a required taste for the pretentious as all get out





i took a dump in my sister's bathtub to usher in my 24th year
August 11, 2002, 1:41 p.m.

This story may fall under the category of "TMI", but since I seem to have quite the following for my drunken adventures, it begs to be told.

Last weekend, my cousins were in town to celebrate our aunt and uncle's 40th wedding anniversary (which coincided with my 24th birthday, of all things). Now, yearning to teach my California-cuzzies the inner beauty of the Maryland party scene, and desperate to prove to the SF chicks the sublime superiority of the Baltimore bar arena, I decided that we should all go to Power Plant Live! for a raucous good time.

(Power Plant Live! is a refurbished outdoor bar mecca, boasting 16 upscale, FUN bars in Baltimore's inner harbor.)

So we went; I love Howl at the Moon, a piano bar that features dirty songs and expensive drinks. Christina and Erika trolled outside until it was safe to smuggle them in under the not-so-watchful-eye of the bouncer; I stayed inside, danced, and drank every shot that came my way in the name of birthday cheer.

Needless to say, I got HAMMERED. I was a laughing, crying, sloppy mess (as I usually am after 6 or 7 shots and quite a few other assorted beverages). I had a ball. The entire 36 minute trip from Baltimore to Annapolis was memorable, and I had to pee with such an urgency, it was making my bladder hurt.

When I burst through the door to our house, I found that the upstairs bathroom was occupied, but instead of going up to my room to my own bathroom and my choice of three others, I opted for the basement. I didn't care that the door was closed.

I slammed open the door to find Erika, startled, sitting on the toilet. According to Erika, (and I have to rely on her version of events, as in my drunken stupor I can't vouch for my thought-processes or actions) I yelled that I didn't care that she was on the toilet, and I would just pee in the bathtub.

Now, ordinarily, this wouldn't be a big deal. I'm sure everyone reading this has, at one time or another, peed in their shower; for women, this is the only taste of urinary freedom we have, and if you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it. What happened next to me in my sister's tub, however, does most definitely NOT fall under my recommendation for a good time.

I didn't just pee in the shower.

After quite a few drinks and a less-than controlled bladder function, I let loose with the number 2. Erika, mortified yet intensely amused, called in my sisters and cousin Dani to see. They took pictures of the poo, and my hysterical, drunk flailing legs over it. I must have laughed for a good 45 minutes. (Yes, I cleaned it up and sterilized the tub so although she was queasy, my sister could use her shower again.)

I'm not quite sure why I deigned it appropriate to share this story...a cautionary tale for those who think they can handle their bowel movements within the throes of an intense alcoholic binge? Perhaps.

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