Had a doctor’s appointment recently, needed some tests done. Nothing big, nothing to really worry about. But they took blood, and they requested I poop in a jar.
Today, I pooped in a jar. Technically, I pooped into a makeshift, construct-at-home little toilet thing. Then I used a (provided) plastic spoon and transferred the poop from the paper toilet to a jar. It was all a mess, because the little toilet thing was then supposed to flush easily. But it clogged the toilet, so I needed the plunger, only my plunger makes a splash, and …
Well, some good. I had my little jar of poop.
The Quest Diagnostics lab is en route to my daughter’s school. So I tightened the cap on the poop jar, placed it in a plastic bag and—following instructions—planned on storing it in the refrigerator until tomorrow morning.
The wife saw me with the bag, heading toward the kitchen. She gave me a weird look.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“My poop. It goes in the fridge.”
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t.”
I explained to her that the poop needs to be cooled, and the fridge is cool and …
“I beg of you,” she said, “drive to the lab now.”
I did, because poop in fridge + angry wife = bad scene.
But I miss my bagged and jarred poop.
We had something special going.