Overflowing Toilet

(I do not own this image, I found it here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/166562065/dont-touch-my-balls-white-baby-onesie)

                I am a woman who really enjoys poop jokes; I can’t explain it. Perhaps my taste for graceless jokes comes from my complete lack of it. Shocking as it may seem ESPECIALLY for those of you who know me very well, I have had some embarrassing moments in the restroom. I have been frightened into wetting my pants (and driven home with my coat tied around my waist to change), since having my daughter I often lose a bit of my bladder’s contents when I sneeze (not every time, enough with the suspicious stares), I can’t even count the times I have farted in a store just to have someone walk around the corner into the stink cloud moments later, and I have of course clogged my fair share of toilets. None of these incidents even come close to the horror that befell me in the fall of 2009, a permanent black mark in my past.

                I was spending the weekend at a new girlfriend’s house and was anxious to make a good impression. This chick was the judgmental type and the type to never let you ever live anything even remotely embarrassing down. For example, I was once playing Strip P’Diddle with her and a few other friends two years later. I am known not only for my frequent flatulence but also for my slow reflexes, an unfortunate trait in the game of P’Diddle. For those of you who have never played, it is a simple car game. Every time you see someone with a missing headlight or taillight or those ridiculously bright white headlights, you shout P’DIDDLE and touch the ceiling of the car. The last poor fool to carry this out has to remove an article of clothing. (I have been very exposed while playing P’Diddle.) So there I was, already topless and forced to remove my pants just as we rolled through the McDonald’s drive-thru. Sadly, the embarrassing part was that it was laundry day and I was wearing some monstrous granny panties. I never lived that one down; in fact, one of the girls I was with went out and bought me three thongs as a joke later on. (It was humiliating, but, hey, I will take the free undies!)

                Returning to my first weekend at Judgmental Girl’s house, as you may know, normal people don’t go an entire weekend without pooping and teenagers are really shy about their bowel movements. (Let me save you some trouble, young ones, no one gives a shit. Literally. Everyone drops a deuce now and again. Even if it is smelly, you aren’t really getting judged as much as you think you are. In fact, I judge you more for holding it. Honestly, are you a sadist or just dumb? POOP!) I swear, I held it as long as I could (by which I mean probably 18 hours after arriving. I know, right? JUST GO, FOOL!) We were outside lounging around the backyard and talking smack about everyone we knew when I could hold it no longer. Assuring her I would be right back, I bravely entered the house and headed for the only bathroom. Its location was…less than ideal. It was directly off the kitchen where her mom spent pretty much every waking moment. Lucky for me, she was not around at the time.

                As I flushed the toilet, I prayed, “Please don’t clog, please don’t clog, PLEASE, DON’T CLOG!!!!” Yeah, it clogged. I scoured the room for a plunger to no avail. Who in their right mind doesn’t keep a plunger in their house!? Especially if I am your house guest!? Hopelessly, I tried to flush again which turned out to be a MASSIVE mistake! The toilet began overflowing at top speed! I ripped the door to the bathroom closet open, pulling out every towel I could reach to clean up the toilet water that was cascading out of the toilet at probably a trizillion miles a second. I frantically searched the room for something to unclog the toilet with (other than my arm). As the towels became soaked through, I started throwing the dirty clothes from the hamper down to keep the floor dry. Finally, I grabbed a toilet brush, thrusting it into the toilet as hard as I could. The toilet brush did eventually unclog the toilet, but it was a little worse for wear after all that…and I was traumatized.

                I braced myself as I opened the door. I kept picturing Judgmental Girl and her whole Judgmental Family standing on the other side of the door waiting to greet me with disgusted stares. I stepped boldly out into the kitchen to find it was still empty. LORD, I TRULY AM BLESSED!!! I booked it back outside hoping she hadn’t noticed that I had been gone for a long time. She had. It turned out I had been inside for almost a full half an hour. Not knowing how to explain myself, I told her I had gone into her room and watched TV for a while, winning myself Best Friend of the Year for sure.

Stage 3 Boobs

                My mom is really great. (Obviously! She raised this bossy, empowered, feminist bitch!) One of the many wonderful things about her is that when I was growing up, she made sure I was accurately informed about how to take care of my body (so I didn’t get sucked into myths like “pulling out is 100% effective” later in life). When I was in fourth grade, my mom bought me a copy of The American Girl’s Care and Keeping of You: The Body Book for Girls. I remember my first glance through it; as I flipped through the pages, I caught glimpses of topics such as how to insert a tampon, bra shopping, shaving tips, and properly washing your face. As a girl of ten, I was unimpressed and honestly, a little bit disgusted. The book remained on my shelf collecting dust for about two years. In sixth grade, however, I was starting to have some changes. My first period had come a few weeks before the beginning of the school year, my mother had made it clear to me (in no uncertain terms) that I needed some deodorant stat, and it seemed like whenever she would buy me a few new bras, I went up another cup size. Suddenly topics like “Moody You: Emotional Roller Coaster” were very interesting to me.

As my body threw me ovaries deep into puberty, my life-long love for romance and flirting reached new heights. (You might think I am joking, but I am not. As a mere four year old, I terrorized my cousin Dylan by chasing him with Tinkerbell lipstick smeared across my mouth trying to catch and kiss him. As a girl of seven, I spent a full year of Sunday’s AT CHURCH trying to impress Tyler Kilmon with my “fancy voice” to trick him into being my boyfriend. Obviously, flirting was never my strong suit.) Ever observant, my mother quickly added The American Girl’s Smart Guide to Boys to the docket. It was basically a how-to book for the novice flirt with topics such as “what boys want” and “kissing basics.” (Mom, you were so brave to place a book like this in my hormonal little hands.)

