365 Dumps

I have more communist dumping tales, but today’s experience was so extraordinary (not really) that I’ll have to put off the Cuba Poopa another day. It seemed like an ordinary workplace dump, a mid-morning coffee-inspired affair. I went to my usual handicapped stall with the spacious dimensions and toilet that requires a double-flush. I noticed a bit of TP in the toilet, and while that shouldn’t bother me, I do like to start with a clean slate. I don’t know what that paper might have been used to wipe up. And I can’t remember the last time I’ve had to reach into a toilet (okay, maybe I can) but if today would be the day, I’d like it at least to be on my own terms. I flushed once and began my careful seat-layering process.

The dump was unremarkable, entirely forgettable, and since I was planning on writing about Havana poopin’, I didn’t try strain to find a story. But when I’d finished cleaning myself and reached to flush, the sublime: it all went down in one fell swoop. I hadn’t used any new technique, hadn’t held the handle down longer, hadn’t flicked my wrist somehow, hadn’t flushed a first time… or had I? Even though it had been ten minutes earlier, it seemed my pre-dump flush served as a priming coat. Ten minutes earlier, and it still stuck as if the toilet needed to warm up to do its duty. Stunning.

And I realized: I’ve taken many thousands of dumps, yet on an average Tuesday morning, I can still take a crap and see something new. Of all my many blogs, this one has taught me more about the world than any other.

* * *

I can’t believe my inability to divide my two: #183 marked the halfway point of this blog! I think by now we’ve all accepted that completing the 365 by year’s end is a pipe dream. But still, a milestone: there are now fewer dumps in our blog future than in our blog past. And for those who care about one day redeeming my good name, that’s good news.

My first day in Havana, I found the bathroom in our hotel room did have a bidet but did not have a toilet seat. It was a nice hotel (did I mention the bidet?) and I came to Cuba prepared to experience a culture different from my own. Everyone makes the equivalent of about $20 a month, but they also get a weekly food ration and universal health care. The news is state controlled (unlike here, cough cough, FOX NEWS, cough), but there’s under 1% illiteracy. And there are beautiful buildings and incredible weather, but my bathroom had no toilet seat. I figured this wasn’t an explicit platform item in Fidel’s revolucion, but when I saw a public crapper sans seat (pictured at left) I figured Cuba saw toilet seats as a capitalist indulgence. When in Havana…

So I did my worst. And worst it was: the Cuban diet is not rich in vegetables or whole grains, and this was reflected in my stilted output. You know something’s wrong when you’re eating a plate of black beans daily and not farting. (Feel free to make a T-shirt of that aphorism.) The coffee was stupendous, however, and my daily cafe con leche or straight espresso did contribute to whatever little dumping I was able to accomplish. I’d like to blame the lack of toilet seat, that perching on the slightly too narrow edges put me on edge. But that wasn’t it. The food seemed to be enjoying its time in a capitalist digestive tract and did not want to avail itself into a communist sewage system. The seatless perch was uncomfortable, but workable, and I did what I could.

On Day 3 we moved to a new hotel which was slightly less lush, although Meaghan and I drew a corner room with two sets of French doors opening on picturesque views of the water and an old Spanish fort. And in this more spartan hotel, the bathroom did have a bidet and did have a toilet seat. Luxury of luxuries!

Enjoying a mojito on the roof deck later, I turned to one of our fellow tralevers. “Pretty nice place, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “It’s all right.”

“Well, at least we’ve got toilet seats in this one.”

Her eyes widened. “You didn’t have a toilet seat in the last place?!”

So much for that theory.

* * *

More tales of Cuba poopa to come, although if you’re looking for more on the bidet, I’m afraid I couldn’t work up the courage to do the necessary research.

One of my weirdest dumps was at a friend’s wedding Nova Scotia. The night before, the bride’s parents hosted everyone at their summer home in Halifax. It was a beautiful house on a lake, far enough from neighbors that you felt completely alone in nature. It was so out of the way, in fact, that the plumbing couldn’t handle the 70 or so guests at the event. So the parents rented a porta-potty.

