Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty

Dear Auntie, 

The new president of the board where I teach is a passive aggressive power hungry bitch. She keeps praising me to my face and then going behind my back and saying nasty things to my co workers. And then she denies it. How can I deal with her and keep my sanity? And if that isn’t possible, how can I kill her and not get caught?

-Anonymous Idiot (who should have said no)

Dear Anonymous Idiot,

I once briefly worked at a place that shall remain nameless that had a board that was almost entirely run by moms of students attending. I think that was a major conflict of interest, but what do I know?

(I had way more to say here, but figured it’d be better for me to watch my big mouth.)

One of these moms hated me simply because she assumed I was too young to be responsible for her child’s education. She actually said to a teacher who worked there, “I don’t want that 18 year-old know-nothing around my son.”

No way! You think I’m 18?!”

I was 28.

So, all that to say, I know what you’re going through.

As far as I’m aware, school board members are elected to their positions. Next time she comes up to be re-elected, you know what you need to do. Until then, just be your amazing self and pay no mind to people like that. If you know you’re doing your job well and her comments are unfounded, it’s her problem not yours.

Also, it wouldn’t hurt to document the ever-loving shit out of every interaction and record every snippet of gossip you hear her quacking. You may need it, because if karma truly exists, ample evidence from the sane party will work in your favor big time.

Besides, if she’s doing this to you, she’s probably talking behind other backs as well. She might piss off the wrong person and your documentation could be the cherry on top of getting her removed from the board.

Best of luck and don’t do murder.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is really, really mad about this bullshit for you)


Dear Aunt Fatty,

Can you help me find my calling? I see people around me who know what they want to do or are happy with what they are doing. From the moment I started searching for a job and a career, everyone asks me what I want to be…. and I don’t know. I don’t know who or what I can be. I’m average on everything including translating for the looks of things (didn’t get the translating job I applied for) and all I can see myself doing is retail, but I know that I can’t keep my big mouth shut anymore. If a customer pisses me off I will slap him with the keyboard or my hand. Depends what’s easiest at the time. How should I go about finding what I’m meant to do in life?

Sincerely, A Very Knowledgeable and Talented Queen Who Can Do Anything and Everything She Sets Her Mind To (I wrote this, because I only speak the truth)

Dear A Very Knowledgeable and Talented Queen Who Can Do Anything and Everything She Sets Her Mind To,

First, I think it’s really awesome (and also kinda like playing with fire) that you trust me enough with this serious issue.

Next, I’d like all of my readers to know that I know you personally, so when I say you can literally do anything, I damn well mean it and I’m qualified to say it.

You are too legit to quit and genuinely one of the kindest and most thoughtful people I know.

You impressed the hell out of my family when you took us on a personal tour of the Lincoln Cathedral. You knew so much and presented it to us in such an engaging way, I was in awe.

You know a handful of languages, dude. That’s like four fingers less than most people.

What I truly see you doing is working at a museum or important historical site. I see you being a director. I see you being responsible for all the important shit that goes on at these places (whatever that shit is, because I don’t know). I see you speaking your myriad languages to the other important director people of other important museums and/or historical sites. I see you wearing super smart lady suits that look killer on you (You’ll spice them up with a peekaboo lace camisole underneath and sky high heels. Or sensible flats, because let’s be real- heels blow).

You will be K-I-L-L-I-N-G I-T, girl.

If this is not what you want to be and you end up working the till at Tesco, I’ll be equally proud of you, because that’s just one step closer to being able to travel the world with your Soul Sister (me).

I know you’re feeling down right now, but don’t you dare ever say you’re average. Don’t you ever say that again.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is #crossingherfingersandtoesbecausesicilyandobviouslyforyoutooimnotcompletelyselfish)


Dear Auntie:

Now that the cold weather has arrived, us girls need a little extra warmth on our bodies. Like most, I love the colder months because I don’t have to use a weed wacker on my legs to get them touchable smooth. How often should a lady shave those stems in the winter?

Much love,

Going to run in an Abominable Snowwoman contest

By Abominable Snow Woman, did you mean this?

Dear Going to Run in an Abominable Snow Woman Contest,

I’m so glad you brought up this very important issue. This is so something that needs to be covered every year when the temps drop and the chill hits.

