This lovely evening has mainly consisted of making Italian Wedding Soup for dinner, washing everything fabric in the guest room (and brush-rolling the duvet—you would not believe how much of Jeremy’s fur I got off that damn thing. Could have made a whole new cat, no lie), listening to old episodes of Pod is My Copilot while I work on the Garden Paths quilt (closing in on finishing Column 3, which leaves two columns to go), and idly pricing tickets to Sarasota in April because I would really like to go somewhere with Lyndon before we completely forget how to behave in public. I would also like to see Taylor, Taffy, and Rodan again after listening to them referring to my old podcast and reminding me how much I miss those goofballs.
(And in case Patrick reads this, yes, I want to see you again and Stacy and I are working on a plan so sit tight.)
Seriously, though, I am getting the urge to go somewhere, anywhere, I don’t particularly care anymore. We went to Arkansas in November and there’s a strong possibility that I may need to go back in the next couple of weeks, but I want to go on a proper vacation trip where I can hang out somewhere warm, get loaded without having to worry about how I’m getting back to the hotel room, and relax.
In other words I am jonesing so badly to go on a Disney cruise, you cannot believe. I clearly need to finish a bunch more books and sell them so that I can fund all this (along with the assorted repairs that need to be made to this place, but right now we’re talking about fun stuff).
Speaking of fun stuff and its exact opposite, I had an experience today in JoAnn Fabrics that may be too much for those with sensitive stomachs so feel free to stop reading now.
All good? Okay. So there I was in the upholstery aisle looking for wefting cord so that I could make piping for the Cuisinart cover I want to make (Lyndon was so adorable when he came down this morning and saw the Kitchenaid cover. “You made a mixer cozy!” he declared. “How have we gone for so many years without one? You are such a clever petal”) when I felt a certain rumble from my midsection.
Now, this was a self-inflicted wound as I’d pounded down thirty-two ounces of water before I went out shopping and I should have known better. But as I stood there in the upholstery aisle horribly aware that I was about to have a Code Brown, I felt the first little spurt.
Clenching my sphincter as tightly as I could, I speedwalked to the back of the store to the restrooms, threw the fabric I was clutching down next to the door and headed in. There were two stalls, one for everyone and a handicapped stall. Someone was in the handicapped stall so I hit the standard one, dropped trou, and sat down as the sewage spill began with a vengeance.
When everything was done and it was time to clean up, I realized something rather appalling—I was in one of those cursed stalls where they put the big toilet roll holder right at knee level, and I was already sitting on a low toilet. I won’t go into details but let me just say that I’m damned glad I had the knee surgery last year because that was the only thing that let me get into attack position, so to speak. When the occupant of the handicapped stall made her exit I flushed, quickly pulled my capris up to a point where I was decent but nothing was touching everything, and shuffled into the bigger stall to continue the job.
I recently watched a TikTok from a guy who had this exact thing happen to him. I didn’t laugh because I’ve been in that position before, but I have to admit I was damned tempted to pull out my phone and make a short video explaining what was happening. Let us hope that my GI tract will get its shit together (literally) and stop trying to spray like a firehose Real Soon Now.