So let’s just get this out of the way; I started my day by shitting in a bag. Let that sink in for a minute… is it sunk? Yeah. Gross huh? My husband thinks my family is obsessed with poop. He’s kinda right. Where other families would greet each other after long absences with questions of health and happiness, our family usually want to know if you’ve made number 2 yet and how was it? We then spend the first few days in a new environment talking about how our bowels are handling it (this usually happens over a nice meal). My husband is appalled by how detailed the conversation can get and this from a man who has perfected something called “the sumo fart” (more on this at a later date). I am likely to blog about poop. A LOT. Get used to it. OK now let me explain the shit-in-the-bag comment. It’s a bit of a long story….
I recently embarked on a trip to Bali with a close friend. 5 fun-filled, sun-drenched and most importantly, kid-free days. We had both been looking forward to the trip for a long time; she, a mum of three, actually 4 if you count the red-headed step child (not even kidding) and me a Mum of two, three if you count Captain Pants (the balls to my chain). So you can imagine, as hard working Mums, we were looking forward to the break from children as much as the actual holiday itself. Neither of us had been to Bali before and did not know what to expect. We had heard the good, bad and ugly stories from friends and family and were keen to formulate our own opinions of the place. I could spend the whole blog telling you about the entire holiday but for now, let’s settle for the highlight reel.
MEETING ELEPHANTS. So like a lot of you, I have a little bucket list. It is not hard and fast and it changes often, for example, where it used to read “kiss Corey Haim” it now reads, “meet Nigella Lawson”… you get the idea. Anyway, one of the constants has always been to meet an elephant. I don’t mean to ride one, I mean to actually meet one. Up close. Personal. Have a chat. Look one in the eye. See how it feels to be that close to something that big. Can I just say… it… was… AWESOME. I could have stayed there the whole day. Looking into those big, limpid eyes is like therapy. I must have looked like a loon as I stood there gibbering on to this giant beastie but I could not have cared less, the happiness in my heart was flowing over. I got to pat a baby elephant too and I swear I need a filling now cos that little thing was so sweet!! Bucket list item checked off and overall just a super cool experience.
NUDE BATHING WITH MY “WIFE”. Whilst in Bali, we decided to indulge in a spa day. We don’t get to do that very often and had heard some of the spas in Bali are amazing. We booked into one of them for a package deal that included a massage, a scrub, a yoghurt moisturiser and something called a “flower bath”. It all sounded lovely and after a big spate of walking the day before, we were so ready for a relaxing massage. We arrived at the spa and were taken into our treatment room. It was gorgeous. Half in the open air, frangipani trees trailing over rock walls, trickling fountains and one BIG ass bath. As we walked in, my friend and I looked at each other and I swear we had the same thought, “they’re not going to make us bathe together right?!”. We were instructed to strip down to nothing and put on this little pair of mesh undies. I looked at the mesh undies and the leg holes were not big enough to choke a chicken with. Now I am a woman of, how shall I put this, some girth, so I just left my own undies on rather than risk cutting off circulation to my lady bits. My friend is a lot smaller than me so she put on the fetching meshies with ease. We got up on our massage beds and waited for bliss. Well, the massage began with these 2 balinese women climbing up on our beds and straddling us. As I mentioned, I am a larger gal so this teeny Balinese woman didn’t “straddle” me so much as threw her leg over and held on for dear life. The massage itself was nice. It was very firm (I have the bruises to prove it) but I like it a little rough in the massage department so that was fine. Then came time to turn over and we obliged, thinking the massage would be limited to arms, legs and head. We were wrong. Very, VERY wrong. My breasts were treated to a very detailed massage and scrub, as was the rest of my front (excluding lady-garden of course), and as always, the thought of this mutual bath was looming in our minds. At one point, my friend even asked the ladies if we were expected to get in together and they just laughed and didn’t answer. I think we had our answer then. After our intimate massage and scrub we were told to hop up off our beds (still wearing nothing but our smalls) and we were promptly smothered in fresh yoghurt (more breast touching!) and then told to rinse off under the outdoor shower and hop in the flower bath. Yep, the moment of truth and our suspicions finally confirmed. This gorgeous, romantic bath, full of rose petals and frangipani blooms was for both of us. The women looked at us and said “It’s OK, we had a couple from Australia get in together last week”. I looked at my friend and with skills a ventriloquist would have been proud of I hissed through gritted teeth, “I think they think we are a couple!!!!” We had 2 choices, explain we were not actually a same sex couple or get in the damn bath! I think at that point we had seen enough of each other’s bits that there were no boundaries left and so, with much giggling, we hopped in the bath together and spent the next 15 minutes snort laughing into the blossoms and comparing whose massage had come the closest to being inappropriate. A very funny but pretty confronting experience.
OK so enough elephants and flower baths and onto all things poo. On the last night there, despite my best efforts to be sanitary, I got struck down with the dreaded “Bali Belly” and spent the night running to the bathroom and popping Imodium like tic tacs. Thankfully they worked and I was sufficiently plugged up for the flight home. The problem was of course that the infection was cooped up in my body then and I spent the night in cold sweats of fever-wracked agony as the wretched thing tried it’s best to exit my body through any orifice available with no success. Cut to 5 days later and I was still suffering with the horrible bug so I dragged myself to the doctor for help. Sure enough there is medication available but before you can take it, you need to provide a stool sample. JOY!! I have never been lucky enough to have to do this before and so I asked the doctor, the best method for obtaining the *ahem* specimen. She advised to find an old container I was not attached to, put it in the toilet and do my business in it. The collection cup has an ingenious little scoop on the lid so once the sample is in the container, it’s a simple matter of scooping the poop and screwing on the lid. I talked to my sister when I got home and told her what I had to do and she advised a method passed on to her from a wise friend. Line the toilet with a plastic bag, as you would line a bin, and then put the seat down. Do your worst in the bag and then voila, collect your sample and bag your droppings and turf them. Simple right? I decided the bag method was the go.
I awoke this morning feeling dread at what lay ahead of me. I had multiple bags in the sink ready to go and my collection cup at the ready. I knew the mornings were a safe bet for me as usually that is when my runniness is at its worst. I realised I would have to pee first as I did not want a bag full of pee to contend with as I am very clumsy and would likely tip the entire thing over myself trying to get my sample. So I sat down to pee feeling the familiar cramping that warns me I need to brace myself and bunker down. I realise, mid pee, I am going to have to stand up after I am done whizzing, line the toilet with the bag and then sit back down to finish. My stomach sinks as this is going to have to be some precision work if I am going to make it without turning my toilet into a work worthy of Pro Hart in his carpet ruining days. I take a deep breath as the last drops drip out of me and with the deftness of a small cat and grace of a puma I simultaneously stand and grab my bag, clenching my butt cheeks in a feat of strength that Arnold himself would be proud of, and whisked that liner into the loo as quickly as I could. I slammed the seat down just in time and released the breath along with the contents of my aching guts. The relief was short lived at the realisation I was going to have to confront what was IN the bag in a mere moment. I won’t go into detail as I think you are probably all gagging at this point anyway, suffice to say, it is not an exercise I care to repeat in this or any other lifetime. The bag method works, I would recommend it but I would also recommend a full gas mask and hospital grade gloves if you have them handy along with some Glen 20 as you are gonna need that, and a 20 minute hot shower just to feel clean again.
So Bali, thanks for the memories, the mammaries and the calamities but I think next time, I will go somewhere where there is no risk of me ending up having to shit in a bag. Thanks all the same…
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