I took that book very seriously from the moment I laid eyes on it.  I scoured it for weeks, trying out each new technique on my serious crush, Joey. Joey was the bad boy of Northampton Middle School’s sixth grade class (and was expelled the next year for selling prescription pain killers at school. My excellent tastes strike again.) He was super cute with cherubic cheeks, a killer smile, and dark and dreamy eyes. Most importantly to me: he was funny. I pushed myself every day through mornings of science and math to get to the afternoons of history and English because I am terrible at the former and good enough to scrape by at the latter but mostly because I shared those classes with Joey.  By the end of the year, Joey and I were pretty good pals. Looking back on it, I would bet he saw how desperate I was for his attention (I’m sure it was easy enough to see through my American-Girl-taught flirting techniques). At the time, I definitely thought it was my charm and edge winning him over. I wanted for him to be my boyfriend so badly (I hadn’t ever had a boyfriend yet), but I just couldn’t stick the landing! Not realizing that there was nothing I could do to tie that wild mustang down because he was a player and failing to see that it really didn’t matter BECAUSE WE WERE TWELVE, I started to think outside the box.

One Thursday afternoon near the end of the year, I sat on my bed surrounded by my American Girl self-help books scouring the pages, searching for my next big move to win Joey over (if only I had put as much effort into my schoolwork). Time was a-tickin, and I had to tie this boy down before the summer started. I had tried every single thing in the book (literally). I have always been pretty a self-aware gal. I knew these techniques were the basics for a nice girl, but I knew I wasn’t just a nice girl; I am a nice girl with a serious edge! I can’t be tamed either, Joey, and I’ll prove it to you with a new, edgy pick-up line! I just had to find it! Desperate, I began flipping through The Care and Keeping of You for a stroke of inspiration, and there it was: the perfect topic to get that boy’s tiny twelve-year-old hormones a-whirlin’ for little Miss Sarah C. Hold onto your trousers, boy, because this rocket ship is taking off!

                On Friday morning, I felt like the end of the day could not come fast enough. I had been practicing what I would say all night, and I knew exactly when I would make my move. Our English/history teacher always gave us ten minutes of social time on Friday afternoon’s. All I had to do was get Joey to spend it with me. For once in my life, I was acting super confident; I think that boss-bitch energy really sucked him in that afternoon. I was high on my romantic-empowerment, I was sassy, I was going to pull this off! I spent the entire afternoon shooting him flirty smiles and rolling my eyes at everything the teacher said to capture his attention, and it worked. Finally, our free-time came and with it, my moment to shine. Joey moved to sit with me in my desk clump away from our peers and we started chatting. I was wearing my favorite outfit, a skirt, shirt, and long, fingerless glove combo. The skirt and gloves had a swirled black and white stripe pattern and the shirt was white with a butterfly made of the same pattern but with sparkles in the black stripes. (I know, so hot. How could any man resist me? I had on FINGERLESS GLOVES that went PAST MY ELBOWS like Cinderella!) I had specifically worn a black bra underneath so it would stand out (my ace in the hole), sneaking it by my mom that morning by wearing a hoodie.

 (Here is the outfit in question the year before at the Great American Model and Talent search.)

                “I can see your bra,” Joey said, grinning as he sat down.

                “Oh, really?” I said, feigning ignorance and glancing down at my chest, which I had thrust out, making a big show of my baby boobies. “I didn’t even notice!” (Lie.)

                “I like it. It’s cute,” Joey said, practically drooling all over me. (Can I get a hair flip, ladies?)

                I felt like standing up on the desk, shouting, “EAT YOUR HEART OUT, JOSEPH,” and dancing like the Queen I am inside, but I kept my cool. “Yeah, it’s a really cute bra. I just got it because I went up a cup size.” Oh, young Sarah. There’s just so much I need to warn you about.

                “Wow…So like...how big are your boobs?” Joey asked me, leaning in and hardly looking at my face at all.

                This was it. This was the moment I had been waiting for. The American Girl’s Care and Keeping of You had prepared me for this moment, for I was about to drop a bomb on that little boys mind. You see, the night before I had come across a passage about breast development, describing the three phases of growth and I thought it the perfect hook to catch and reel in a bad boy like Joey. Chest puffed up with pride (and for attention), I confidently leaned in and whispered, “Well, I’m in stage three of breast development.”

 (Obviously, I was not really in stage 3.)

                His eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open a little bit before he sputtered out, “Wow…so they’re like…big?”

                “Yeah, pretty much. I’m like, almost in a C-cup,” I bragged on.

                The remaining few minutes we had to talk, he could not stop staring at my boobs, but I had all of his attention just as I had planned. He called me twice that weekend, and flirted with me more than usual for the next couple of weeks. Eventually, that faded, and I was left stumped as to why he hadn’t asked me to be his girlfriend yet (and honestly, it took me several more years to figure it out).

                Joey moved away to Texas when he was expelled and I never saw him again. I did find him on Facebook a few years ago, though. Curious to know how my old flame was doing, I decided to shoot him a message and catch up. At the time he was recently married and trying to become a boxer. As I quietly thanked the universe for helping me to dodge that bullet, he asked me if I remembered the time I told him I had stage three boobs. Of course, I remember, Joey. How could I forget? The real question is why couldn’t you have done me a favor and forgotten about it? I begrudgingly admitted I did and let the “lol’s” wash over me, turning my face red in their wake. I must confess I have not tried to contact him since.

This essay is dedicated to my Mom for letting me (perhaps unwittingly at times) make mistakes and learn from them on my own.