Despite what every man on Earth may say, it is not at all necessary to shave for the entirety of Sweater Weather season. Like, there’s not one single reason to get your razor wet once.

If your body is covered head to toe in warm stuffs why shave? Even if you were rocking a tank and booty shorts, what’s a little butt hair poking out? We all have it. Right, ya’ll have an abundance of butt hair, too. Right??

Coming from someone who likes to look decent, I sure as fuck hate the process. I positively hate shaving because it takes so long my fingers are pruney and the water has run cold. I only shave for my massage therapist and only the places she will have to touch (and I’m only doing this as a courtesy, as I imagine rubbing down legs with a million porcupine spines has to be unpleasant).

I can just hear my dude groaning subconsciously. Sorry, boyfriend. You have hairy armpits, too.

So, rock on with your hairy bad self. Your built-in insulation will save on heating costs too, so I see this as a total win-win situation.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is also participating in No Shave Octembanuaryarch)

Thank you so much to Giggling Fattie, who submitted her question above and also kindly posted on her blog about my Ask Aunt Fatty series! Check out her fantastic blog that I know you’re gonna love here.


A few of you sent in submissions (thank you, thank you, thank you) that I didn’t get to this week. Stay tuned for next week’s post to read your answer from Aunt Fatty.

Keep sending in your problems, people. I know you got ’em!

You can contact me here! Or, if you follow me on Twitter, Instagram or Facebook, you can message me there, as well!

Oops, My Bad

I’m posting today to apologize for not posting my usual on Wednesday and today. The Christmas crazies have kicked in and I’m finding myself overwhelmed trying to fit in all the fun. Maybe one year I’ll slow the shit down and actually enjoy the holidays.

I’m fully expecting that you will see an update on how Dumpy and McMilkshakes are doing. Spoiler alert: We’re struggling and dieting during the holidays can suck our sagging back fat.

Check out the first posts in the Diet Chronicles of Dumpy Von Marshmallow Waist and Duchess McMilkshakes:

The First Post

Week Two

The Thanksgiving Edition


I’m positively loving writing ridiculous advice from Aunt Fatty, but I only have one submission waiting for my anti-advice, so I decided to wait and see if more of you felt the need for crappy life lessons from a wholly unqualified individual (to the person waiting: I hope it wasn’t, like, a time sensitive issue. If so, my bad).

So, in order for Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty to work, I kinda need people seeking advice. I considered just writing fake submissions, but I want to bring real life fuckery to you, not made up bullshit.

So, get to writing in. You can submit your queries here.

Check out the posts I’ve already done thanks to your submissions:

The First Round of Ridiculousness

More Non-Advice

The Last Post?

In going back through these previous posts I’ve done, I’m noticing that each new post got less likes than the last. Maybe you’re all busy with Christmas crap like I am or I was mistaken and ya’ll actually really hate this series?

Well, on that depressing note, I’ll take my leave. Hope to *see* y’all next week.

Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty

For Fat Agony Aunt (Love what you’ve done with my name),

A neighbour (yuk) has stopped to chat at the gate on occasion when walking their dog. (A friend of the husband from years ago) the last twice he has spoke about an open marriage … they are naturists and have just returned from their villa in a naturists villiage in Spain. Yesterday he asked the husband (he hasn’t said these things to him) if we would go for supper next week, p.s. they have a hot tub. Question: what if he brings holiday snaps out … or strips for natural hot tub?

Freaking Out About The Freaks

Dear Freaking Out About The Freaks,

You mean you’re not into a freaky deaky neighborhood partner swap? All the good kind of neighbors are open to buck naked and hairy hot tubbing and sharing their spouses like their favorite casserole recipe. Aren’t they?

Oh, I’ve just been informed that this is, in fact, not normal behavior and you have every reason to be a little put off by being stopped by them for fear they will show you pics of their wrinkly parts!

So, this is what you do…

You get to them first. Be a bigger Freak a Leak by showing them your holiday pics at the even nude-ier naturalist village (just print pics off of some nudist site that don’t show faces, only bare asses) and maybe even ask them their opinion on homemade German dungeon porn. Without a doubt and in no time they will be the ones avoiding you, you freaky dog you. *wink*

Or…not and you will have created an even more awkward situation, but it could be fun trying.

