Nancy Drew and the Mystery of the Man Poop

Warning: This blog post is about excrement. If you do not feel like reading about excrement, then you should probably find another blog post without the word "poop" in the title.

Now, moving on...

I have recently diagnosed E with Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Every time I ask him for help with a messy or unpleasant task with the baby, he gets irritated, and then says he has to go to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, after said task has been completed by yours truly, he reemerges from his man throne. What really annoys me is that he will then offer his help, knowing full well that I have already done whatever it was that needed to be done. At first I believed that it was merely a coincidence, but now I know better. It happens almost every. single. time. I'm on to him. You can't exactly start an argument about bathroom habits, though- especially without hard evidence. And that's not an investigation that I am willing to undertake.

There is a great deal that I understand about men, having grown up with a father and a brother, and being on my fourth male roommate. However, I have never been able to answer that age-old question- What the hell takes them so long in there? Why do they need a half hour bathroom break? Why are stacks of reading material necessary to eliminate bodily waste? Why can't they just get it over with and get on with their lives? What is up with the man poop?

The best explanation I have gotten for this is from my ex's best friend, Wayne. Wayne explained to me that it was like creating a work of art. You spare no time or expense to carefully squeeze out the perfect sculpture. He told me this over dinner, and explained to me that he wasn't just eating a medium-rare filet- he was beginning the work on his next masterpiece, Vincent Van Wayne's Mona Lisa. Needless to say, Wayne doesn't have many friends, and the ex and I just couldn't make it (not entirely because of his choice of friends, but still...)

So if any of you have any answers to this mystery, I am all ears. Until then, I am going to stock my bathroom with a few good books, bubble bath, and a bottle of wine, and pull the "I have to go to the bathroom" card before he can next time.

A Folley of Errors.

What a day, what a day. And it's only 8 a.m.

A few weeks ago, I decided with Eric's crazy restaurant management schedule and my negative income (or outcome, as I like to think of it) that I would take up substitute teaching. It's the only way I can think of to make money with zero commitment. Since I have a huge fear of commitment, plus a very demanding and unpredictable baby, nothing could be more perfect for me. Well, except for the small fact that I don't like kids. Especially kids in large groups. I figure that's something I can overlook, though. I've overlooked more major issues at other jobs.

So today was to be my first day subbing. I have been putting it off and putting it off. I've been putting everything off, to be honest. But, I must have money. It's at a critical level. So after paying bills last night (ok, ok- after looking at bills last night) I decided to check the Sub Finder website to see if there were any jobs today. There were two listed: 2nd grade or high school special-ed. I chose special ed. What could be better, right? I could make some money andget that warm and fuzzy do-good feeling! So I clicked "Accept this job" and went to bed feeling hopeful for the next day.

Naturally, that's when it all started to go downhill. Austin has decided that the week he slept in his own crib was just to tease mommy, so he slept with me and kicked me all night. Eric hogged the other side of the bed. The temperature was all wrong. Basically, I slept for about an hour and a half, thinking all night about giving up the job today. But no, I told myself, I must make money for my family (and, again with the honestly, for the new laptop), AND I will be helping special needs kids. So at 5:30 a.m. I roll out of bed, shower, and prepare for my day. I found a pair of pre-preggo work pants and squirmed into them (with a little help from Spanx), I managed to fish out the one sweater I own that pretends to contain my massive mommy breasts, and I completed my teacher ensemble with a pair of fantastic heels that say, "I'm professional, but I'm also hip and a little sexy." (Well, that's what I think they say. To everyone else, they probably say, "Please make this lady stop thinking that Target shoes are fashionable.")

So off I go to nervously begin my time in teacher-land. I walk outside to my car in the cold rainy morning, thankful that I had parked close to the apartment. But wait! Where's my car? Eric had moved it, so I began sloshing through the rain with my silly heels in search of my car. I finally find it, way down the heel, crank up the heat, and begin my journey to school with my head racing. I mean, I have no idea what to expect. And these are rich kids. Really rich kids. What if they are like the rich kids that I went to high school with, with snotty attitudes and a huge sense of entitlement? Where am I going to sit at lunch? I won't belong anywhere! I'm not a "real" teacher, I'm not a student... what if it's like the substitute teacher version of Carrie?

Thankfully I left in plenty of time, because not only was the morning nasty, but a tractor trailer overturned on the interstate near the school. It was all over every radio station. It basically shut the south side of the city down for the morning. Since I left so early, it only made me 5 minutes late, but in those 5 minutes, the kids had arrived. I had to park in student parking and ignore the weird looks from the students as I walked in. I could just feel their eyes on me, thinking, "She's not one of us, AND she shops at Target!" I tried to walk in like I knew what I was doing, and I pretended to know where I was going. I was totally lost. Finally I found what looked like an office, went in, and was told that the real office was right across the hall. The secretaries got to see that small walk of shame from their windows. I went in the main office, they told me to come around, and I couldn't find the door. The frumpy secretary shot me a not-so-amused look at that point. Then, THEN, they can't find me on the sub list. Did I have the name of who I was there for? No. Do I have the job number? Negative. So to save face, I try to make small talk with the frumpy secretary, who is obviously annoyed by my very existence. I knew I should have worn a tacky Christmas teacher sweater. She would have liked me more. The main office lady took pity on me, pulled me in her office, got on the computer, then proceeded to give me a sad smile and tell me I had showed up a day early. Go me.

It just HAD to be special-ed I was subbing for when I made such a fool of myself. I can only imagine the jokes they made when I left. The nice secretary told me to stick around and have coffee to wait for the traffic to subside, but I had to get out as quickly as possible. So I drive home, feeling like a fool. When I got in, I changed clothes, and thought I'd step on the scale to make myself feel better. Apparently my 3 tough days in the gym have helped me gain 3 lbs. Well, at least I get to go back to sleep now, right? Wrong. Ze bebe wakes up the second I step foot in the bedroom and gives me a big gummy, "HI Mommy, I'm wide awake, let's play now!" grin. And how can you refuse that?

I have to say, though, it helped put my day in perspective. I might be a moron, fat, and poor, but my sweet baby still loves me. I'm going to enjoy the time I have left with him before he develops a sense of reason.