Friday, July 15, 2011

Butter Knife

This is going to be one of those make or break things. Like, I’m putting this out there and maybe no one will want to know me after this. I’d like to point out that I am a lady. I wear mascara and high heels, and use curse words appropriately. Hear me out: we all have extremely mortifying instances that happen in our lives, I’m just dumb enough to tell you. That’s it. That’s my disclaimer.  

The last week of June Anna came to stay with me. (She is basically my sister. Not biologically, but pretty much). Anna lives in Berlin, Germany, and pretty knows everything about me. Like, everything. First heartbreak, insecurities, what makes me laugh or get me really pissed off. We have the same sense of humor and even kind of look alike. At any rate, I’m telling you this because there is literally nothing I would hide from her. Almost.

Anna’s last morning I woke up before her and had to go to the bathroom. Like, goooo to the bathroom. So I wake up, tip toe to the bathroom and go. Fine, perfect, whatever. We all do it. Problem is the toilet wouldn’t flush it down. I tried four or five times, but nothing was moving this thing. And no, I didn’t have a fucking plunger at the time. I could hear Anna stirring in the other room, and I panicked. I could literally feel my pupils dilate with fear. This is the type of fear that happens when you’re 5 and get nervous you’re going to get caught taking another cookie after you were specifically told only two. This type of fear is instilled in you and comes out at moments like these. It waits until you’re at the brink of despair and motivates you to do the worst possible things, and you agree to it.  The rational part of my brain quite simply shut down.

I had to get this thing gone, because I didn’t want her waking up, going into the bathroom and be greeted by a poop that wouldn’t go away. In the most remote and frazzled part of my brain, a voice shouted at me like a drill sergeant: GET A BUTTER KNIFE.  So I ran to the kitchen, pulled out my worst looking butter knife, rushed back to the bathroom, out loud said “what the fuck” and sliced the poop as if it were banana bread.  It flushed, and the crisis was averted. Don’t worry, I threw away the butter knife (first I doused it with Clorox, shoved it in a plastic bag and then wrapped it with paper towels. )

Three minutes later, Anna woke up. She didn’t have a clue. Until I told her an hour later.

When in doubt, butter knives do the trick. Trust me on that.


  1. 1. Since we enjoy pointing things like this out to one another... it's "make or break", not brake (like the car). Ahem.
    2. You SO do not use curse words appropriately. Who are you kidding??? Hello, you're Margaret for god sakes.
    3. One of the things about you that I love is when you have a really good description of something, I hear you retell the story word-for-word in the exact same way every time. For instance, "when you’re 5 and get nervous you’re going to get caught taking another cookie after you were specifically told only two."
    4. I'm curious why you went to all those lengths of cleaning and wrapping the knife before finally trashing it?
    5. Congrats for just going for it. You've got some balls, girlfriend. I don't think I could blog about poop and get away with it.

  2. I remember how astonishing it was to me that we were only allowed to have two cookies at your house when we were kids. My family, as you remember, imposed zero limitations on food.

    Margaret, this is disgusting.

  3. It's always good to know these things.