Suzanna Danna

So let’s talk about shit.

Literally. I wanna sit y’all down and talk about bodily functions.

I have a small one bedroom, one bathroom apartment. Well, one bedroom and a bath and a half (Max’s restroom is in the laundry room… that counts, right?). So my… business… is done in a very private area. Alone, with 4 deadbolts and a garage door between me and the outside world.

I am not one to follow you into the restroom for conversation, I have a shy bladder* and on family trips my mother and I have been known to “go without” for neigh on a week. My daddy says it makes us mean. Moving on.

*Friends in college would be at the apartment and whenever I would (Khaaaaaaan!) “break the seal” after one or seven too many beers, Chad would holler through the apartment, “WE CAN ALL HEAR YOU PEE!” to which my bladder would close up, the kegals stopping the flow at the mere mention of someone hearing me tinkle… and I would carry the heavy weight of a bladder full of beer around with me the rest of the night, while someone would try to tickle me. Lovely. PS… Fuck you all.

So, suffice it to say, I have…. Issues?

Thank goodness the X’s trailer** had two bathrooms… and locks on the doors. As he would be one to come in while I was in the tub and make motions towards… his… morning constitution. (Gag.) I would hurl things like razors, loofas, towels, whatever was in reach, screeching, “Getoutgetoutgetout!” until he backed out saying, “Okay, ok, ok… I’m going to the other one… Lor-DUH.” Yes, he could make “Lord” two syllables. It’s a talent.

**Oh the irony. It burns.

Mr. X is a very polite man who would (even in agony of appendicitis… which makes you… gassy) have the grace to act embarrassed if he tooted.

(I’m 12, pardon me while I hide my mouth behind my hand and giggle at the word toot.)

He never dutch ovened me… Thank God. Or anything like yelling, “Hey, come lookit the shape of my deuce!”

I’m not saying that I don’t have baggage, I do. I am also fully admitting that if there was an attractive man, over 5’10” who had similar values, got my motor runnin (if you know what I mean), was kind, nice to old people and animals, employed (or wealthy enough not to have to be) and made me laugh and wanted to make sure I was treated in a Queenly manner (spoiled, spoiled, spoiled)… if this said Mr. Right was firing on all cylinders and a great conversationalist. If he was smart and liked to brush my hair and pet me… I still don’t know if I could get past a dude who wants to poop with the bathroom door open, then talk about it later like it was a prized piece of art. Or ask me to pull his finger or fart on me (in my general direction) then laugh and run away (or… stay… either position is equally repugnant).

Is this mad?

I mean, yeah, I use enough toilet paper in one session to make sure NOTHING TOUCHES MY HAND… EVER. Enough that would provide perfectly stable and safe padding shall your vehicle’s air bag fail to deploy. What? I’m “green” in other areas, but we will NOT skimp on the toilet paper.

I DO have one problem. While at work (ok, more than one problem) there are chatty people in the stalls. The toilets could flush a housecat, which is awesome. But I have… difficulty even trying to void my bladder when there are people in there freshening up, talking gossip, or God forefend… talking on their cell phones. And for some reason I am mortified when an older lady comes in and just sits down to well… do her business, noisily then comes out while I am boiling my hands and tries to be chatty.

Lady, I just heard you drop off the kids at the pool and hit the air breaks like six times, no, I don’t want to discuss my boots.

Yes, they are awesome.

And they help out a charity.

(distant pimp music)
And now it’s time for a break down.
Lookit.
These are mine.
Wearing them right now.
So excited I may have to pee! Ut oh…