’t check to see if I had any.

But the toilet thing bothers me. I think what most bothers me is that it is again something that happens very infrequently. For some reason, every now and again my toilet gets more stained. And I’ve been unable to come up with an explanation. Mostly because what’s coming out of me hasn’t changed. I know, I inspect it. I mean one you see, as a man, as it’s coming out. And one you get a glimpse at what’s left on the paper.

So why is is that every couple of months or so there seems to be more noticeable stains? Is the toilet itself rebelling at the working conditions, acting out like some teenage graffiti artist? Is this old building boiling up from it’s depths and getting ready for a major purge the likes of Ghostbusters? Is something sneaking out between the first poop and the stuff that remains on my butt? Because I don’t usually turn around to look, don’t like the sight of even my own.

I think I’ll be a little more careful and for now, spray my feet just to be safe because I’m going to have enough money by Spring to ask someone on a date and is there really such thing as a “too-clean” toilet?

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100th post. Oh s@#t. Literally.

I have only missed about five days since I began this blog at the beginning of the summer. Mostly due to my computer being in for repair and then my phone was not charged or my thumbs were feeling fat. But yesterday was to be my 100th blog. And I was stuck in the bathroom.

Now I’m going to avoid going too deep into the details. Which is hard for me. I’ve been making a living for over twenty five years entertaining children, seventy-five percent of them being between the ages of four and seven. They would enjoy my tales of poo. I could do a forty-five minute show on my experiences yesterday and then make balloon animals and they would not miss the magic tricks. But this is, after all, a more sophisticated forum.

There are two important points though. One, I am very lucky to not only be self-employed, but to be able to “take the day off” while I dealt with the constant feeling that “it was time.” I haven’t pulled my pants up and down (and again so glad to be home, more specifically staying with my folks, that I could wear lounge pants and not deal with the whole buttoning, zippering thing)  so much since I was an extra playing the role of outhouse guy number two. No, you didn’t have to really go to the bathroom, there was no camera in there. But I wanted to be a method actor at the time. And there were a lot of takes.

The other important point about yesterday is the affirmation that men would never make it through childbirth. I was a wimpy, whiny little baby as I kept trying to push it out. And I’m sure that I was making the stupidest face, like women say men make during orgasm. Not me though. I make a very cool face. I know, I’ve practiced in front of a mirror.

So this was an all day affair. The conclusion did not happen until 4:37PM. The entire day was spent very uncomfortably and non-productively. And it’s all my fault-I must take responsibility. I could try to blame it on my mom for having the food available, but it was me that kept eating cheese, crackers and the little chocolates. I could try to blame it on the fact that I went downtown to meet my friends and had to eat out, but I ordered eggs two days in a row. I just don’t eat dairy or white flour or white sugar very often and then it’s just one little candy, not fourteen. So I have to try to remember, and now I have a physical reminder, what a drag it was and how eating healthy really does make you feel amazing.

But there’s a great line my friend used to use when he talked about drinking and how people would forget the consequences: a woman wouldn’t have a second child if she remembered how much the first one hurt. Our brains are wired that way to protect us. So on this 100th….what….oh, gotta go. My mom wants me to go to the grocery store so we can get the stuff for me to make pizza tonight.