Taking care of business

Walking past the hallway bathroom the other night, I glanced in (because the door was wide open) only to find the MR. standing in front of the toilet…peeing. Rather than keep on walking, I actually stopped in the doorway and asked him a question about something random, to which he answered me by…farting. He thought that was pretty funny. I, on the other hand, did not. And that’s when reality hit me like a martini hangover: I was actually engaging in a conversation with my husband as he peed and farted. How the heck did we get here? And when the heck did we stop closing the bathroom door?

Now, to be clear, the door is shut when anything resembling #2 is involved. Thankfully that is still considered a classified situation. But if it’s a quick pee, well, we seem to have adopted an open-door policy. I’ll admit, I’m just as guilty as the MR. on this one. For whatever reason, that extra little step of closing the door just seems like a bother.

It wasn’t always like this. When we were dating and even when we were living in our first apartment together, we always closed the door. Always. Yet somewhere along the way in our 1620+ days of marriage, things changed. I remember the first time I left the door open and the MR. found me sitting so daintily on the pot. He couldn’t stop laughing and I think he actually said it was cute to see me so vulnerable. Funny thing about a lot of habits that seem "cute" when you're just getting to know someone is that they seldom hold their charm over the long haul.

One of the best things about buying a house is that we no longer have to share a bathroom. Our apartment in the city only had one teeny tiny bathroom and it was a challenge, to say the least. I think the lowest point came one night when I was brushing my teeth and the MR. sauntered in, lifted up the toilet seat and started…peeing. Now I don’t know if it was the smell of someone else’s pee or the random drop that splashed onto my cheek as I leaned over the sink (GROSS!) that did me in, but from that point forward I insisted that all potty business had to be done when the other person was out of the room. (Clearly, I forgot to also include a clause about closing the door.)

When we first moved into our house, the MR. was bummed about the idea of separate bathrooms because he said it felt like we were roommates. Truth be told, I also think he was a little bitter about having to share his bathroom with the cat. I don’t blame him, really. She’s one pretty kitty with one stinkin’ arse. But the master bath was way too small to share, let alone house the litter box, so there really wasn’t another option. Besides, I’d had enough of finding his nose hairs in the sink. And I’m sure, if he was honest with himself, he’d had enough of cleaning my long locks out of the shower drain.

If you think about it, there are a lot of names for that most sacred of spaces wherein the toilet lives. Bathroom. Loo. Water closet. WC. Lavatory. Commode. Privy. Shithouse. Shitter. Latrine. Crapper. Boardroom. Office. When I was in the first grade, a substitute teacher asked if anyone wanted to go to the “RESTroom”. Thinking that this was some marvelous hidden room where I could take an afternoon nap, I raised my hand. After all, first grade is exhausting, is it not? Seeing my hand in the air, the sub said loudly so all could hear, “Darrah, you just went to the bathroom!” And that’s how I learned that a bathroom is also called a restroom, much to my profound disappointment and embarrassment.

Speaking of elementary school, I can only thank my lucky stars that we didn’t have computers way back in the 70s and early 80s. Because, you see, on the earlier versions of Word (and potentially recent versions too), if you spell-checked “Darrah”, the first word that popped up was diarrhea. Can you imagine? I would’ve been Diarrhea Darrah for all of eternity.

As it turned out, the only nickname I had as a kid was Big Ears and it didn’t stick past 2nd grade. My next official nickname came in middle school when I was christened Double-D Darrah because I developed some rather large ta-tas before most girls. Living with that nickname was hardly a cakewalk, but I still think Diarrhea Darrah would have been worst. I mean, I can just imagine how the kids would have taunted me at recess.

“When Darrah’s slidin’ into first
and her pants start to burst
Diarrhea, diarrhea.

When her stomach really hurts
and she knows it’s the squirts
Diarrhea, diarrhea.”

The moral of the story? For the love of God, spell-check your favorite names before you give one to your kid. As a side note, you should also be careful what you wish for. I always let the MR. read my rants, raves and revelations before I post them because I think it's important that he feels comfortable with whatever I write about our personal lives. Funny thing is that after reading this particular rant, the MR. started closing the door every time he goes into the bathroom. And for some odd and potentially disturbing reason, I feel left out.

For more stanzas of The Diarrhea Song, go here or for a sing-along, go here.