Goodbye to My English House (poo will be missed)

    I may or may not have a legitimate poop disorder. You may not know this about me, but I am a very shy pooper. Everybody does it, most just don't talk about it on a public blog. Except me. I can talk about poo for hours, but when it comes down to it, I have real problems. When I invite guests over for dinner at the Siegrist house, you can expect 2 things. Good food, and ridiculous conversations about a plethora of inappropriate topics. It's a continuation on from my family upbringing. I didn't even realize it was odd dinner convo until my bro-in-law Fred started coming over for family dinners and nearly punching us and vomiting all at once. My mother is a really good cook, so he would look ridiculously torn. You could see the longing to eat the food on his face, and the inability to block out the convo. Sorry Fred! (I'm not really sorry it was awesome)

   What does dinner have to do with poop? Everything, my dear friend, everything. It is the logical time to talk about said disorders or talk about my parents basset hound Roco that eats other dogs poop like chocolate truffles in the back yard. He stands there, and you can see him thru the window, his long muzzle is carefully cradling a Giant Schnauzer delicacy. The sides of his mouth are moving in and out as he savors the flavor while mouth breathing. Then, just as you start to say NO ROCO he quickly swallows and you can see his throat quiver in enjoyment. That has been a dinner time conversation at the Fulmer house, and probably at mine as well. 

   Some people know me as the stealth pooper, while some know me as the world's fastest one. That is for 2 reasons. I hold it in until the last possible moment, because call me crazy, I don't like to sit around in my own filth and hope for something more magical to happen in there while reading a book. I also don't announce when I have to go, I just disappear for around 60 seconds and then reappear. Here's my real problem. I have bathrooms that in my head I have deemed "special." Inside my mind I head into the bathroom with the scrubby thing, and deem that bathroom worthy, and wave the magical disgusting scrubber brush wand. That special bathroom then holds the power to allow me to poo at lightning speeds, and the ability to poo at all. 

     What do my poop problems have to do with my English house? Well, despite the fact that most of the bathrooms were, as I have said previously glorified out houses, I had a pooping love affair. The downstairs bathroom had me at hello. This bathroom is no larger than a SMALL coat closet. If you are sitting down (which you tend to do in a bathroom) and lean forward (which I tend to do a lot) you will smash your forehead into the pedestal sink. It is that small in there. I have come close to knocking myself unconscious many times over. This bathroom wined and dined me into falling for it. I have gone for over a week without doing a number 2. True story, while traveling with Chad before we were married. It was Christmas time, I was growing more cranky by the day. I can't share a bathroom with other people, that are actually present in the house when doodie calls. People started to wonder if I was pregnant, I started to wonder if Monks were able to do this. 

      So, with this, I say goodbye to my English house. The highlight of my experience there was pooping in you. 

PS What does this have to do with being pregnant? That house helped lure it out of me. You get hella constipated and start eating prunes like old people. Then, you start asking people for used light bulbs.