Under normal circumstances, I would not take a dump in a port-o-john, and I would never ever ever EVER take a dump at a friend’s wedding. Or a rehearsal dinner or pre-wedding barbecue or engagement party or anything of the sort. Heck, I’m hard-pressed to dump at a friend’s house as an overnight guest; once in college I visited my girlfriend at her parents and didn’t take a dump for THREE DAYS for fear of being caught stinkin’ up the joint.

So the fact that I was willing to drop trou in a porta-potty at my friend’s pre-wedding festivities should be ample proof that these were not normal circumstances. I was fighting a stomach bug, and even though I’d dumped before the two-hour bus ride to his future in-laws’, I had no choice. I had to go.

First off, it was FILTHY in there. A wedding rental john is clearly far better than one at a Patriots game or construction site, but we’re talking hydrogen bomb versus atom bomb — both lethal. I also learned the doors on those things are not too thick. I’d never noticed before because I’m rarely in one for long. But sitting and waiting made me appreciate how little separated me from countless wedding guests I prayed couldn’t hear what was happening back inside.

Most memorably, the only light inside my chamber was a small scented candle. It was nearly dusk, the time of day cinematographers refer to as the magic hour, and every flicker of candle, every gust of brisk Canadian breeze shimmered throughout the small space, candlelight dancing upon the walls, creating fanciful shadows like starfish ballerinas. It would have been stunning had I not been diarrheaing through my friend’s pre-wedding barbecue in what my mom calls a Johnny Jump-Up.

I was reminded of the odd beauty of that twilight poo last night at 4 am when the dog woke us by peeing on the bathroom rug and I took him out for a super-late walk. He dumped almost immediately, and then again shortly later, so the jaunt was a good choice. And as I glanced around the frigid stillness of absolute night, I paused to appreciate the silent lucidity of my neighborhood in that wondrous void between night and day. Then I leaned down to pick up a steaming pile of dog crap, and I was ready to go back in to bed.

As you might imagine, I’m not constipated much. To be more accurate, I’m constipated so infrequently that I can’t even conceive of what it’s like. It’s like me trying to imagine being another race or gender. I can do incredible amounts of research, but I’ll never understand what it’s actually feels like to be a woman. Of course, I’m not saying being a woman is like being constipated… but then again, I don’t know what either feels like, so maybe it is.

I did dress in drag once, though. And I was briefly constipated during my brief dalliance with the diet Atkins. Carbs keep things moving, and a lack of carbs deprived me of my precious regularity, and this was a minor but legitimate factor in my quitting the diet. Psyllium husks helped some; oatmeal with banana and a cup of coffee helped quite a bit more.

This could all sound like a prelude to my own rendition of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins blues classic(?) “The Constipation Blues,” but no, my internal factory has not slowed production a whit. Instead, the blockage struck a far more shocking victim: Watson J. Dog.

After days of indoor crapping that led to many wasted paper towels and the intense scouring of an innocent area rug, the vet prescribed an anti-inflammatory that seemed to settle the dog’s stomach. But after an overnight kitchen dump in the early hours of Thursday, Watson had yet to move his bowels by late Friday. That’s nearly 45 hours of constipation! From a dog who normally generates up to 8 dumps in that time!

Clearly the little bugger was not well, and when he finally squatted on his late-night walk, I braced myself for the full firepower of his entire army. Instead, I was met by a lone gunman. Neither of his subsequent dumps today were more impressive, so I’m a little nervous we’re building to a terrible denouement when his stomach settles completely. But how would I know? I have no personal experience with constipation to draw upon. The dog might as well ask me what it feels like to menstruate.

I sort of knew all day I’d end up back in the can in the afternoon. I started the day walking to the train station twice because I forgot my wallet — ten-minute walks in -5 wind chill, mind you. Then, after using said wallet to purchase a burrito, I returned to my desk only to find a disturbing absence of guacamole for my chips. I would have let it go, but it had cost me an extra buck and a half. Not to mention a 46-cent tip! Luckily, it was a summery 11 degrees by then and only a three-minute walk, so this trip was less painful.

