Dear Poo Poo,
It was our 3rd date. You invited me over for dinner. I wore a fetching yet
semi-casual outfit I got from a sample sale and made the drive from Brooklyn to Jersey City.
Things seemed to be going well. You looked nice. In an “I’m an engineer, but I read GQ” sort of way. The apartment was filled with the aroma of pasta and garlic. We had a glass of wine. After half an hour of witty repartee, I excused myself to the restroom.
That’s when I saw it — the TURD.
There was a massive pile of poop sitting in the toilet. And not just any
doodoo. It looked like a post-Taco Bell explosion. Not that I would know
because Taco Bell and I work quite well together. But I digress.
I froze. What was I supposed to do? There was no way in hell I was could use your toilet. Quick, must think. What would Beyonce do? Frankly, I had no idea. So I cycled through wondering what Oprah or Stevie Nicks would do. But I came up with nothing. I just had to tell you, awkward or not.
I walked out of the bathroom. “Poo poo, I have something to tell you.”
“There is a massive turd in the toilet. And it definitely wasn’t me,” I said. (Swipe to see how my face looked when I said this).
A look of fear came over your face.
“Oh, God. Yeah, that. Um, OK. I’ll be back,” you said. You went
into the bathroom and closed the door. I went into the kitchen and poured myself some more wine, trying not to laugh hysterically.
Fifteen minutes later, you came out looking like you just
survived the Battle of Gettysburg.
“All fixed,” you said ashamedly.
“Great! It happens to everyone!” I said trying to smooth everything over. But we both knew in our hearts that wasn’t true.
We awkwardly ate dinner, trying to move past this you-know what-storm. You mostly looked at your plate, avoiding my gaze. I tried to pretend nothing happened, while secretly thinking I couldn’t wait to tell my friends. I left after dinner, knowing we would never see each other again. But it’s all good because I am left with fond memories of the poop night.