In all honesty, I’d just try to avoid them like the plague. Figure out their schedule of leaving the house and never leave your house at the same time. You know, be a real mature adult about it.

I feel like you need to update us on how this all transpires. Write back, Freaking Out. We all want to know if you got roped into nekkid hot tubbing or not.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who thinks this conundrum is really hilariously amazing. Sorry not sorry)


Dear Aunty Fatty,
I have an umh ‘delicate’ problem. My cute little fur baby has gas. All the time. Bad, smelly, horrible, silent bombs. Help! Should I collect it to fuel my car?

Watering Eyes

Yeah, you did that. Gross, huh?

Dear Watering Eyes,

ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!

Just kidding, you can’t just pack up and leave your beloved shit-smelling fur baby.

So, story time.

My aunt and uncle had a dog once who had the most rancid farts, they could legit melt the varnish off furniture. They were so bad, you could taste them hours later. (This dog also loved to eat all of the bad things that made him fart, then puke, so he could eat his puke and then fart puke-smelling gas bombs. It was a vicious, noxious cycle.) Yet, this was one of their most beloved fur babies.

Moral of the story?

No matter how many nose hairs they singe, we still love them. We make accommodations to make them and ourselves as comfortable as possible.

What I would suggest is to first make sure it is, in fact, your defenseless fur child. In all likelihood, it could be the dude at home. For years, Aunt Fatty’s own father got away with blaming, at least, half of his farts on the poor dog.

If it is your poor pup, just cover your nose and mouth with a pillow or spray some essential oil air freshener (my favorite is Fuck Me, My Eyes Are Burning) to cover the horrific smell, while reminding yourself that your fur baby eats the crumbs you drop on the floor and sometimes they make your life easier by eating their own poop. Sacrifices.

Your idea of collecting the gas to fuel your car is genius. I’d legit start working on how you can make that happen (hook a fatty up if you ever become rich and famous on your fart fuel).

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is retching a bit)


Dear Aunt Fatty,

How do I ask my boss for a raise to allow me to buy lunch for my co worker everyday, because she can’t remember to throw away her Tupperware? There’s enough penicillin growing in our staff fridge to cure a small country’s syphilis outbreak. Please advise.

Worried About Contracting Syphilis From the Staff Fridge

Dear Worried About Contracting Syphilis From the Staff Fridge,

Ah, the joys of workplace refrigerator sharing. I bet the microwave is an equally horrifying place.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even waste your raise on some chick who has zero regard for everyone at your place of employment opposed to having their food mingling with mold spores.

I’d pack my damn lunch in a mini cooler that I know isn’t growing bacteria and forget the cesspool of contagion that is your kitchen at work if it were me.

Yo, this is $13 on Amazon! Snatch it up before it’s gone!

You will almost certainly look like a construction worker lugging your bulky, plastic job, but it’s better than getting the plague from your hazmat work refrigerator.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is really sensitive to smells or just the thought of smells so she repeatedly dry heaved writing this response, as she imagined how nasty that heathen’s two month old leftovers probably are)


I know ya’ll are a messed up group of people (who isn’t messed up in today’s world?), so get those questions in!

Contact me here, my weirdos!

Anti-Advice From Aunt Fatty

I was so incredibly blown away by the amount of suggestions I got from my last post (I really thought I’d get next to no responses). One of the suggestions I received touched on an idea that has been swirling in my brain for some time. It being suggested was the impetus to get this ball rolling.

Thank you to See It With Your Own Eyes for suggesting I take questions for an advice column post/series.

The absolute most absurd aspect of this and why I think it *could* be pretty amazing is that it’ll be advice from an utter inept failure of an adult.

It’ll be like anti-advice.

It’ll be the kind of unsolicited advice you might get from your drunk uncle. Most of it’ll be complete nonsensical garbage, but there might be a gem of worldly wisdom hidden amongst the empty pizza boxes and beer cans.

The only way this’ll work, though, is if I get questions from you, my lovely readers.

I think the best way to do this will be to have ya’ll send me a private message via my Contact Page with your question or topic you’re seeking advice on.

You can choose to reveal yourself or be completely anonymous.

If you send me an alarming, tragic, or deeply personal question, it won’t be featured because this is all about being ridiculous and lighthearted (I will talk you through it and be there for you, because even though I may not be a very adulty adult, I’ll never leave anyone in need hanging).

