Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

The Turd Burglar Strikes Again


(For those of you who read both of my blogs, this is merely a copy-and-paste deal. I was inspired by RockMomma to add this here. Because, really, who doesn’t sometimes need a bit of poo humor?)

I’m no stranger to a bit of doo-doo, in fact, I’ve always maintained that I could wipe an ass with one hand while eating a sandwich with the other (well, that would be IF I ate sandwiches, which I do not. But ‘œsandwich’ sounds better than ‘œchicken vino bianco.’). Overall, it doesn’t bother me to change Alex’s diaper (I initally typed Daver, which is all kinds of weird), nor did it really bother me to change Ben’s. Even when the turds would roll out of Ben’s diaper and be snapped up immediately by the dog (mmmm’¦doggie chocolates’¦.) OR when (like the monkey he is), Ben would shit into the bathtub then throw the floaters out onto the floor, I merely laughed.

But now something in our house is amiss. Afoot, even.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed some toliet paper stained with a brown substance sitting merrily on the sink. And winking at me from the back of the toliet. I assume that it was poo but will have to live my life wondering, because I JUST BARELY stopped myself from trying to smell it (before you judge, remember that my instant reaction to EVERYTHING is to put it to my nose and inhale'”insert cocaine joke here. I have to stop myself from sniffing my food before I eat it as it appears to be offputting to my fellow diners). Becky spells C-L-A-S-S-Y.

I clean my bathroom, on average once or twice per week. Said process involves a heavy-duty bleaching of all surfaces (and typically shocking myself on the bare socket in the process. Mental note, buy and install light socket cover thingy’s) and wiping up the stray pee drops on the floor (ah, the Sausage Factory). Since I am the only one who cleans the bathroom, I am, apparently the only one who notices when things go awry. Terribly arwy. Skidmarks on the seat sort of awry.

Someone who frequents my home is using my brand-new toliet seat to wipe their disgusting ass.

I’ve interrogated the usual suspects (myself, Dave, Ben) and no one is owning up to it (but to be fair, I will disqualify myself as I could easily just pretend that it is not there and make no mention of it). Unless one of the cats or the dog have not only taught themselves to dump in the toliet (which would be so, so, so sweet that I would completely overlook the skidmarks and make YouTube videos because that would be so amazing), I’m at a loss.

I could set up motion-sensitive cameras in each of the bathrooms, but I don’t think that I’d ever be able to watch the videos at a later date (Hello, YouTube!) because the image of my husband’s face whilst shitting would float through my head at all of the wrong times (and yes, I am referring to humping). Ben can’t remember what he did yesterday, so eliciting a confession out of him would be damn near impossible to substansiate (YES, Mom, I DID poop on the seat. When I was 3! HAHAHAHAHA! 6 also, apparently, has a terrible sense of humor.). And we’ve previously established that it is not my ass that is shitting on the toliet seat because it would make no sense (although it COULD be a fancy curveball’¦.). And Alex craps unabashadly into a Pamper (and sometimes with bonus leakage!!), so my gut tells me that it is not him.

So what do I do here?

posted under The Sausage Factory

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