I’m middle eastern, y’all. Though I’m American born and raised, there are still cultural aspects of my life that most mainstream white folk will never understand. Like the way middle easterners wipe their butts.
I guess wiping isn’t the best description, as it’s more of a washing of the butt via the “aftabeh.” This is essentially a pitcher filled with water left near the toilet. We use it after pooping. Our butts get super clean. The best feature of the aftabeh is that it eliminates dingleberries–no left over toilet paper in the crack to worry about.
This got me thinking of different cultures and various ways people clean excrement off their bottoms. We know of the bidet–tre European and quite effective. What butt doesn’t like it’s very own personalized shower?
In America, we stick with toilet paper. I’m a big fan of 2 ply–I need to cushy stuff. Yet if I’m being totally honest, someone who poops several times a day like me needs more back up than just regular TP. Full disclosure: my butt will often stink after several poops assisted by toilet paper wipes. So I’ve had to make the full switchover to baby wipes. It’s the only thing that keeps my behind from stinking. Bad for the earth, I know. But it’s essential for the health of my social life and sanity.
I’d love to compile a more exhaustive list of wiping culture. So I commission you: fellow bloggers, how do you wipe your butts? Don’t be shy, this is in the name of fecal anthropology. Thank you.
And now, a poem, entitled, “All Before 10 AM”
The subtle whisperings of my butthole
Urge me out of sweet slumber
My eyes still wet with sleep,
Begin to focus on the day
My feet search for the floor
And I make my dash to the porcelain throne
While I sit and push,
And see my “S” shaped dung
My heart knows it’s unfinished; incomplete
Wash my hands
Within moments I am sitting again
3 shi*s! And all, yes all, by 10 AM!
Well, readers, it’s official: I’m in love! I’ve finally found a man who gets me. We go for long walks on the beach (I’m not lying). We bear our souls to each other. We tickle each other in all the right places. It’s kind of blissful. And I say this without hyperbole: part of why we love each other is our outspokenness and mutual love of bowel movements. In fact, when I disclosed my pen name, “Hu Phlung Pu” to my boif and let him read my posts on He Shat, She Shat, he asked, “Could you get any more perfect?” That’s true love right?
Since that disclosure, we’ve become more comfortable talking about poop. He’ll constantly inform me when he’s gone Number Two and I’ve done a lot of field observation of his bathroom habits. For instance, my boyfriend loves playing Angry Birds whilst pooping. When he’s at my home, he courteously lights matches so I don’t have to grimace when I walk in after him. And this is why I love him: when he pee pees, he always puts the seat down. I love that I never have to nag him about that one. Sigh…
In turn, I’ve felt complete comfort in sharing my adventures in pooping with him. I let him know that I’m a total Grumpy Gus if I haven’t pooped at least twice a day. He’s seen me at my worst–constipated for 2 days straight. I was not happy, but Boyfriend took care of me and still made me feel pretty, even when I felt like I weighed 3,000 pounds. I bloat a lot when I’m constipated, okay? I’ve shown him pictures of poops I was particularly proud of. I talk about poop frequency and success with him on the regular. My father once told me (many moons ago) that he believed the reason I was still single was because I talked about poop and farting too much and no man finds that attractive. Well, looks like Dear Old Dad should kiss my butt. I’ve sure shown him.
Yet here is where the lady in me starts to worry and my dad’s words reverberate in my ears. Could this one element that makes us love each other also be a true romance killer in our relationship? Sure it’s great now to be silly and talk about this stuff. And clearly the occasional loud surprise fart gets me cackling like no other. But could we ever overkill on this sh*t? I always want my dude to see me as a hot little kitty. What if my farts (even my queefs) begin to turn him off? What if his rotten egg bombs just aren’t funny anymore? Will it be too late to rekindle the flame? (And no, I’m not talking blue flames this time). Will this make us that gross old couple who’s given up on having relationship heat? (And no, I’m not referring to dutch ovens this time either).
I implore you readers, tell me: what is that delicate balance of bonding over fecal matters and keeping the hot sexy torch burning?
Remember the Atkins Diet fad? Everyone was shopping for bacon and pork rinds, while bread and fruit fell into the gutter, man. That diet is messed up and it messes with your mind grapes. But, being female, I felt morally obligated to jump on the band wagon. The awesome part about being on this diet is that I actually gained more weight than I lost.
I attribute this to the Atkins friendly, no carb candy bars. These miniature bars (like, tiny) were about $4.00 a pop and I stock piled them like they were going out of style. I ate at least two per day, and my mind was so warped that I truly believed they were making me skinnier.
But no, no they di-int! Instead, I got chubby and REALLY REALLY gassy. The stinky juicy kind. I mean, it was so bad that I couldn’t stand my own smell. I lived in fear that people would walk into my gas cloud and either a) pass out or b) assault me for assaulting them.
On one particularly gassy morning, I had to hop on the subway. I knew I was going to drop some major bombs on that ride, so I scouted the least occupied subway car and got on. There I stood, all systems go. I felt my butt muscles relax and I just let them rip. They were the worst rotten egg farts money could buy. And still, I stood there, staring straight ahead finally feeling some relief, refusing to look around at my victims. I couldn’t take the guilt of their suffering. Yet as I looked out the window in front of me, I saw the reflection of a little old lady sitting next to me.
