Poopin' -n- Poochin'

I'm happy to report that the little lion tattoo has healed nicely; in fact, this was the easiest, quickest, cleanest, happiest healing of a tattoo every... and that's saying a lot, considering how many tattoos I have. Those of you who remain without ink have no idea what happens as a tattoo heals. Suffice it to say, stuff oozes out, ink sticks to places it should not stick, skin flakes off like the sun burn from hell. Not this time. It was fresh and pretty.

My current adventure involves pooping. (THERE'S a surprise.) Well, pooping as part of a science experiment. Or, is it a social experiment? Hard to say. The hypothesis is that using Poo-Pourri makes sure yo' shit don't stank. The commercials for this stuff are absolutely hilarious, so if you've got a few minutes to kill and you need a good sophomoric laugh, go to the Tube of You and search poo-pourri. I've wanted to try this stuff from the milli-second I learned of it. Then, I saw the commercials and couldn't wait to give it a whirl. It's taken me a few years to get around to actually ordering the stuff--no reason, just never got around to it. Well, I have it now and a bottle has been placed in each pooping-approved bathroom.

Yes, we have one bathroom which has been declared a non-pooping bathroom. It has to do with the pipes and plumbing woes for anyone producing poop that's bigger than a few errant marbles. I'll spare you the details of woes we have experienced due to someone pooping in that room.

I was pretty skeptical about the whole Poo-pourri thing but thought it worth the experiment. The stuff is not cheap (relatively speaking, I suppose--how does one put a price on such a product?) but if it works, the price will be priceless.

My verdict? After just a few simple poops, I think this stuff is genius. I'll spare you the details but I say that my personal poop is like apple blossoms when accompanied by this stuff. There is still a "hmmmm, I think someone pooped around here" tinge in the air but other than that, it's delightful. I asked the wife her verdict; she said the stuff works. I will leave out the details of how she came to this verdict. Of course, this is just the trial run. Until I get to use this stuff when I have some disgusting "I think something died in there" poop episode or until I can get a test run in the work bathroom or until I can get friends to come over and "drop the kids off at the pool," I won't be fully sold.

Check out the commercials. Seriously, it's worth it.

As for poochin'....gravity, as you know, is a cruel master. Oh sure, we need gravity to keep from floating off into space but it really reeks ugly havoc on bodily parts.  I am currently obsessed with my pooch. You know, the area underneath the belly button...where all the intestines and internal lady parts are housed. I knew one day I'd be "poochified." I had hoped I could avert the development or at least put it off for another few decades. But here I am and here it is.

This personal poochification is distessing but not surprising. After all, I've had plenty of time to make peace with the realities of life. I know that for women gravity is truly unfair when it comes to tattoos, skin in general and boobs. But, the pooch. Oh, the pooch. I am doing a good job of ignoring my jowls but the pooch....

Perhaps staring down toward the toilet during the poo-pourri experimentation got me looking at--and thinking a lot more-about my pooch. Maybe it's because my pants no longer fit right despite not gaining weight--all because the pooch is making my pants fit funny and/or not fitting at all. (You know there is a problem when your previously too big flannel-lined jeans squeeze your hips so hard that they leave 24 hour long skin gouges.) Talking to a 30 year old female co-worker who weighs the same as me but wears pants two sizes smaller because she isn't poochified yet didn't help rational thinking.

Yes, I just admitted to wearing flannel lined jeans. Hey, I hate being cold.


My clinical observations suggest that the female pooch shows up about this time in life--early 50's, in my case, which is why I like to call it "the peri-menopausal pooch. (Yes, I am staring at your pooches, ladies. You can run but you can't hide.) It doesn't matter whether or not you've shot out children or if you are big or small. Things start to sag or head south with age and women get to have the pooch.  I suppose Olympians who still train 8 hours a day don't become poochified until much later in life, but other than that, all bets are off. (Don't even get me started on "The Box," another rude body shape development at menopause. I can't even go there. It just pisses me off. I'm avoiding the Box like the plague.) This one lady I know is super skinny but still is poochified. It's rather intriguing to view the pooch on such a person. It doesn't make sense. It's like a train wreck--I can't look away. I want to understand it but I can't. She's in amazing shape and yet she can't escape poochification.....

Thankfully, the skinny-but-poochified lady does not read my blog, lest she know that I am staring at her pooch AND writing about it.

As it clearly evident, this pooch thing has me been poopin' -n- poochin.' I haven't decided what I might try to "do" about this development. I could do a bazillion planks throughout the day. I could get some Spanx and make myself feel better when wearing my flannel lined jeans. I could continue to wear pooch-covering shirts/sweaters/sweatshirts/coats. I could buy stretchy pants and embrace the poochiness. I could ignore the whole thing and focus solely on my pooch....

...I could ignore it and focus on YOUR poop.

I think that's my best bet. I'm going to invite people over to poop. As long as you promise to use the poo-pourri before anything shoots out of your butt and you promise to plunge if things get out of hand and if you promise to poop only in the pooping-approved bathrooms, you are invited.

Don't tell the wife. She won't be entertained.

If the poo pourri works, she won't know you've been here. If it doesn't work...well, I'm gonna have a lot of explaining to do. I won't have any time to think about my pooch--I'll be busy explaining why the house smells like "stranger poop." You've heard of stranger danger. I'll be having my own version of stranger danger. I bet Hell hath no fury like the wife walking in on odifirous stranger poop. I'll be busy trying to convince her it's MY poop she is experiencing. She won't buy it. After all, she's had over 30 years of opportunity to "know" it's me splashing around. 

Let's live large. After all, it's in the name of science. Come on over. Bring your poop chute. Bring your electronic device so you can watch the poo-pourri commericlas while seated. Spray the toilet water before taking action in this experiment....

...and, be ready to run if the poo-pourri fails you. I'll be too busy being poochified to help you.
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