So, there we were. Our weekly trip to BJs. (seriously.. did the PR rep helping launch this company even remotely CONSIDER the ramifications of naming a whorehouse, I mean warehouse, this??)

Anywho, walking into the store, deflecting an onslaught of “MOM! look at this!” “Mom, hey, mom….mom!” and “MOOOOM!! Are you even listening to me??” from 4 of the most NEEDY kids in the PLANET I found myself feeling faint. I felt a crushing pain in my chest all the way into my shoulderblades. My heart was beating in my throat. My eyesight went dim and in the distance I heard “Dad, why is mom standing against the wall like that?” I felt the rough cement of the outside wall cutting into my forehead, but kept thinking it was so nice and cool here in the corner. Clutching my chest I looked over to everyone walking inside. It felt like they were a million miles away. THey all came back and Joe giuded me to the shopping cart. I held on for dear life like I was on a sinking ship. Knowing I have an electrical fault that has required me to take beta blockers in the past, I kept thinking, “Oh God, not another frigging Dr.s appointment to make.” That meant making an appointment with my primary care physician, so she can tell me I need to see a cardiologist, which I laready know. A referral to a cardio means finding one locally, and that means being a new patient. WHich also means shit loads of papers to fill out, which requires writing with a pen, which requires hands that dont have a mind of their own like some mummified monkey hand in a Stephen King book. Which I dont clearly have. A mummified monkey hand nor a functioning pair of my own. You cant tell but the spell check on this computer gets used and abused becuase my spastic hands like to make shit up as I go along. My mind is already imagining myself hooked up to another Holter moniter and itching like crazy from the sticky things yet my body is still standing outside the store clinging to a shopping cart like a dingleberry on my Jack Russles ass.

Then the nausea hits. Joe guides me inside and before I know it we are halfway done shopping and I can hear myself telling Joe that I have to go to the bathroom before I either pee my pants, or puke. Likely, both. I can only imagine what I looked like stumbling to the bathroom. Drunk I imagine. Drunk and sick. Clear the way everyone, shes gonna blow!

I made it to the bathroom, got into a stall and sat. Deep breaths. I think to myself, Ahhhh….  silence. Its cool in here.. ok, I can regroup. Overhead the radio is playing Gary Numans song “Cars”. So, I start to sing to myself “Here in my stall, I feel safest of all, I can lock all the doors. Its the only way to live in stalls.”

Then I hear it. A fart. A HUGE one. ::gasp:: Im not alone! Suddenly my bathroomate has what I can only describe as a complete and total evacuation of her bowels. Its noisy, its splashy, and its…gag…smelly. Then I think to myself, this poor woman probably came in here, grateful it was empty, because she HAD to know it was going to be a crime scene. You dont NOT feel a episode like that coming on. As shes sitting there praying no one comes in, here comes this crazy person, in a flurry of activity and incoherent mumbling. Slamming doors, throwing herself about, sobbing and then suddenly starts singing “alone in my stall” ?? At that point, I’m sure she decided that I was so delirious that her festivities would go unnoticed by the babbling psychopath two stalls down.

I clapped my hands over my mouth and picked my feet up, perched on the toilet like a co-ed in some no budget horror film, waiting for the mass murderer to find me. I can feel the tears coming and I know I’m about to cry for no good reason. I’m certain that if I throw up now, my heart will pop out because it has somehow managed to squirm its way into my throat. The noises and gaseous explosions to the right of me dissipate and we found ourselves bathed in silence yet again. But not the safe silence of solitude. More like the guilty silence of KNOWING someone else heard you 1.) shit your brains out and 2.) loose your fucking mind. Then I start to panic MORE because I’m having flashbacks of my colon prep and almost having sympathy pains, emotional and physical ones for this poor soul. She flushed and exited her stall while I prayed to baby Jesus and all that is holy, she is one of those disgusting people who don’t wash their hands. I just wanted her to leave so I could continue to dissolve into a pile of ruins in peace and non farty quiet.

But noooo… shes a cleanly type of person. She is a SCRUBBER. (I can understand why considering what I just heard) I swore “Paging Dr. Shityerpants to the OR” was going to be heard over head because she scrubbed like she was prepping to do surgery. Even WORSE, she choose the sink RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY STALL….Where I could see her stunningly bright orange jacket right through the inappropriately wide cracks in the framework of the bathroom stalls. Those things MUST be designed by men. They have urinals and stalls with no doors. The let it fly no matter whos watching. We women tend to like privacy while we act human.

Finally she leaves just as I’m about to swallow the nose drool that has poured out my nose and into my cupped hands. ::gasp::

I cry and cry, perched on a toilet in BJs Warehouse. Why am I crying? I’m sure there are a billion reasons why, I just cant point to the one thing that triggered it. I just am. A few moments later I emerge and dunk my head in cold water. Thankfully, having not much hair at all is conducive to soaking your head in a public sink. I splash my face and dry off… Kylie comes in and asks me if I’m ok. I tell her I’m fine and notice the look on her face. Not fear. Or worry. Or concern. Its the look of “Ewwww..what died in here!” I told her THAT was not me. I finish up, leave the bathroom with my head down, determined to not have to look into the eyes of ANYONE wearing an orange jacket. I can only imagine the “moment” of recognition. Eyes that say “OMG! You the lunatic crying and singing in the bathroom!” and “Damn! Your the lady that just shit out a wildebeest!”

As Kylie takes my hand and leads me to where Joe is in line to pay for our groceries, I can only think one thing…

thank God I wasn’t the one shitting out the wildebeest.

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