If you submit a question, you agree to my response potentially being stupid/weird and/or not actually helping you with your problem. As such, you understand that I am, by no means, an expert on almost all matters.

I really hope ya’ll are some huge hot messes, in need of some good ol’ anti-advice, because I think this could be something pretty magical.

I’d like to post my first “advice column” on Friday as Aunt Fatty’s Free Advice Friday, so send me those burning questions!

(Also, share the shit out of this. Pretty please.)

I hope to hear from you soon.

Flashback Friday: Those Elko Feels

Elko 2
Fall means I think of Elko. A smell, the orange color of the leaves, a vivid memory, or just a fleeting thought ignites a chain reaction of intense longing. It happens every so often and when it does, it nearly cripples me for a brief, cathartic moment.
Elko is a place I had a love-hate relationship with for many years. Now, I just long for it in my bones.

It can’t be explained by one key event or moment. It was a series of moments, feelings, awakenings. It was carried by the electrically charged breeze during a thunderstorm. It was kicked up and then settled, into the cracks and crannies of my brain, like the dirt from the road. It came to me, pungent, in through the window, smelling of wet sagebrush and desert. It was changing oak leaves in the fall. The smell of coffee and wet pavement. It was the green hills in the spring. The thick, silent snowflakes in the winter. It was stillness. Jack rabbits. The moon and the stars. It was fresh, plump grapes. Fried chicken and biscuits. It was peace. Sleep. Renewal. It was faraway, twinkling lights, signaling home. It was something, somewhere, everything, always. It was Elko.

Throwback Thursday to When I Actually Blogged

Strangely, and for reasons I still don’t understand, I gain new followers every day (and here I am, still not rich and famous). To those of you who are new here, I swear I don’t always suck. I used to post religiously every week. Sometimes I posted twice. I was inspired. I was hopeful. I was excited. I was preparing to rule the world.
Something happened, yo.
This post could have been alternatively titled: Throwback Thursday to When I Actually Gave a Fuck.
It’s not that I don’t care about you. Every time I get a notification that I have a new like, comment, follower, a tiny voice inside me says, “Someone loves me. They really do love me.”
(Typing that out makes it sound so profoundly pitiful. *opens Google app to google, “Is it bad to think that strangers love me when they follow my blog even when I know it’s not possible they can love me and I only think it for, like, a split sentence?* Google wasn’t sure.)
I love the essence of blogging. I love writing. I love finding and reading good writing. I love the connections.
But, as much as I’d love to be that lucky bitch in every chick flick who has a mental epiphany/breakdown and leaves everything for a rundown, centuries old house in the middle of France and spends her days consuming goat cheese and red wine while writing her fifth novel on her antique typewriter at a table that looks out on a picturesque lake while wearing an oversized cable knit sweater that doesn’t make her look as big as a house, because she’s maybe a size four, I can’t because I live in the real world.
In the real world, I work a full time job, have debt, and spend an ungodly amount of time wondering how I’ll ever fund my next vacation, a house, or my next overpriced hipster donut.
For some time now I’ve considered the possibility of monetizing my blog. Only recently have I realized that I’ve been working my ass off at a part time gig and getting nowhere in the process.
I shouldn’t say ‘nowhere’, as I’ve actually gained something greater than Ellen hosting me on her show and then surprising me with money to pay off all of my debts*–I’ve gained loyal readers, many of whom I call true friends.
But, it’s finally time for me to put my efforts into ways to better my standing, my life, my writing game.
In the coming months, I hope to move to self-hosting. That’s just the first step in my Make Actual Money From Writing/Blogging plan.
Until then, you’ll have to bear with me and the construction zone mess this place will likely be.
If you are one of my newbies (or oldies, I’m not discriminating) and you’re still reading this mess, here are some of my older posts that I wrote when I was still young and full of writing zest. I hope they’ll keep you going until I figure my shit out:
I love sharing embarrassing personal stories about toilet disasters
Geez, poop AGAIN?
Now farts? Come on…
Because everyone likes to laugh at the inept one
I’m really hairy (Speaking of which, I skipped my mid-week chin plucking to write this. You’re welcome.)
Tell me more about your own writing struggles. Misery loves company and all…
*Well, actually, if Ellen would have me, I mean…I wouldn’t say ‘no’…

Just a pic my grandma took of our family dog taking a shit on our lawn, because I couldn’t think of any other pictures for this post.

