Stop: Potty Time

Okay, so I actually kind of hate the word potty AND it makes me feel like I'm a four-year-old, but for some reason "Toilet Time" just didn't have the same ring to it.

I know it's been kind of a while since I posted, but I've had a rough couple of months.... 
And that, my friends, is how our (and by our, I mean MY, because only I am capable of being this embarrassing of a human being) awkward story begins.

DISCLAIMER: We're about to get personal here. Like.... Bathroom personal.
(Disclaimer on my disclaimer: That will be the title of my first album I put out. "Amy Keim: Bathroom Personal.")

So look, y'all; there's no non-gross way to explain this story, so I apologize. 
To begin, I have stomach problems. I've had them for several years now, but for the past 6-7 months they have been especially terrible because my body is like, "Amy has been enjoying life too much," or something.  I finally went to a Gastrointestinal Doctor, and she had me get an X-Ray. Results showed that I was severely backed up. I KNOW, GROSS, I SAID I'M SORRY.

To remedy this situation, my doctor had me do a colon cleanse that people do before they get a colonoscopy. Here is what it entailed: 
-An entire bottle of Miralax divided between two Gatorade bottles, refrigerated overnight.
-Four Dulcolax pills. 
*Not required, but recommended -- lots of water so you won't run out of tears.

Yeah. I'm not a mathematician, but even I know that that's a crap-ton (PUN INTENDED) of laxatives. 

So anyway, I wake up on a Saturday morning, all ready for my cleanse. I start my first bottle of Miralax and take two of the Dulcolax pills. Nothing happens. Four hours later, I take the other two pills. An hour after that, I start on the other bottle of Miralax. 

That's when everything changes. La-la-la, minding my own business, doing fine and then GET OUT OF MY WAY I HAVE TO GET TO THE BATHROOM OR I WILL LITERALLY DIE.  

It was seriously that sudden. At this point, I'm going to the bathroom every few minutes. 
So there I was, sitting with Jake in a rare moment that I'm not in the bathroom... And we hear something in the back of our apartment... Popping? We don't know what it is, but it doesn't sound good, so Jake quickly back-handsprings his way to the back of the apartment (just kidding, but that would have made the story approx. 8000x cooler)... and that's when he sees it. 

There is fire coming out of the bathroom ceiling. 

...Yeah. Our ceiling fan caught on fire in the bathroom -- and no, it wasn't, as my brother so lovingly suggested, from my "gas fumes." I guess the brand was just pretty bad -- there have been multiple accounts of their fans catching fire! We had to run out of our apartment, call 911, and wait for the fire department to show up.

That in and of itself would've been a crazy story, but no, no, no. It gets worse. 

So we're forced to stand out in the street while we wait for the fire department to come. Everyone and her dog (not joking) comes out because our alarms are going off and police cars are pulling up.... And I am standing there for the world to see, looking glorious in NOTHING BUT MY ROBE. That's all I'm wearing. A robe. And I'm practically doubled over because HELLO, I just had like a thousand laxatives. (Only a slight exaggeration.) I go sit in my car and my husband tells everyone that I'm sick because what else do you say in that situation? I'm just more or less dying in my car while all of these people that I've never met come up and give me these pitying looks and ask me if I need some Tylenol. NOPE. What I need is a bathroom that doesn't resemble the underworld. Something that isn't in flames would be an ideal situation. 

Long story short, we ended up having to drive at the speed of light to my sister's while I cry in the car and have visions of having to wear a diaper for the rest of my life due to the traumatic impact that this entire event has had on me. 

I'll spare you the rest of the details (namely about how now, nearly three weeks later, we're still at my sister's because they're still doing repairs to our poor little charred bathroom.. However, we are so blessed that the bathroom was really the only thing affected!), but you really only need to know two things: 
1. No, I'm not in diapers, and
2. Make sure that you have a fire extinguisher handy at all times because you never know when you'll be in dire need of a bathroom that is on fire.

Til next time,
Amy