Friday, January 27, 2012

My name is Bri and I'm a Moaner.

I'm a moaner.  I can't deny it any longer.  Please don't raise your eyebrows at me in an accusatory way like it's some sort of a perverted thing.  I mean, it is. I do moan a lot during sex, I admit to that.  It's slightly embarrassing...

"Bri, are you having an orgasm?"

"No, babe, it just feels really good..."

I moan for just about every daily event.  If I'm enjoying my cup of coffee, a package of M&Ms, or a good fanny rest on a cozy chair.  Of course there are the bad moans too, the getting out of bed in the morning moan, the horrifying is-this-really-what-my-thirteen-year-old-left-me-in-the-kitchen moan, and of course there's the I'm-breaking-my-back-washing-the-tile moan.

My dear husband laughs at me non-stop.  He thinks my noises sound all the same.  I, personally, am appalled.  After close to eighteen years together, I would assume he would have some inkling as to the depth and feeling - the level of intensity - of my grunts and groans.  Not so.  Perhaps after another eighteen years he'll know when the great moment of ecstasy is washing over me.  We shall see.

I bring this all up because it leads to a silly poop story.  What, you ask does this have to do with my moaning and the price of coffee in Columbia?  Hold your horses, I'm getting to that.

This moaning thing has been with me from an early age.  Oh, the shame of it!  I do believe I've mentioned two things in the past; one, that I attended a small, private elementary school and two, I was extremely modest as a little girl.  Let's place these three things together, shall we?  Moaning, small bathrooms, and modesty.  Yes.  Who's following me here?  I could not for the life of me ever use the restroom at school to go poop.  I was extremely cognizant of the fact that I sounded like a professional tennis player serving the ball.  "Uggh, oooohh...aaahhhh!"  This was not going to happen.  So I would have to wait until I got home.

This is where the story begins (my apologies, long intro).  So, after a difficult day at school of literally sweating it out, I ran to the restroom.  No one was home but me.  My mom had to take my other sister to the orthodontist and my older siblings are still in high school, I'm on the pot, I'm moaning, grunting, doing what comes naturally for me, and probably making quite the impressive stink when, unfortunately, the doorbell rings. 
Example of 1970's Ranch Style Home

Here's some background on Southern California homes built in the 1970's, they're called "Ranch Style".  Our house and the others in the area were this design and the architect, for reasons unknown to this day, placed the bathroom right next to the front door.  If this wasn't bad enough, it was a warm day, the window was open, the toilet was located directly beneath the window, and the only thing separating the person and my ass were the green and yellow fluorescent plastic beads hanging from the top of the window sill.  My moaning immediately ceased mid-poop.

Ding dong went the bell again.  I waited patiently, silently for this person to leave.  Sweat started to drip down the side of my face.  These were the days when Encyclopedia salesmen were still coming door to door.  I was certain this was who was standing there.  He was relentless.  He would not leave.

Ding Dong.  Plop.  Good grief.  Go away!!

Ding Dong.

Ding Dong.  Plop.  The smell was horrifying.  Sweat was now pouring down my back.  My Catholic school uniform was sticking to my skin.  My hair was plastered to my scalp.  I couldn't stand another moment of this.  "Sir?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I'm not available to get to the door at the moment.  Please come back another time to sell your things."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He finally walked away.  I moaned because I was thoroughly mortified.  This reminds me, I need a sign for my front door, "No Soliciting At Any Time". 


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