Love is...

... laughing together about your explosive diarrhea.

When I recounted to Mo the story of Friday's horrific poo emergency, we both laughed until we cried, and then we laughed some more.

Late Friday afternoon, I felt a rumbly in my tumbly. Shortly thereafter, I made a furtive (and rapid) trip to the bathroom. Thankfully, most everyone was out of the office by 4 because it was Friday. Once I had completed my business, I found, to my complete horror, that the toilet was malfunctioning. Not only would it not flush, but the water level in the bowl began to rise at an alarming rate. I stood and watched helplessly, willing the befouled toilet water to remain in its porcelain prison. The Gods of the Crapper must have heard my silent pleas, and the water stopped rising just as it reached the rim of the bowl. I dared not attempt to flush again. So I did what any normal, rational person would do. I stuck my head out the door to check for passers by, then high tailed it down the hall as fast as I could once the coast was clear, leaving the clogged toilet to be happened upon by some other unfortunate soul.

Then, on the bus ride home, I started to feel less than stellar once again. By the time I reached my bus stop, I had very nearly had a Margaret Cho persimmon diet moment on the Metrobus seat, so I power-walked the four blocks to my house, hauled ass up the stairs, and then scurried wordlessly past my housemate (who was sitting in his bedroom with the door open) and into the bathroom. When I slinked (slunk?) back out of the bathroom some time later, I was dismayed to find that my dear housemate was still sitting there at his computer, bedroom door open, and he surely must have heard everything that transpired behind the bathroom door. So I just smiled, said "hey," and retreated to my boudoire to while away the evening with my book, my ginger ale, and my saltines.

This is the sort of thing that is really only funny in retrospect... or if it happens to someone else.