In any case, two double-voyages in my memory meant that when my bowels signaled a second movement for the day, I decided it was only fair they get their due doubleshot.

The office-cleaning crew does their stuff after hours, but for some reason, the bathroom crew gets to work much earlier. And this afternoon, like many afternoons, I was blocked entry for the daily cleaning. Before 3:00! I would have thought waiting until people had finished dirtying the bathroom for the day would be a more effective strategy, but what do I know? I’m stuck in a job where I don’t get to micromanage the custodial crew.

Anyway, this forced me to use the bathroom on the third floor, which I’ve used many times, but never for a dump. Well, maybe once. I’m not sure, and I guess this confusion illuiminates the danger of not updating this blog regularly. Never again!

I tried the handicapped stall here and was susprised to see a different orientation from the stall I’m used to. My usual handicapped stall is right-handed, or at least the TP is located to the right of the toilet. This toilet was left-handed. This is the kind of thing that wouldn’t matter nearly as much in a regular stall where the toilet is centered between the two walls. But in the spacious dimensions of the handicapped stall, the result is you sit in the corner, left or right, and the dump usually stops when Patrick Swayze bursts in and tells my father this location just won’t do.

I was excited to blaze new ground. Having long favored the handicapped stall (when I suspect I won’t be taking it away from someone who really needs it) I was sure I’d experienced both orientations before. But I had never analyzed the difference. And the beauty of this blog is it forces me to think about such things. How would it be different? Would the change throw off my rhythm and change the output? Would I have trouble reaching for the TP at the end? Anything could happen!

And then: I barely even noticed and it was totally the same. Well, sometimes you knock it out of the park, sometimes you make an out to advance the runner. They’re both productive at-bats.

* * *

I am fully determined to make it to 365 within 2007. By my calculations, that means an average of 4 dumps a week through the end of the year. So hopefully more frequent updates from here…

As I headed to the bathroom today, every face I saw was unfamiliar, and they all seemed to know each other. In the bathroom, an unfamiliar Asian man was lecturing an unfamiliar 20-something white guy. Strangest of all, the stall with powerfully flushing toilet was occupied like this:

For a moment, I wondered if I’d waited too long to dump and the backlogged waste matter had seeped into my bloodstream, poisoning my brain and causing hallucinations. But it seems all this really happened, and besides, it was a mild dump, the kind that begs for an afternoon followup. Whatever draws me back to the ‘throom, I’ll be curious to see how long it takes the ladder to pinch one out. (And with the door open! For shame!)

The dog’s having stomach problems, a condition we discovered courtesy of his new habit of crapping in the kitchen. Finding a pile of mushy dog crap on the floor at 6 am is a lousy way to start successive days, so my wife finally brought him to the vet for shots and a milder food. This seemed to do the trick, but not before his fifth and sixth kitchen dump inside of 30 hours. Like I’ve said, Watson could knock off 365 blog entries in a month if he just had an opposable thumb.

While Meaghan was reporting on the dog’s progress, I mentioned that he obviously was not familiar with the expression, “Don’t shit where you eat.” It tends to be more idiomatic, but the literal version makes no less sense. Of course, Meaghan and I first starting dating while working in the same not-large office, so in a way she was my kitchen dump, and I hers. (Damn, should have saved that for Valentine’s Day.) Maybe Watson’s just carrying on the family tradition.

To a further extreme, mind you.

“You don’t even know,” said Meaghan. “He actually crapped IN HIS FOOD BOWL.” Hardcore.

As for me, I’m happy to shit where I work. The biggest hurdle today was when the pair of seat liners I began with tumbled into the toilet and I had to add two more. This meant I was pooing onto a lot of crumpled paper, which had an odd cushioning effect. It reminded me of walking Watson in bad weather and seeing his output so distinct against the bright white snow. If there will ever be poetry in a pile of feces, this scenario’s our best shot at it.