Travel Tuesday Update on a…Monday?

In case you’re new here or have been on a blogging hiatus like me, you know I went on a pretty epic trip this summer.
I’m sure you’re all thinking, “Yes, bitch, we know. Shut up about it already.”

Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but ya’ll are gonna be hearing a lot about it in the coming months. Sorry not sorry.
I went to Amsterdam, Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland. In that order. It was amazing and I’m still coming down from the cherry Bakewell tart high.
I have a journal *almost* filled to the brink with what we did every day and a page in my Notes with random observations, delicious food I didn’t want to forget I ate (as if) and funny tales of tonight-we-aren’t-gonna-drink-wine-again fails.
I’m not going to post in order of what event happened first. Whatever I’m inspired to write about will be written about first. I’m not a very organized writer at all. So, bear with me.
First up, hopefully arriving in your inbox and/or reader on Tuesday or Thursday, is a post about my experience on the Isle of Skye. Prepare yourselves, this won’t be just another sunshine and unicorn farts Pinterest post on Skye that just skims over what to expect. It’s about to get real up in here (Toilet paper and goats in the road and people everywhere, OH MY).

You thought this would be a real post, didn’t you? I’m such a fucking disappointment. Or, a tease. Sorry.

Before I leave, here’s my favorite picture I took while on Skye. I don’t want you thinking I didn’t like it or anything…

The Quiraing. Impossibly beautiful.
See ya’ll on Tuesday…or Thursday!

Vaarwel and Chì Mi Fhathast Thu

Look at how fancy pants I am with my super cool post title in, not one language, but two.

Fancy like this
Bonus points if you can tell me what two languages and what it says. I’m really counting on Google Translate for not messing this up and making me look like an idiot.
So, yeah, I’m leaving on a jet plane. It’s possible that while you’re reading this, I’m on a plane, squeezing the armrests as if that will somehow help steer the plane in any direction that will get us to our destination in one piece. I’m not a good flyer (sorry for the nervous farts).

So, yeah, I’ll be out of the country for a little more than five weeks.

This means I will, likely, not have time to read, comment on, or like your blog posts. I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.
I might also not have much time to post, other than updates here and there.
So hang in there, don’t give up on me, and wish me luck in returning safely, ready to blog about my adventures.
Bye, babies!

Source

How Do I *Make Shit Happen*?

Sometimes, I look at the lives of really successful, happy people and I wonder what I’m doing wrong.
All around me, people are purchasing their first homes, buying appliances and custom cabinets for said home, adopting pets, traveling, investing in IRAs.
And, here I am, buying a coat rack and feeling like that means I’m an adult.
It’s not like I haven’t tried.
I have.
It’s not like I sit around feeling sorry for myself all the time.
Sometimes I do, though. And, when I do, you better believe I really go all out with crying over dog videos in my onesie pajamas.
I tried really hard last year to find an affordable home to purchase that would provide me with the next step: adopting a dog.
I never found that home.
Maybe I was too picky, too hesitant, too scared of a major first step, but I’m going to give myself the benefit of the doubt on this one.
I chose one of the worst times to look for a home to buy in my area, as home prices are at a record high. I also wasn’t comfortable buying an overpriced home in a bad area. I’m no home buying expert, but that didn’t seem a wise investment.
Yet, still, I see people my age buying homes in my area.
What the actual fuck?
I’m planning a trip for this summer to the U.K., while at the same time, I can barely afford the gas to get across town during my monthly “week of poverty” before payday.
How are people, with huge families no less, able to travel so much?
What the genuine fuck?
I wonder sometimes if it’s my outlook. I try to have a positive outlook on things, but that’s hard when you feel like life is constantly beating you at some game you never knew you were playing.
I know a great many people will say that the power of positive thought truly exists. I’m not here to say I necessarily disagree.
But…until positive thought pays off my student loan debt, I’ll probably be a semi-skeptic.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m not a hard enough worker or I lack gumption.
I’ve been looking for a side hustle to help pay for aforementioned trip.
I’ve looked into VIPKID, which is an online tutoring company. You tutor kids in China, so that means I’ll have to tutor with my Flock of Seagulls bed head hair and with sleep crusties still in the corner of my mouth, because the time slots for my time zone are un-Godly-early.
(I’m still highly considering VIPKID. I’ll just be a total sleep-deprived grouch is all.)
I’ve gone so far as to schedule a vehicle inspection with Lyft, but I keep getting this text message:

