Wednesday, October 12, 2005

My Toilet Trauma

Dear Undies:

Sometimes I wonder what made me the self-loathing, heartbroken schmo that I am. This prompted an investigation to the cavernous parts of my memory. Only to find a lot of useless information pertaining but not limited to, Joanie and Chachi (The tv show.) and a childhood trauma. I must have blocked it out of my brain or it might have just been lodged in my spleen. In any event, I found a terrible childhood trauma, that may or may not have defined the man I am today.

It involves: My mother, a Toilet and Me.

As you may already know, by checking in your "I love Undr" scrapbook, I have been potty trained since 1977. However, the wiping of my own hiney wasn't in the potty-training curriculum. Therefore, I didn't wipe my own rumpy until some time in the early 90's (1999). What was a little boy with a dirty behind supposed to do? Having no other recourse, would widdle Undie-wundie walk around with a soiled bum? Of course not! I would call my Mom. Ah yes, call for my Madre (gr: wiperati buttickus).

Editor's note: Before I continue, let me just say that this is about as embarrasing as heck! But my therapist, slash, parole officer Nick, says this would help me with the healing process. It's like Dr. Nick says "It's the second step to healing." The first step is to stop crying when people laugh. But I digress.

Unfortunately, when one depends on others to wipe their own bumper(the wipee), you have to circumscribe to the the Wiper's time schedule and such. Therefore, when I was a wee lad and I finished my duty(he-he), I would sit and wait for what seemed to be an eternity, wrapped in infinity, smothered with forever and onions. Yup, I waited so long that the cushiony toilet seat began to crack, and shards of vinyl would be embedded in my hind quarters. Ouchies, is right!

That's right, my mom, the wiperess, would do chores, talk on the phone, plan covert operations for the russians and translate War and Peace to jive. Thus, leaving me alone choking on the fumes of the what used to be a part of me. (Courtesy flushing had not been invented yet)

Just in case you don't understand, I will now reenact the events that took place on one of these aforementioned occasions.

Undr's Turdy wurdy: *plop* *splash*

Undr: Mother, I have finished.

Mom(on phone): "yakity yakity yak-yakity. Oh yeah he is so not my favorite child"

Undr: Muther (in a Tiny Tim English accent voice)

Mom: "blah-blah-blah, ...oh and those child-bearing hips he has!"

Undr: Ma, I'm done!

Mom: "bippity bippity bippity....maybe he'll grow out of this 'Ugly' stage"


Mom: "wonk wonk wonk .....He's a little on the effiminate side..."

Undr: Mater, Madre, Mere, Mima, Oma!

Mom: "doobie-doobie doo and yakity yak wonk....Oh I KNOW he will get beat up in school. I'd give him a wedgie myself...."


I assume you get the picture. After about two days, she realized that I was not around and eventually found me on the toilet seat, with my left eye twitching saying "Englebert Humperdink" over and over again.

Needless to say, my butty-butt was beet red. Truthfully, not my whole butt, I had a beet-red donought shaped ring around my thumpity-thump-rump. As a matter of Fact, even till this day if I'm in the right light, you can faintly see the scars from the vinyl shards and sad reminder of this ordeal: The words "Made in Taiwan" from the toilet seat.

But hey, I turned out alright! Didn't I?

Thank you.



PS Any funny childhood "traumas", let me know. If not, yell my name until you're blue in the face and red on the bum. Love ya, mean it.


At 1:53 AM, October 13, 2005, Blogger shipkicker said...

i am just curious as to whether this happenned on more than one occasion and thank you for that oh so graphic recounting of the shit hitting the water, so to speak.

when i was a kid, my dad made my lunch for school and i watched him put mayonaise on my bolonga sandwich. i am the pickiest eater in the world, and always have been and everyone knows it. so i totally busted my dad, and he knew it, but instead of making me a new sandwich, he just tried to 'wipe' off the mayonaise. sent me to school with it. i didnt eat it. came home with it. sent me back to school the next day with it. i didnt eat it. came home with it. had i not have been, like 6, at the time, i probably wouldve known enough to throw it out. but i was tramatized. by the third day with the same sandwich, my dad gets a phone call from the principal of the school, saying that his daughter his in hysterics in the cafeteria because she says that her daddy says that if she doesnt eat her sandwich, her daddy wont buy her a new bike. he had just bought me a new bike. (in fact, i included it in a blog once. it was cool)my dad was so heartbroken, and i learned how to manipulate that day. i have informed my dad that the title of my tell- all book will be bolonga sandwich with mayo.

At 6:37 AM, October 13, 2005, Blogger Lori said...

I was got on the wrong school bus I was supposed to get on the one that took us to our grandmas house nobody told me so I rode the regular bus home so I get home nobody there so I started walking to grandmas and I swear this was the biggest ROOSTER ever started chasing me.

At 1:23 PM, October 13, 2005, Blogger Terri said...

Oh, MS Chatty is gonna luurve this one!

My mom forgot to fetch me from school one day. Or maybe she'd told me to walk home, but that's irrelevant. I waited and waited and she didn't arrive, and eventually a teacher saw me sitting outside the school crying my 6-year-old heart out so she drove me home. We passed my mom along the road - she had come looking for me eventually, but the damage was done... mwaaaaaaa!
Somebody pass the tissues please...

At 6:34 AM, October 14, 2005, Blogger Underachiever said...

Shippy: It happened on more than one occasion. But the twitching has gotten a lot better.

Loved the Baloney story!

Lori and Terri: Oh you poor neglected babies! Although, it does explain a LOT.



Post a Comment

<< Home

Free Hit Counters
Free Hit Counter Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.