For months, global warming had delivered an unseasonably warm winter, but in the past week, the mercury has dropped precipitously. My customary strategy for coping with this has been to sequester myself indoors, but alas the dog disallows complete isolation. And so both choices in this matter are equally lousy: Wednesday night he crapped in the living room, and Friday night the “real-feel” temperature was -18. Lose-lose.

This morning it was 9 degrees, which felt like Indian summer by comparison, and yet not really. It was also lightly snowing, which added to the fun. But the dog needed to go, and I needed to bring him. In the cold weather, Watson dillies and dallies far less, getting the dump out of the way much more quickly than did in warm weather, so at least we’re not out there long. As I stooped to pick up his pile of sausage links with a plastic bag, a middle-aged guy stopped his car and rolled down the window. Positive he’d ask me for directions, I arched my eyebrows in my best “Can I help you?” formation.

“True love, huh?” he said, referring to me, the dog, and the bag of poo. Then he let out a hearty laugh and sped off. Awesome.

As for my dumping, the morning began was a cleansing hangover dump that seemed to draw waste from stores deep in my furthest extremities. It finished early, but I stayed focused and plenty more arrived, further proving that I have reverted to a once-daily schedule. And so it was with a heavy heart that I returned later in the day to tie up a few loose ends. I can only hope this second visit was an exception, not a return to the old new rule.

Yesterday afternoon, when the second dump called, I refused to answer. I was kind of busy at work, but more than that, I was resentful of my recent double-dump schedule. A workday dump is no small affair, between my vaguely germophobic seat layering process, the long walk of shame down the hall, the hiding of reading material… once is fine, but twice is asking a lot. Plus, dumping twice challenges my manhood. Mosi Tatupu might be okay for women or my dog, but us men emulate Mosi TaOneGiantPoo. With all this in mind, I ignored it, and as soon as it subsided, all was well.

I drank my morning coffee on the train, and when I got to work, the coffee wanted out. On the way to the bathroom, I began to suspect a dump was brewing. Having no good reason to refuse, I opted to indulge in the surprise dump.

The results were, frankly, stunning. Gigantic. Staggering. Not just my first output above sea level in 2007, but my most stupendous dump in months. It was as if Round 2 from the day before had met up with today’s Round, formed an alliance, and created a union far greater than the sum of its parts. I was proud of what I’d accomplished, and I suddenly felt… virile. It was a man’s work, a true crap.

Best of all, it held up. As I write at the end of the day, I can happily say there was no need for a second course. Because when you take a heaping plate the first time, there’s no need to go back to the buffet table later.

Yesterday, the dog made a pretty convincing pitch to take over this blog by crapping all over the office. He also peed on his dog bed and, while Meaghan tried to clean this up, knocked her salad on the floor. I told Watson he was lucky Meaghan was the one to discovery this reign of terror. Meaghan suggested he had been reading my blog and had gotten inspired to impress The Mr. Rogers of Crap. It led us to reference an anti-drug commercial of our youth, its inadvertant catch-phrase providing a title for today’s entry.

I worked late yesterday, which means I get to come in late today, and with coffee on my personal breakfast menu, this added up to a rare weekday dump at home. I was not looking forward to it. Given what the dog had done unsupervised, having decided the entire house was a fire hydrant, I was a nervous to be behind closed doors for long.

And so I was distracted. My book couldn’t keep me on track either; The Brothers Karamazov may be one of the world’s finest works of literature, but Dostoevsky is not the best reading for a dump. I proceeded quickly, effectively, but not enjoyably, and I rushed out to find Watson in the identifcal half-asleep pose in which I’d left him. I suddenly became optimistic that my shower would also pass without incident. It seemed the dog was okay.

Before she left, Meaghan had rustled the dog’s ears and asked, “Who’s a good boy?”

“Me?” I suggested. “After all, I don’t poo in the office.”

“No,” she replied, with a professional’s timing, “you just write about poo in the office.”

Can’t argue with the facts.