I’ve rescheduled twice, and Lyft doesn’t like to give out a phone number so one can problem solve using spoken words.
I didn’t even want drunk people puking in my car anyway, Lyft.
I should probably just figure out a way to make a side job happen and quit my bitching, but a very dominant, stubborn part of me knows I already work my ass off as a teacher, so I’m not thrilled at the realization that my career isn’t cutting it in the having-money-department.
So, all this to say, my goal for this year is to learn the secret to making shit happen.

Maybe it really is positive thinking? Maybe it’s not being more concerned about binging on Call the Midwife, but binging on bringing in some Benjamins? Maybe it’s not worrying how old I’ll be when I finally own my own refrigerator?
In fact, my first order of business is to quit worrying about everyone else.
(Maybe I can get this tattooed on my forearm?)

So, do you know the secret to making shit happen? Sharing is caring!

Poop Happens

What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?
Maybe it was that time you didn’t notice your skirt was caught in your underwear after using the restroom, so everyone in the office saw that you were wearing your faded, hole-y Tuesday underwear on a Wednesday.
Maybe it was when you thought your crush was waving to you from across the hall at school, so you thought you’d be daring and give a seductive, yet girly pouty wave, but he was waving to Marci. The bitch.
Maybe it’s a series of moments, like every time the box office assistant says, “Enjoy your movie!” and you respond with, “You too.”
My most embarrassing moment, up until a few days ago, was the time I got my lady business in 6th grade and didn’t know what to do. I had to wear my huge puffy jacket around my middle all while playing it off like I meant to wear a hot pink polar bear around my waist, as I moved around the classroom accidentally brushing people’s papers and pencils off their desks.
A few days ago, I went to the chiropractor for the first time. A local chiropractor was offering a $20 spine assessment, so I thought, “Why the hell not?”
Surprisingly, my most Embarrassing Moment of 2017 did not occur in the chiropractor’s office (which is a real shocker, because I was sure I’d choose the exact moment he was pulling on my feet to really embarrass myself. I was sure that’d happen to me).
No. The moment that will be forever etched on my mind and played in a loop in my subconscious, occurred precisely five minutes after leaving the chiropractor’s office.
I don’t know if the manipulation he did on my lower back set something in motion, or loosened things up too much, or what, but as I was driving down a quiet, gas station-lacking street, it hit me.
I’m sure you all know the feeling.
You know.
The feeling when your bowels suddenly have a seizure or a rave or whatever, and the need to get to a bathroom is sweaty and urgent.
I’ve had this happen to me before while driving.
I’ve always been able to simultaneously find my inner zen while driving like an Indy 500 driver on crack.
I’ve always made it home to the comfort and judgement-free environment of my own bathroom.
This time was different.
I don’t know if it’s age. Or karma. Or just luck. But I was left frantically scanning the street for a private-looking tree.
It was that bad.
Can I really resort to pooping behind a tree in a neighborhood? What if someone sees me and calls the police? Is there such a thing as a public defecation law? What if I get arrested? WHAT IF I GET ARRESTED FOR POOPING BEHIND A TREE IN A NICE NEIGHBORHOOD?
Then, I wondered how bad it’d be if I didn’t make it to an actual bathroom and it happened in my car.
Jeezus.
Bad. Real bad.
I’d have to throw the whole car away.
As my sweaty hands were sliding off my steering wheel, and my hair was matting to my head, and my bowels were imitating a whale’s mating call, I came upon a luxury apartment complex.
I’d been there once before when looking for an apartment with a friend. They were laughably beyond our price range.
They’d have to do.
I veered off the road and into a “future tenant” parking spot on two tires. I don’t think I even put my car in park.
Shit.was.dire.
It was far past regular business hours, so I figured I’d just have to find a big rock or a large bush. Or, maybe I’d just black out.
Somehow, beyond all understanding, the door to the lobby was open.
In my peripheral, I saw a woman in an office to the right. She was talking on the phone.
I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t look. I just prayed that if I didn’t see her, she wouldn’t see me.
