I'll Stand By You Part 2 **Warning: It's a Story Involving a LOT of Shit**

(continuing from Part 1)

Satisfied with all the preparations I've made, I entered the bathroom, closed the door, and made myself comfortable.  I flipped through my first tabloid magazine, not forgetting to flush the toilet every now and then as was my habit.  Can't stand the thought of having those brownies piling up only inches from my butt, you know.  Eww, gross!  (if you think that's gross, then wait til you read this...)

Halfway through my second tabloid and a few toilet flushes later, I had this peculiar feeling that something was off.  By then I had finished my business anyway, and was only there because I wanted to read in peace.  With reluctance, I started to clean myself up.  With one final flush before I go, I stood up and was just about to leave the toilet cubicle when something caught my eyes.

Turned out that all those times that I had flushed, the little shits (literally) didn't go down.  The toilet was blocked, either by all the tissue paper I had so poorly disposed of earlier, or by the motherload I had just dumped into the bowl.  Either way, the situation was quickly getting out of hand, because it became obvious to me that this shit ain't going down anytime soon.  In fact, it's slowly rising and I didn't need to be Einstein to figure out that the final outcome will NOT be pretty.

Rendered motionless by the horror of it all, I was torn between calling the hotel's maintenance pronto, or cleaning after it myself.  If I called the maintenance, how on earth was I going to explain my situation?  "Err, hello, this is room 313, and I'd like to report an emergency.  There's a rising pile of shit that's about to overflow your beautiful bathroom floor?"  How was I ever going to save face when the maintenance crew came knocking at my door?  How could I ever look those nice, friendly Balinese people in the eyes once they've seen the things that came out of my butt??  I felt like that kid who had just been caught stealing with her hands still inside the cookie jar.  There was not a single lie that could cover the predicament I was in.  I was doomed to be "that woman whose shit blocked the toilet and flooded the bathroom's floor" from here on forward.

 "No, there is NO friggin way you're gonna clean it yourself! How? Don't tell me you're gonna be scooping poop out of the toilet bowl.  Even if you do, where are you gonna dump 'em?  You're not seriously thinking to do it with your bare hands, are you??  You're OCD, remember?!??"  I was practically scared shitless (no pun intended).  I couldn't think, I couldn't move.

Finally, sounds coming from the TV outside broke me out of my stupor.  I shut the bathroom door, grabbed the nearest phone, and called maintenance.  After I told them to hurry, I just HAD to add, "I'm so sorry...  but you know how it is with 5 year olds... "

Did I just LIE?  Was that me, pointing my finger at my sweet, innocent daughter?  Bad, bad, BAD mommy!  You'd think I'd get down on my knees and repent to God Almighty right there and then.  But it's me we're talking about here.

Blinking lights, ladies and gentlemen, World's Worst Mom moment coming right up!  As soon as I hung up the phone, I told my daughter that the maintenance people were coming to fix the toilet.  I explained to her why she must open the door when the doorbell rings.  I even gave her the tip money, wrapped in paper, to give to the maintenance crew once they completed the job.  And where would Mommy be when this happened?  Well, Mommy's gonna be outside in the patio, behind that little screen right there (because Mommy is a coward who's gonna hide her sorry bump where nice, friendly Balinese people can't find her).

 (please continue to Part 3)