on a cold, rainy friday night a few weeks ago i had dinner plans with a couple of lesbians at pete miller's steakhouse. because sucking down bowls of hot lobster bisque and gnawing on slabs of bloody red meat is exactly what sexy bitches should be doing together on a friday night. i had already had a couple high lifes and 1/3 of a bottle of champagne with jessica and claire earlier in the evening, and on top of the fact that cheap beer acts like a fucking diuretic, i sort of had to take a big shit.
i hate eating when i have to take a poo. first of all, you can't really relax and enjoy your meal. or at least i goddamned can't. all i can do is sit there and picture my insides, like adding too many orange peels and leftover dinner scraps to an already-full garbage disposal and watching it trying to chug-chug-chug that shit down while praying nothing gets stuck. by that same measure, i won't shit in a toilet that already has toilet paper or whatever in it. i hate standing over the bowl with my fingers crossed hoping that i won't have to remember where i last saw my fucking plunger. i like the feeling that, despite the fact that the stomach and bowels are separate entities entirely, i actually have room to make a food deposit. plus, my guts are all narrow and i eat super slow and all that chewing and processing just pounds the food to my colon even faster.
now i'm not shy about shit. AT ALL. how could i be? because of all this below the belt crohn's activity, once when jason and i spent a long weekend in rural michigan i was forced to shit in my purse on the drive home because there wasn't a place to stop. i shit in a grocery bag once behind a gas station in washington dc. i've shit the bed, i've shit on nurses and aides, and doctors are always digging around in my butt. a couple years ago jeff and i went to pitchfork and i spent an hour trying to find someplace to shit and we missed !!!'s entire set. (um, yeah, so DAS RACIST, THE DISMEMBERMENT PLAN, and DEERHUNTER are all playing this year, and i hate being hot but i am willing to brave the swelter to see them because they are all my JAMS. if anyone is interested in going, HOLLER.) so my own private little room with both a toilet AND a door makes me feel like fucking royalty, no matter how cramped and dirty it might be. don't get me wrong. would i much rather be at home where i can take my pants and underwear off and read an entire issue of atlantic monthly on the can? FUCK YES. will bathroom shyness force me to walk around the party on tiptoe all night trying to squeeze my butt cheeks shut attempting to hold in a deuce? FUCK NO. i mean, i'm not an advocate of people who are SO comfortable crapping in public that they pull out laptops to work on their screenplay and try to talk to you over the stall door and shit (why do you do that, friends? WHY?!!?! just be quiet and poo already), but i'd rather deal with a bitch like that than one who tries to hold her breath and not move a muscle in the vain hope that you won't notice she's been sitting in the same stall for an hour and a half waiting for the bathroom to empty out for more than ten seconds so she can drop her butt load. hey gurl, i love you and everything, but MY SOUP IS GETTING COLD.
the bathroom at pete miller's is an intimate one. three stalls, super small, low ceilings. and the sinks are right up next to the stalls. TOTAL CLOSENESS. no way to separate oneself from the dump. anyway, there are very few places that the north shore's middle aged can go on a friday night to try to get their dicks sucked, and PMS is one of the places. (so is that union pizza. the food is the JAM, but we have to go on a sunday or a tuesday when we can actually get a table because does anyone in evanston EVER EAT ANYWHERE ELSE?!) first of all? GROSS. if you catch me drooling over some recent retiree with my titties out at fifty-five falling off a bar stool while slugging down fifteen-dollar martinis please PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY. the only thing more awkward than watching people flirting (i hate that) is watching people with active AARP memberships flirting. i remember when mel was setting up his match.com and scrolling through ladies, making jokes about which ones looked like they could still have sex.
picture my horrified face. i was like, "sex with what?"
i'm sure he did something lewd like point at the saggy spot in his armani jeans where his wrinkly old penis should be, because despite the fact that he is my surrogate earth father, that is the kind of relationship i have with most people.
"i thought old people just held hands and complained about rap music while watching QVC? isn't your screen name 'must love pudding?' shouldn't you find a bitch who knows cpr?!"
