Buried Memories.

When I was visiting my mom, Donna, in Florida last month, we drove past a quaint restaurant called The Yearling. It’s themed after Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’s famous novel. I asked my mom if she’d ever eaten there. As she twisted her hair while simultaneously driving (moms are such multi taskers!) she said, “Didn’t you eat there with Ryan and his family in high school?”

Even though high school was only a short ten years ago, I had to really think about it. Something about that restaurant looked super familiar.

And then I remembered.

Ryan, my super cute high school boyfriend, his family and I had been staying at the beach for a week. On our way back home, his mom, Yvonne, made me stop singing Shania Twain’s “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under” to ask if we were hungry. Of course we were. So Ryan’s dad, Duke, pulled their oversized giant American made SUV over and Ryan, his little brother, Chris, and I all hopped out.

The Yearling restaurant was amazing. It’s good ole’ southern loving country food. All around us were stuffed squirrels and eagles and, well, enough taxidermy animals to make the Hunting Man proud. The food was also something to write home about. Quail and alligator were probably the most mild things on the menu. I finally ended up choosing frog legs and I’m pretty sure some sort of turtle stew. Which made me sad, but I felt like I had to have the full “cracker” experience.

As Yvonne finished up her brisket, my belly started to churn. Apparently the quail, frog leg, turtle stew combo wasn’t sitting well. I got up and asked where the toilet was. Chris chimed in, “It’s this way! I have to go too. Come on.”

I followed his adorable 12-yr-old bounce and stopped cold when I discovered that there was only one unisex bathroom available. “Ladies first!” he politely chirped while holding the door. On one hand I was dying to poop. On the other hand, I knew that what I was about to do was not okay and should not be inhaled by a small child.

I awkwardly suggested that he could go, but then I felt a tiny fart slip out so I hurried inside instead. I dropped two nice logs and felt relieved. And it didn’t really smell! Hooray! So much poop anxiety for nothing. Or so I thought.

The toilet wouldn’t flush. At all. I lifted the back, but honestly that equipment was more foreign to me than an uncircumcised penis (at the time…) I had no idea what to do with it. Soooo I did what any girl who was eager to not have her boyfriend’s little brother find her poop would do. I grabbed wads of toilet paper, reached into that toilet and picked it up. I then did my best to hide it in the garbage can. Since I was already man handling my own poop, I went the extra mile and used more toilet paper to wipe the little skid I had left in the toilet bowl.

I washed my hands in scalding hot water and then opened the door to face Chris. And now RYAN. Oh GAHD. Ryan rushed in, pushing Chris to the side. Apparently his quail poop wasn’t willing to wait either. Before I even had time to think, Ryan was now inside the tiny room with my poop. SO MUCH FEAR. What if he could smell it? Dear GOD. How would I be able to explain it?

All of the sudden my mom tapped me on the shoulder, “So have you eaten there?”

I must have zoned out. “Uh yeah, actually. With Ryan’s family. I pooped in the toilet and it wouldn’t flush so I picked it out of the toilet with my hands and put it in the trash can.”

My mom started dying with laughter. “How could that have not made it in to your book?”

To be honest, I’m proud of myself for being able to block it out of my mind for so long.

(Image via here.)

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