Okay, I’m all for honesty and total disclosure in a relationship (except where blogs are concerned because there are some things you have to have that are yours and yours alone if you’re to retain even an ounce of sanity), but there is still one teeny tiny thing that I find myself unable to address or do with Tristan present: in the 1 year, 7 months, and 19 days we’ve been dating I’ve never gone to the bathroom while he’s been around.

Oh sure, I can drain the main vein — no problem. I just can’t…you know, negotiate the release of the chocolate hostage.

If I’m at his place and the need should arise, I simply “remember something I need” at my apartment and dash home to drop the Browns off at the Super Bowl, shower, and then return to his place fresh as a daisy.

On weekend getaways, I either play the “I’m so sleepy from our uber-late 9:45pm evening out last night and I can’t get up this morning” card until he goes out for his morning coffee and then stock the pond with brown trout while he’s out or I just hold it until we get back home.

But if he’s at my place…well, that’s where things get a wee bit trickier.

Take this past weekend for example: about 90 minutes after dinner at a restaurant we’d both been wanting to try, I began to feel the initial rumblings of gastrointestinal distress. Now being in possession of  one hell of a killer sphincter clench, I simply took deep breaths and waited for it to pass.

It didn’t.

So I went to Plan B.

“Hey, that thing you wanted to get for your nephew is totally on sale at Target and we should go get it right now at 7:51pm on a Saturday night before they are all sold out and you are faced with a sad child on Christmas morning. Where’s your shoes? I’ll drive.”

Tristan, of course, was a wee bit confused. “Now? But we’re watching tv…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I replied, snatching the remote from his hands and hitting record on the dvr. “There. It’s taping. Now put on your shoes and let’s get with the going.”

Brow furrowed, Tristan donned his Sketchers and allowed himself to be given the bum’s rush to my car. Less than 10 minutes later, we were at Target. After rushing him over to the toy department and finding the toy in question, I made my move.

“Hey, I’ma go pee. Be right back,” I hissed through clenched teeth, before turning and dashing for the men’s room.

Ten minutes and a complete bowel evacuation later, I found my man and went back home where I used our crazy impetuous late night foray as an excuse for a shower and a change of clothes. Problem solved.

Unfortunately, these sorts of maneuvers will not always be an option what with the crazy fucking mid-western snow-storms and the fact that Target is not open at 3 in the morning which has me pondering how can I get past this issue. (This is nothing new; I was never been able to dump a stink pickle around either of my other boyfriends.) And it’s not an issue for The Fella: he not only will go number two at my place but will fart and actually acknowledge it. (For the record, I always have a bag of recycling materials on hand to take out if the need to pass gas should arise.) I don’t know if it’s the smell or the possibility there could be sounds or what, but I find myself unable to even conceive of a time I could manufacture a three coil steamer when he’s around.

All of which means should we at some point in time move in together, we’re totally going to need two bathrooms.

And not just because I have a wicked extensive hair care regimen.