She was innocently reading the paper when she caught my drift. In all my life, I was never shot such dirty looks. She made a point to take her paper and fan the air dramatically. She glowered at me with such scorn that I could feel my body turn red. I also saw the hilarity in this and had to hold back from laughing. I played it straight, continued to fart (because I was in some serious pain) until ultimately, she got up and walked into the adjoining car. I WON!!!!!
That little non-verbal exchange taught me so much about lifestyle choices. I’m not sh*tting you when I say I stopped Atkins that week and vowed to eat like a normal person again. I dropped a ton of weight once I went off the diet and my farts have since smelled like sweet confection.
And now, a story from my youth.
As a teenager, my father and I would often butt heads. He could be a real turd of a human being at times. So, I found ways here and there to seek revenge; ways that he’d never be the wiser to.
One afternoon, I came home, only to discover I was completely locked out of the house–everyone was at school or work. I had the sudden and overwhelming urge to poop. As soon as I felt it, I began to prairie dog. So, I quickly ran to the backyard, dropped my drawers and dumped on the lawn. It was a rather large poop. Quite disgusting.
Any decent human being would have picked up after herself and inserted the matter into the garbage. But not me. Earlier that day I had gotten in an argument with my dad, so I decided to leave it there. He would never know the difference between that poop and our dog’s poop. My dad was the assigned person to clean up the poop in the yard. It brought me satisfaction knowing he’d be handling mine. Bad girl!
I’ve held this secret in for over a decade now. It’s true catharsis to share my story with you all now. You’ll be happy to know that my dad and I have a fantastic relationship today. I would never dream of pooping in his yard these days. We really do love each other.
While I feel shame in confessing such an inhumane form of teen rebellion, at least I can say I wasn’t boozing and whoring around and I’m pretty sure Dad would rather me poop in inappropriate places rather than pick up unnecessary venereal diseases. Right, Dad? Right?
Well guys, I’m constipated this week. And if you’ve read my first post, you know this is unusual for me. Wait, let me clarify this for you: I’m still BMing several times a day, but there’s a little more bloating, gas, and general discomfort. This happens every month—the week before my period.
In fact, this pattern is so predictable, that I don’t need a calendar to track my menstruation…I know Crampa (I like to call him Cramps) and Aunt Flow are coming to town solely based on my poop patterns. I start to constipate. I begin to cramp up–is it the ensuing shedding of my endometrial lining, or the backed up poo? It’s oversimplifying to say they’re mutually exclusive. The only solace I find at my monthly constipation is the knowledge that I will soon get to experience the joys of Period Poo. Period Poo is something every female knows about. If you don’t believe me, ask your girlfriends, ask your wives.
Period Poo works something like this: you start your period. The combination of stored poop and period cramps takes it toll. You power walk to the toilet, sit down and PLOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPP! You drop a ginormous load. That first dropped load unlocks the 5+ dookies you had waiting to be delivered. Soon, your tummy flattens and you don’t mind bleeding like an animal because you’re skinnier than you were before it started. This is the weird stuff ladies think about.
While all this sounds lovely (I’m sure), there are a few downsides. 1. It is a hell of a lot more stinky. I mean, it is all your blood and guts being dropped in a bowl. 2. Wiping takes longer. 3. You feel like the most unsexy person on the planet. I feel grotesque just talking about it. 4. Up until this moment, it’s been a dirty little secret women have to keep from men.
The body is a beautiful thing—the way it functions like clockwork remains miraculous. And though I wish to remain anonymous forever because of this post, I’m grateful for the way even my messy poop reminds me of my life giving powers. Because I’m a lady, blessed with Period Poo, I know I can have a baby some day. Amen and hallelujah to that.
Did you know sexism still exists? As the one female contributor to this blog, I can attest to this. I’m not going to discuss blatant misogyny today. Rather, I want to look at the subtle but mightily felt influence of the cosmetics/beauty industry, specifically, the niche of hair removal.
As a naturally hairy woman, I have paid to be tortured—waxed, threaded, lasered, etc., etc. This isn’t as pleasant as it sounds.
Yet every swimsuit season, I cave in and get a bikini wax. Why I would pay a stranger to lay her hands and hot wax upon me down there remains mystifying. Even more puzzling is the fact that for the last two summers, I’ve gotten my butt waxed. Listen, a lot of women do this. Do not judge me.
I’m really embarrassed to admit all this because I do consider myself a feminist. I should be above all this stuff. My sister told me that hair exists in the bum crack for a reason, kind of like Darwinism…it’s evolutionary sound. When I pressed her to answer what purpose butt crack hair served to our survival, she had no answer.
Unexpectedly, I discovered the answer just a few days ago. Butt crack hair serves as a muffler. It silences farts and allows us to pass gas in a crowd, going undetected. We are better able to fit in socially and maintain relationships that are essential to our survival.
Since this last waxing, I can no longer fart silently. It’s physiologically impossible. The consequence is that I now must hold in my farts and deal with bloated belly aches and pains, not to mention a significantly depressed mood. These are the kinds of situations that make me shake my fists in the air and damn living in a man’s world!
I can’t wait to live in a world where women with hairy butts can hold their heads high and fart as silently as their anal tangles will allow.