"FUCK YOU, SAMMY."
the only thing that's hot about old people fucking is that they can do it fucking BALLER STYLE. mel wasn't taking hoes to starbucks, TRUST ME. that dude in his killer suits and italian shoes puts a down payment on the pussy, and there's nothing sexier than that. which is why cara is still calling that salt and pepper dude she met at speed dating even though he banged her and immediately said he wanted to "keep things casual." everybody knows that's code for "thanks for fucking me, stupid," but she still calls that asshole because he got a reservation at alinea on a SATURDAY NIGHT and didn't bat an eyelash at the bill. my motherfucking RENT is cheaper than dinner there. i don't know if that girl is thirsty for dude or hungry for saffron-scented puffs of air on a bed of organic give me your left kidney to cover the exorbitant cost of this meal, but she is still texting that dude twice a week in hopes for a response. laaaaaaaame.
so i like watching dudes in suits buy drinks for botoxed old white ladies in clothes they're twenty years too old for. which is why i go there on friday and saturday nights. live jazz and OMG DO YOU SEE THOSE TWO SEPTUAGENARIANS HUMPING IN THE CORNER BY THE COAT RACK?! the bathroom was teeming with broads adjusting their spanx and doing body shots of virgin blood to keep their skin tight, so i hovered in the corner waiting for my chance to make someone's hair lose its curl. i like the handicapped stall because there's more room, duh, and i was staring a hole through its door when it dawned on me that the middle stall hadn't opened the entire time. i acted like i dropped something so i could glance and see if there were feet under the door, and there indeed was a pair of brown mom shoes frozen in place.
open close open close went the doors of the other two stalls, and i shuffled my feet as the line inched forward. as awful and vapid as bathroom talk at the club is ("did i drop an eight ball over there? is that brian urlacher in the VIP?!"), this shit was worse times a MILLION. all "mackenzie got into princeton" and "tyler made the football team." boring. i was starting to feel bad for the poor woman trapped in that middle stall, teetering precariously at the precipice of anal rupture or poop toxicity while these bitches cackled and fixed their eyeliner and shit. by the time i got to the handicapped stall 1 i was dangerously close to shitting myself and 2 everyone else had cleared the fuck out. then i decided to be an asshole and have a little fun. because maybe SAM should be the one who gets to shit in peace. so i sat there, and didn't do anything.
under ordinary circumstances i would have courtesy flushed and then shit the first round, because really the only terrifying thing about public poos are the noise. like no one has ever heard a fart before. but still, i do it, too. i'll flush the toilet 900 times or however many i think it takes to make you feel comfortable that i have the nerve to be emptying my bowels next to you, the person polite enough to just be peeing. or if i feel a major ass-burning torrent of violent diarrhea on the horizon, i will sniff a few times or clear my throat to let you know that you and that tampon wrapper better HURRY IT THE FUCK UP. seriously, it's always a bitch either on her period or fixing her stupid hair that gets in the way of your inconspicuous public shit. get the fuck out of here so my date won't notice i've been gone an hour and a half, you stupid bitch! that's why i'm just like, OH YEAH? here's what my butthole thinks about that shade of lipgloss: FRRRPPPPRRPP.
i rustled some toilet paper so she would know i was still there. then i waited. and waited. and WAITED. until finally my large intestine told my rectum to get my doctor on the speed dial and i finally went. only to find out it was a fucking FALSE ALARM. for real, the only thing worse than having a big public poo is thinking you're going to die if you don't get that poo out into the public only to find out that it's one marble-sized turd with a gale force wind of hot, smelly air behind it. nothing on earth more satisfying than giving birth to a pound of (poorly) digested food. remember that sex class ginger and i took? when that woman was rhapsodizing ad nauseum about how our buttholes have pleasure nerves that we should not be afraid to play with and explore, and as an example she told us to imagine how good it feels when you shit out that entire pizza or slab of bacon you just ate. yeahhhhhh, the does feel good! so good, in fact, that you can't wait to poop AGAIN. and what do you want to do the minute you flush the toilet? GO EAT SOME MORE FUCKING FOOD.
those little peas that anticlimactically climbed out of my asshole mocked me as they swirled to rejoin their brethren in our drinking water, then i took too long to wash and fully dry my hands just to be a bitch. all while this woman sat like a statue in that middle goddamned stall. i went back to my lesbians and my jameson (yes, please), but as i passed the hostess stand i did hear a dude asking if the girl had seen his wife. "she's about yea tall, you know? brown hair? wearing a bright blue sweater? she left the table to go to the bathroom ages ago, is there anyone who can go in and make sure she's okay?"
"oh, of course! give me one second, i'll go right in!"
poor thing. no rest for the weary. frrrrrrrrrpppppp.