The expression is, "Shit, or get off the pot".
I am changing it up today for the purpose of this post. Naturally, this is my world, so you either go along for the ride or you click that little "X" in the upper right hand corner of your computer. My world, my rules.
Now that that's been established, let me tell you why I had to change the expression.
Last night, my best childhood friend, Abby, and me were having a conversation about why mens (read:husbands) underwear always manage to have skidmarks in them. Yes, this is the thing that women talk about on Monday nights. Monday night is generally laundry night for a lot of women so it was only natural that the skidmark conversation would take place.
"I don't get it," she laments, "Every single pair of his underwear! Shit stains!"
"Oh. My. GAWD! My husband too," I reply with a deep sense of empathy. "Why IS that?"
"I don't know. And you know what doesn't make sense?"
"What," I reply, deeply intrigued by someone else pondering this very same question that has plagued me for years.
"We wear thongs! The thongs go up our asses. Do you have shit stains on yours, because I know I do not have shit stains on mine!"
"That is such a great point," I exclaim! "No! I so totally do NOT have any skids or shits on my thongs! Why IS that?"
"I know why it is," she says.
"Because we wipe better."
"I believe that to be true," I agree.
"Not only do we wipe better, but we don't sit on the toilet for hours and hours!"
"Absolutely! I shit. I wipe. I leave!"
"Exactly," she says. "They sit there for so long, the shit dries and ferments in their assholes."
"Hence the shitstains," I reply thoughtfully.
"Hence the shitstains," she concurs. "And I even leave wet wipes in the bathroom for him. Do you think he would use them? No. Of course not."
"To do so would be depriving you of your skidmarks. I don't think he could possibly remove that pleasure from your life."
"So true," she says.
This conversation gets me to notice my husbands bathroom habits a bit more. He takes his laptop in with him to crap...because he works remotely from home. He can't miss a call.
"Surely they understand the need to take a shit," I ask him.
"Um, yeah, but I am not going to just sit there and stare at the walls. I might as well work. Kill two birds with one stone," he offers.
"But, that's not really the point, babe. If you just do your business and get the hell out, you wouldn't have to linger with your laptop in there...and miss any calls."
"I mean, I go in. I shit. I wipe. I flush. I wash my hands. I leave. I can return to the couch before the end of the commercials. You miss a full half hour of your life everytime you walk into the bathroom."
"No I don't. I have my laptop with me."
"And this you regard as living? Shitting with your laptop?"
"If that's what it takes, so be it."
He's such a moron sometimes.
Five minutes ago, he left to go to the bathroom. Since I was feeling a bit "burdened" myself, I went to the bathroom at the exact same time he did, sans laptop. Not only was I out before him, but I am just about winding this post up and he still has not shown up.
Hold on. Let me get a status report.
Okay, apparently, he hasn't drowned, hasn't been jerking off to porn or died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage whilst relieving his bowels. That's encouraging. He is just plain old...working. I wonder if his employers would look upon that as favorable. There really are two ways of looking at it. Either:
1) You are paying my husband to take a shit or...
2) You are impressed with his devotion and dilligence because he has not logged off to um...log off.
If you want to put this in perspective, he is home working, making an assload of cheese while I am sitting alongside him, applying for my unemployment.
I'm fired. He's working.
There might be a method to his madness after all.