Where the Hell Was I? blog: Original humor & comedy articles daily weblog

Weirdo in the Washroom

If you've been reading this site for any length of time, you've do doubt asked yourself:

'I wonder whether Charlie has any unusual bathroom habits I should know about?'

Indeed, I do. Probably none of the ones you filthy perverts are thinking of right now, but I will admit to the occasional washroom quirk. Three of them, as a matter of fact. Don't be scared; they're nothing terribly shocking. Everybody poops, right?

#1. Hiking the Aquafresh Trail

I 'wander' when I brush my teeth. I start out at the sink, like a normal person, but I soon find myself elsewhere in the house. Might be the bedroom, might be the office, could be pacing in circles in the hallway -- I'm not picky.

There's just something about standing at the sink to polish my choppers that my subconscious can't seem to tolerate, and the 'whitening wanderlust' kicks in. I have no idea why; I've seen other people brush their teeth in a stationary position. My wife does it all the time. I just can't seem to stand still during dental care, for some reason. Maybe that's why I haven't had my teeth checked by a professional in a while -- how many dentists do you know who can jog while they work?

"'Minty horsemeat and dog ass' beats regular 'horsemeat and dog ass', any day of the week."

Meanwhile, my Mentadent meanderings continue. And while they're not all bad -- schlepping thirty feet back to the sink gives me time to concentrate on those 'hard-to-reach' spots the commercials are always on about -- there are disadvantages. Mostly involving the trail of toothpaste foam I usually leave trailing behind me on the floor as I walk. Which isn't so good for the hardwood, I understand -- but even that has a silver lining. If I can get my mutt to trail behind and lick it up, the floor is safe and her breath won't be quite so lily-wilting ferocious. 'Minty horsemeat and dog ass' beats regular 'horsemeat and dog ass', any day of the week.

#2. "Willamena, We're Out of Prell Again!"

This one's actually embarrassing. Boy, the things I'll post on a public site when I don't have anything else to write about. Sheesh.

Anyway, here goes:

Every morning in the shower, I spell my wife's name.

(I think I'll just let that sink in for a minute. That's going to evoke images that are way worse than what actually happens. Some of you pervs might even think of two or three nasty ways to spell a name in the shower.

For the record, I just thought of four.

Wait, make it five. But only if you own a loofah, and you're not terribly attached to your rubber ducky.)

Anyway, I'll come clean -- I spell my wife's name in shampoo, as I pour it out of the bottle into my hand. Because I'm all romantic and shit like that. Then again, who isn't romantic when they're naked and wet? I'm just saying.

I got into the habit back in college where we met, way back in the fourteenth century or so. She was a pre-med major -- it was all leech treatments and foul humours in those days -- while I was stuck in remedial classes like cave painting and firemaking. We were quite the couple.

At any rate, the habit stuck, and I find myself spelling her out every morning. At this point, I'm just glad she's got a short name. If I'd married a 'Josephine' or a 'Mary Catherine', all my damned money would be tied up in buying shampoo.

(I signed an NDA to keep the missus' name off my site -- that's what happens when your wife goes to law school, gents -- but my advisors tell me it's not against the terms to disclose that her name has only four letters.)

#3. We're Both Naked, But Only One of Us Is Panting

This last bathroom habit has evolved from a dire necessity into a generous arrangement, and finally into a slightly uncomfortable obligation. But that's how it goes. When you're a soft-hearted sap (see #2 above), a little absent-minded (see #1), and you're not the perkiest pair of nipples in the proverbial porno (see most everything else on the site), you'll find yourself in some awkward situations. Also, in this case, you have to own a dog -- the spazzier, the better.

In a nutshell, here's what happened:

In our puppy's younger years, she could be a mite destructive when left to her own devices. So, if I was alone in the house and in need of a shower, I'd pull the dog into the bathroom with me. That kept her from scrambling over our furniture and drooling in our sock drawers, but it was no picnic for the pooch. She'd have to sit or lie on the bathroom floor while I cleaned up and toweled down enough to let her out.

Eventually, I felt sorry for the maniacal mutt, and I started bringing her a rawhide treat to dampen the ordeal. Not often, mind you -- only if she'd been a good little doggy for a few hours. So, once or twice a week, she'd happily chew away while I lathered up and got ready for work.

Fast-forward to the last three years or so. The dog's no longer destructive; she's mellow, calm, and -- above all -- too lazy to cause any real trouble in the house. Meanwhile, those 'occasional' treats somehow morphed into an 'every-morning mandatory' thing. As soon as I stir in the morning, the dog runs into the bathroom and waits on the rug for her treat. And if ever I don't bring it with me -- she whips out The Look™.

(You never want to be on the business end of The Look™ You'd think someone had just eaten her last bit of kibble, stolen her favorite bone, and made sweet, sweet love to the Milkbones box. It's withering.)

So, the mutt gets her treat, and spends fifteen minutes a morning wolfing it down while I shower. She's somehow taken a possession-saving precaution and an act of random kindness, and worked them to her overwhelming advantage. But that's not my biggest problem with the situation.

No, my greatest worry is this -- the bathroom door in our house is visible from the front door. And I'm just waiting -- because you know it's coming -- for the day when the mailman or UPS guy or a gaggle of Jehovah's Witnesses are on my porch just when I saunter out of a steamy bathroom with a towel around my waist... and a wagging, drooly pooch at my feet. Ouch.

I can bullshit with the best of them, people. I can spout half-truths and fables and sweet anecdotal nothings until the cows come home. But YOU try explaining that to the neighborhood association, and see where that gets you. You and your toothbrush and that bottle of Prell will be packing off to another bathroom pronto; that's what.

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Comments

Posted by: kerry | June 22, 2006 01:47 AM

Posted by: Rachael | June 22, 2006 12:00 PM

Posted by: Roofie Raccoon | June 22, 2006 07:47 PM

Posted by: Jenna | June 23, 2006 03:15 AM

Posted by: kerry | June 23, 2006 10:35 PM