Bethanyisms (Perhaps the Worst Thing that had Ever Happened to Me... Ever)

I generally avoid writing about poop. Poop is unpleasant. Writing about it is impolite. The following story, nonetheless, must be recorded for posterity. Being that one of the central characters is indeed poop, its presence cannot go unmentioned. To make the story more palatable, however, I will omit the word “poop” altogether and substitute it with the less offensive codename “fluffy kitten.”

Still, this story is not for the faint of heart. Parents and parent-in-laws are strongly discouraged from reading this post. All others, read at your own risk.



And now, the story…

Ryan and I had been married for less than a month. We were madly in love and had moved into a button-sized apartment in downtown Provo; perfect for newlyweds with very little need for personal space. The apartment had one serious flaw, though. It had rather fickle pipes.

The toilet would gag and clog-up if a mere four squares of toilet paper were used rather than the standard three. Imagine what would happen if a fluffy kitten was involved.

On one such occasion (and I won’t say whose fluffy kitten it was, but I will say that it was not Ryan’s), rather than plunge the clog, I hoped the situation would dissolve on its own.

Nope.

So Ryan came home and decided to plunge it out himself.

Imagine how embarrassed I was. I had thus far kept the fact that I was even capable of fluffy kittens a well-guarded secret. Now he knew the truth.

Unbeknownst to me, the situation was about to get infinitely worse.

I heard the plunger, a flush, and then Ryan yelp. He came running out of the bathroom. “The toilet is overflowing and there are fluffy kittens everywhere!” he exclaimed.

I charged into bathroom and shut off the valve. Too late. I was ankle deep in diluted fluffy kittens. I was mortified.

Now, if Ryan had any sense at all he would’ve divorced me on the spot. Sure, he’d agreed to “in sickness and in health” but the contract said nothing about “in sickness and in fluffy kittens.” Nobody in their right mind would sign up for that.

As a testament of his love, however, Ryan stood by his wife and pulled out the mop.

Ryan and I made quite the team, him a chronic germaphobe, me a girl with an extremely sensitive gag reflex. We tied bandannas over our noses and dry-heaved as we filled industrial-sized garbage bags with sopping-wet bathroom towels.



Ryan hefted the full trash bags over his shoulder and made a dash for the dumpster. He had to run down three flights of stairs and down a rather long pathway to dump the trash.

On his way, he skidded passed a couple on their way to their apartment. The girl screamed and leapt into her husbands arms. Mind you, it was the middle of the night Ryan didn’t have on a shirt, and he had a red bandanna covering hid face (You'd be a little frightened, too).

The girl must have smelled the bags of soggy kitten because she quickly regained her composure and said “Oooooh” knowingly. Maybe the same thing had happened to them, too. We shared the same pathetic pipes after all.

After the majority of the mess had been cleaned up, Ryan called the plumber and made an appointment for the next day. We changed into clean clothes and got into bed. Ryan was very quiet, lost in his own thoughts.

“Babe?” I said, needing some reassurance that he still loved me.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he said, as if still in shock.

“Yes,” I replied. “...But this’ll make a funny story one day, right?”

No reply.

I stared at the ceiling until I fell asleep.