THE EX-ORCIST

A BOX OF BOYFRIEND
I am a sucker for what I call memory boxes. After my first fiance, Sean, and I broke up, I burned everything he ever wrote me, most of the pictures, and all items that I had saved for "our" scrapbook. A couple of years after Sean, upon hearing he had married someone else three months after he broke up with me, I felt nostalgic for what we had once had. He used to write me the most beautiful love letters, and they were gone. Never to be reminded of a man who once really loved me. I felt sad that I had lost a year and a half of my life with that man, and swore I would never get rid of the truly sentimental reminders of a time of my life that was once very beautiful. Thus, came the memory boxes.

I have a general memory box, that my dear friend Heather, is holding for me in Flagstaff. Within that memory box contains other boyfriend shoeboxes. There was the brother of one of my best friends, whom I had a long distance relationship with. He wrote me letters and once sent me condoms and tampons, because he knew those were the two things I was terrified to buy at the store. I kept every letter, and condom, and I think I still have some of the tampons, but I may have desperately busted into that stash. There are some things from my marriage in there as well, in addition to a large stash of photos here, that I have packed up from our time together.

Now, since I do not have that memory box here, I had to start fresh. I have a full box of the last Dave, and a bag of Geno that's in another shoebox waiting for some company of the exes to come. Today, I pulled down the box of Dave, the former love of my life, and cried over a box of boyfriend. There were pictures, his CDs, the English Christmas cracker crown you wear from the family Christmas I missed at his folks, the horn we shared on New Year's 2004, the Red Hook bracelets I wore when we would go to the outdoor movies the summer early in our relationship, the box that read "A sweet apple, for a sweet girl", movie ticket stubs, gift certificates of restaurants we'd gone to, the airline ticket from when he flew back to North Carolina for my sister's wedding with me, and cards full of love and reassurance that he was just distracted and his mind was racing, apologizing if he came across upset at me at all. Today I lived through 11 months of memories...good for most, and bad in the last months of the relationship... in my head.

Now, some may think this is not healthy. It's not like I'm putting on his CD and dancing in my English cracker crown, while blowing my New Year's Eve horn, as I bawl. No, not even close. It was just an anniversary of good-bye, and it had to be done. I had to remember what love felt like, what absolutely knowing you were madly in love with your best friend, felt like. And I also had to remember what coming second, third, posssibly fourth, felt like. What lies and games felt like. What mistakes I HAD made, felt like. I had to remember the good, see his bad, see my bad, and vow to grow and not make the same mistakes, but to also keep my heart open. I had to cry over my box of boyfriend, close the lid, and put it back on the shelf with my heart...but just for a while longer.

DICK DASTARDLY
Once upon a time, a girl went on a short, poorly planned tour, with her boyfriend, his band, and her friend, one of the the other bandmate's girlfriend. The girls had been asked to come by their boyfriends, and had never requested it themselves. The boys had to fight a bit with one ego man to let it be okay, and in the end, the two boys won, and the girlfriends packed their bags.

This was only a four or five day tour, with the the first show being in Salt Lake City, the next in Spokane, and the last in Ellensburg. It was a long drive for $50. The band and the other girlfriend were in a van, and me and boyfriend, and his equipment were in his truck. It was lovely being trapped in a vehicle for long periods of time, with the man who gave me butterflies in my stomach every day. We would pass time sharing stupid stories, me making him sing me to sleep, and fooling around on the road. Now, most of you know this, but Dave was uncircumsized. He didn't care who knew, and was a huge advocate of the joys of the non-circumcised. It was strange at first, as it was new minus a brief incident with one half-asleep once, but it didn't freak me out, and I found it quite amazing at first, and then it was a non-issue.

So one night on the road, we were fooling around, and I'm playing with it, and I pull the foreskin down, and low and behold there is a small wad of toilet paper hiding out. I release the foreskin and the TP disappears back inside. In the naieve world of me, I'm not sure how it got there. Boys don't wipe their dicks, right? So how did it get there? Did he not have any pockets, had a cold, and needed somewhere to keep his tissue? Had he been picking his nose with a tissue, it got stuck in the nostril, and then blew out when he sneezed while masturbating, landing on his dick and was quickly covered by the foreskin when he had to let go of his dick for the next sneeze? Was it his grocery list? Possibly a to-do list for the tour? I swear he had one out the day before. Or maybe it was a love letter to me? He knew I'd be there at some point. He surely knew I'd find it, and then I'd unfold the love letter and read it and smile at him in adoration. Kind of like his own personal message in a bottle.

"Uh, Dave?"

"Yes?"

