I have written about my bathroom basement before… back when I used to actually put pictures in my posts via Photobucket because they weren’t out to screw me. The downstairs basement was very special to me.
Every man needs a retreat, a Bat Cave, a Fortress of Solitude, some place just to get away from everyone and everything… and that place needs to be in his house (or “on my property” as the rich and famous would say). The downstairs bathroom is that place for me.
I don’t have a man cave. My garage is not a place I like to spend time. The tree house retreat of my future hasn’t been built yet (because I haven’t won the PowerBall yet). So, the downstairs bathroom is my place to escape.
I get ready for work in the downstairs bathroom. This is where I shower. This is where I shave. This is where I brush my teeth. This is where I sit and think about all of the mistakes I’ve made. This is where I ask God, “Why?” This is my place. Except when it’s not…
Our house is a place that tends to be a gathering place for family. When my family visits, they stay at our house. When the wife’s family visits, they tend to stay at our house. It makes sense for family to stay with us since they are visiting us… I guess. The holidays seem to be a time when our house is constantly invaded (my wife doesn’t like when I use that word… because it’s usually her family that blesses us with their presence) blessed with the visits of family. Even if the family isn’t staying in our house, all of the meals tend to be at our house. Our house isn’t tiny, but when full of family, it doesn’t seem very big. I really don’t like being around a lot of people. I feel claustrophobic. It’s times like the holidays when my retreat in the basement comes in super handy. However, a recent trend has developed at my house. I think this trend has existed for longer than I am aware, but my eyes… and nose… just recently discovered it.
We have two bathrooms upstairs in our house. These are the bathrooms closest to all of the action when family abounds. They are close to the living room, the kitchen, the bedrooms, and the dining room. The downstairs bathroom is close to nothing. The two upstairs bathrooms are in constant use when family is around. Someone almost always seems to be going into or coming out of one of the bathrooms. What I recently noticed is, every once in awhile, one of the male family members disappears. At first, I thought they were maybe getting some fresh air outside or something. I really didn’t think much of it at all.
And then I saw one of them…
It was a nephew or a brother-in-law or someone like that… my memory is slightly foggy… probably PSTD. I had reached my limit of family togetherness and need a take-five. I descended the stairs to the basement and was headed for my retreat when I saw him. He was walking away from the general direction of the downstairs bathroom. I looked at him questioningly, and he got a little smirk on his face.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I sprayed.”
???!!!???
I hurried past him to my retreat… my Fortress of Solitude… when the smell hit me. The deodorizer I keep in the downstairs bathroom is “Warm Flannel” scent. I have no idea what in the hell “Warm Flannel” is supposed to smell like, but this scent sounds manly enough to be the scent of choice in the downstairs bathroom. What I was smelling at that moment was not “Warm Flannel.” What I was smelling was “Warm Flannel” that had taken an extended vacation in some dude’s colon. The smell was not pleasant, nor was it “warm” in any way.
I was destroyed.
Memories of passing various male family members (Daddy?!?) in the basement on my way to a five-minute break came rushing back. The glances at the floor as they passed me. The half-smiles and smirks and moments of eye-contact avoidance. I thought that maybe they had just been looking around the basement, but I now know what they had been doing.
THEY WERE POOPING!
At the earliest available moment, I pulled the wife aside and quietly exclaimed, “Did you know that all of the guys are using my bathroom to poop?”
“First of all, how do you know that,” she replied. “Second, it’s not your bathroom? And third, better down in the basement than right by the dining room.”
“I know it because I smelled it, it is my bathroom, and the women are pooping up here and it doesn’t stink up the dining room,” I whispered. “The guys can poop up here too.”
Mid-eye-roll, the wife said, “It’s not your bathroom, how many times do I have to tell you that women don’t poop, and it’s not a big deal, so don’t turn this into something it’s not!”
“You do realize that when you smell something,” I continued rapidly, “tiny particles of what you are smelling actually land on receptors in your nose. That’s how smell works! It’s not just air or something, it’s tiny particles… of POOP!”
“Knock it off,” said the wife. “That’s gross and you’re being ridiculous.”
“MY TOOTHBRUSH IS IN THAT ROOM,” I shot back, to which the wife just turned and walked away.
The walk-away was the last we discussed it. There have been numerous family visits since the incident, and I now notice that the male trips to stink up the downstairs bathroom are quite common. We go through a lot of toilet paper and “Warm Flannel” deodorizer during these visits.
I don’t say anything.
I just let the resentment build.
Someday, I will visit the homes of these villainous poopers, and I will save-up a “special delivery” for each and every one of them. For now, I just bide my time… and my toothbrush finds a new home during family visits…
This is hilarious! I can somehow relate to this. Every time my brother poops, the smell in the bathroom really stinks. So even when I really have to use the bathroom to pee, I don’t enter immediately. I let around an hour to pass before entering.