As I was practically flying across the room, I had a very profound realization that it was entirely likely that, despite how close I was to salvation, I was probably going to poop my pants.
I was going to poop my pants.
I tried not to think about how I looked literally holding my bottom (like that’d make any difference) as I was racing across the lobby of a ritzy luxury apartment complex.
Somehow, my survival instincts (or just good memory) helped direct me to where I needed to go.
Glory be to God, I made it to the restroom.
I.didn’t.even.use.a.seat.cover.
It was that close.
Guys, since we’ve come this far, and I’ve been so candid up till now, I might as well tell you that I was 100% sure that I had crapped my pants. Literally sure of it.
Well, all of those times I took my cart back to the cart corral, all of the recycling I’ve done, and all of the times I didn’t yell at incompetent drivers really racked up my karma.
My pants were safe.
Just as the realization and relief that I was still someone who could honestly say they’d never pooped in their pants sunk in, the reality of my situation smacked me right in the face.
What’s that sound? Oh.my.god. It sounds like an alarm. The woman in the office thinks I’m a crazy street person and she’s set off the alarm. The police are going to come.
I was shaking and sweating buckets as I sat on the toilet, terrified, waiting for security to bust in.
They’ll be sickened. Disgusted. Maybe they’ll just feel sorry for me and leave me to my shame?
As I sat and waited for my fate, I realized nobody was coming, at least not immediately. I heard no voices. No doors opening. Nothing.
So, maybe that’s not the alarm? Maybe I’ve lucked out? But, how am I going to explain myself when I need to make my eventual walk of shame?
I needed a good excuse for why I practically busted down their door and then ran, pinched cheeks, for the bathroom.
I’ll act like I’m interested in an apartment. Yeah. That’s it.
I figured it was the only viable excuse. I imagined myself leaning against the doorway, hair still matted to my forehead, as I said, mid-burp, “Uh. Yeah. I was wondering if you had any one bedrooms available?”
Totally buyable.
I realized that whoever was in the office was likely waiting for me, so I begrudgingly readied myself to be seen.
After I scrubbed up like a surgeon (it was the only way I’d feel half clean), I apprehensively cracked the door and peered out.
No angry office woman in a Liz Claiborne pant suit. No Super Burrito security guard. No one.
In fact, the lobby area looked rather dark, and it was at this point I realized the door to the bathroom was through another set of doors that led into said lobby. In my frenzied poop panic, I must not have noticed that I opened an additional door before entering the bathroom.
I bet she’s gone. Thank you, Baby Jesus. I’ll never think a bad thing about the bums who pee in our alley ever again. I promise.
I was in pretty high hopes as I made to open the door that would release me out of my poop nightmare.
It was locked.
THE DOOR WAS FUCKING LOCKED.
That woman locked me in.
Either she never saw a half-crazed woman fly by doing the poop dance or she did and she purposely locked the door.
You have to be freaking kidding me. I’m locked in here. OMG. I’m going to panic. I’m not even a resident and I’m locked in their lobby bathroom.
HALP!
As it turns out, there was a door further down the hall that lead me outside. I was sure an alarm would go off when I opened the door, but so far, I haven’t made it on the news.
(I keep thinking I’ll be scrolling through Facebook and I’ll see a local news story titled “Police Still Looking For Woman Who Broke Into Luxury Apartment Complex To Completely Defile Custom Bathroom”.)
As for the “alarm” I heard? It was the air freshener alerting anyone who cared to the fact it was out of freshness. I lost several minutes of my life believing cops would be coming for me, when actually the Odor Blaster 1000 was out of Hawaiian Breeze.
To completely exit the complex, I had to wait for a car to come in through the gated entrance, and then I ran like the wind to my car and burned rubber out of there.
When I got home and had to confess to my boyfriend that why I didn’t have the buns I was supposed to pick up for our chili cheese dogs was because I got momentarily locked in a random apartment lobby bathroom, he asked if he should add Depends (to keep in my car) to the grocery list.
I’m highly considering it.
I thought I’d start the new year out with a bang, ya’ll.

I really needed to know why I almost pooped my pants. I’m kind of scared that spontaneous poop attacks will be my life now. I’m also planning a trip to the Bay Area, so I’m engaging in my usual OCD research.