"Do you wipe your dick when you pee?"

Silence...

"Do you?"

With a slight chuckle..."Well kind of. It gets drippy. Why?"

I pull back the foreskin and point. "LOOK!"

He looks down and we both burst into laughter. It lasted forever, and it is one of my fondest memories of Dave. However, when I think about it now, I can't remember what happened to the TP. I didn't pull it out. I don't think he did either. My God, it might still be there for all I know. And maybe when he is sad and blue, he pulls back the foreskin, takes out that tissues he stores away, and has himself a good cry.

AND HE THINKS YOUR SHIT DON'T STINK
As everyone knows, I am really quite amused by poop and farting. I find it so funny for some odd reason, and as mentioned before, believe it to be that part of my soul was once a crude 12-year old boy. I can talk about it all day, laugh about it all night, and then start over again the next day. I can fart in front of any friend that I am truly comfortable with if I know they're okay with it, and always end up in relationships with men where it becomes humorous to fart on each other in bed after we are comfortable with each other. HOWEVER, I have always preferred that when it comes down to actual shitting, it be kept behind closed doors.

You can tell me about it, describe it, compare it to soft-serve for all I care. It doesn't bother me a bit, but on no uncertain terms do I EVER want to see it, or see you doing it. My first fiance Sean, once was in his bathroom with the door open and rather than continue shouting our conversation from the bathroom to the bedroom, he called me in there. I thought he was either peeing or shaving or something. No. He was sitting on the pot taking a dump.

"What are you DOING?"

"I'm taking a dump. It's no big deal. Are you uncomfortable with this?"

I can understand that for ME to be uncomfortable with this, might be confusing to one, so I fake it. I sit on the counter and am trying to look at the floor as he sits on the toilet. The smell is fairly bad and I'm trying to breathe out of my mouth only. And then I heard it.

PLOP!

And that was my exit.

That was the only time I've ever encountered that. No ex had ever felt that comfortable with me, and we all know my ex-husband had crazy toilet rituals of hovering and taking off his shirt and such, so I never had to worry about the possibility of being invited in for a turd. Now, in exchange, I have never crapped in front of anyone before...until Dave.

This was not an intentional decision, it was an emergency. I was at his apartment one day and had either eaten something too creamy (stop you sickos), or was stressing out about something, very possibly some comment his roommate may have made about how beautiful his ex looked, or how we wouldn't last, or something of her usual nature. So Dave is taking a shower and it hits. I'm in his room and the terrible poo cramp hits. I lay down and breathe. I always do the long, slow Lamaze breathing when this hits. I figure if it works for birth, it should work for poo. Quite often, I can stave off the diarrhea that usually follows with the breathing. However, this time it wasn't working. I could feel the burn coming towards my butt and I knew I had maybe a couple of minutes before I would shit my pants.

I ran to the bathroom, whipped open the door and shout, "GET OUT!" This was the only bathroom in their apartment, and I had no other options. He asked what was wrong, and I told him I was about to shit my pants, and he said he couldn't get out because he was all soapy.

"You don't understand. There is no time left. It's in my butt!"

He found this amusing and told me to go ahead and go then.

"But you don't understand! It's bad, there's going to be loud, farting noises, and explosions! I can tell from the cramps!"

"I don't care. Go ahead. I need to finish my shower."

Another cramp hits and I know this is it. I whip my pants down and belt out, "LA-LA-LALA-LALA-LA" and I explode. It is loud, too loud for even my singing and the sound of the shower running. I won't give up hope though.

"LA-LA-LALA-LALA-LA" over and over and over through the numerous explosions.

I don't hear Dave moving around in the shower anymore. And then,

"Holy shit that stinks!" followed by laughter.

I'm laughing as well, but on the verge of crying, and then I start shouting over the sounds of my ass and the shower about how I warned him, and it's his own damned fault and so on. He told me he had to get out because it stunk too bad. I covered myself with a towel to make the image of me exploding on the commode a bit daintier, he grabbed another towel and got the hell out of dodge.

Most people have skeletons in their closet. Not me. I keep them up my ass.

THE END
Hopefully you've had a good laugh, and reflected back on good times, funny, private moments, with an ex. Though they're usually dead (the relationships, not the ex, though that wouldn't be as difficult to get over) for good reason, we can still remember the good in them so long as we are willing to let them go.

And with that, less than 24-hours from the anniversary of heartache and hopelessness, I send the almost-year of Dave off on it's Viking funeral. I push the box of boyfriend off to a sea of memories, and watch it burn.

S'mores anyone?

Heather McDuffin
The Egg McMuffin