Jessica’s Response to: The Movement

Wow, pulling out the big guns, are we Jeremy? Talking about bowel movements in your very first blog post? I’m impressed. And slightly embarrassed. But mostly impressed! Nice work out of you.

Now, my first reaction after reading the post was deny, deny deny. How can I spin it to make it seem like I was just joking all the times I engaged in blatant turd talk? How could I make it seem like I was simply telling a story about someone else’s turds and you misinterpreted it to think I was callous enough to talk about my own poo? I can’t. I can’t and I’m not even going to try. Instead, I’m going to come right out and admit it. I talk to my fiance about my poop.

Now, lest you think I’m just doing it for a shock, or to gross him out, let me state for the record that Jeremy and I have very open dialogue in our relationship. Gone are the days where we’d make an effort to stifle farts around each other or carefully chose our words in conversation.  We were way past that long before we became engaged. Let me also state that the poop talk didn’t just happen arbitrarily. He’d like you to think that he comes home from work and our conversation goes something like this:

Him: “Hello darling, beloved fiancee. You look beautiful today, and I know I said that this morning, but I really mean it. Are those new earrings? Oh, I’m so sorry I haven’t asked you! How was your day?”

Me: “Well, I took a gigantic crap at work today. It was gnarly. It was a little lighter than yesterday’s dump, probably because I drank all that apple juice! Oh, and the smell. It was something else. I took a picture of it in the pot, but I’ll have to wait a couple of minutes to show it to you. Gotta take another shit!”

That’s not how it happens AT ALL. The entire subject of poop is only a conversation topic in the first place because it was something I noticed happening after we started eating a lot of organic food, which Jeremy accurately described. I don’t talk about it every day. I don’t even mention it that often at all. In a nutshell, it seemed like as soon as the organic food hit my small intestine I started having.. well, really large poops. A lot larger than I ever had before, to be perfectly honest.  Because I wasn’t sure if it was actually a result of Trader Joe’s or something else entirely, I casually asked Jeremy if he was experiencing the same phenomenon. He wasn’t. Apparently I was just a big pooper.

The only reason the subject has come up at all in recent weeks is because since I’ve started dieting and eating a lot less food in general and a lot of different type foods as a rule, the freakish sized logs have ceased.  Except for yesterday. It came back. I thought it was noteworthy. It’s not like I was waiting for him to come home, twittering with anticipation to tell him about the return of Big Poop. It just kind of came up.

And another thing. What actually happened was that I described my movement as being a hybrid, because it wasn’t really as huge as the others. I likened it to the space ship, coming back into Earth’s atmosphere and partially disintegrating upon reentry, at which time some of the occupants (the corn kernel astronauts) are forced out of the capsule and meet a tragic end by drowning. And no, I didn’t actually eat any corn that day, it was allegory!  If you’re going to talk about your own crap, you should at least be allowed to use some poetic license.

So, thanks again for this one. Darling.

The movement

Greetings, folks in Blogville!

Tonight, I asked Jess if anything exciting had happened today. The most exciting part of her day, so I gathered, was an interesting something that she left in her office’s toilet.

I can’t remember if the descriptions of bowel movements came before or after the engagement. Or even during.

“Yes, I’ll marry you. Now, I’ve got to tell you about this dump I took today…”

I believe the excrement tales actually started over the summer. We discovered Trader Joe’s together, and soon after organic foods entered our diet, crazy things happened to her digestive tract. And, in vivid detail, she’d describe her daily fecal matter, such that I could almost taste it. Not that I’d want to. I saw “Pink Flamingos” and damn near vomited. Ditto “Jackass:Two.”

The poo du jour was one that changed in consistency once it hit the bowl. She likened it to a space shuttle returning to Earth that disintegrated as it hit the atmosphere. She pitied the corn kernels that lost their lives in the tragic crap ship explosion.

Upon further questioning, it turns out that there weren’t any kernels in the stool. She was embellishing her tale. AKA lying to me.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had any bathroom sessions of interest in recent memory. In fact, the only two that I consider memorable were a solid blue log that I deposited after drinking what was called a “Superman” milkshake at a local diner. By Superman, they meant vanilla and unnecessary amounts of food coloring. The other was during my honey roasted peanut phase, where I’d go through a gallon jar nearly every week. At one point, my turds looked exactly like Baby Ruth candy bars.

Yup. We’re getting married.