Let's get honest for a second. We're friends, aren't we? We talk about plenty of gross things on Total Beauty: volcano-like acne, blizzard-like dandruff, unwelcomed hairs in unmentionable crevices. So let's join hands and make this a safe space to talk about the one gross thing we all have in common.

We're talking about poop.

Personally, I've never deliberated dookie on the Internet before, but now that we're doing this, I've decided whoever started that nasty rumor that girls don't poop is a traitor. They set an impossible standard. Public pooping has become more common a phobia than public speaking. And clowns. Even death itself. Because no matter how dainty your food choices -- well-portioned salads, pink macarons -- it all looks the same on the other end. Unlike movies and pushups, there's no such thing as "girl poop."

Or is there...?

As it turns out, there sort of is. It's called Poo-Pourri -- the "Before-You-Go Toilet Spray" -- a ladylike spritz bottle filled with essential oils that recently showed up on Total Beauty's doorstep.

Poo-Pourri promises to naturally fumigate even the most noxious droppings, thus giving us free rein to unload like the animals we are and reversing poo shame forever. Here's how it works: You spray the stuff into the toilet before No. 2-ing, and then proceed as usual. The fragrant formula creates a barrier on top of the water, trapping your nuggets and their malodorous bouquet underneath. (You can choose from a variety of scents, including Original Citrus, Juniper Woods and Lavender Vanilla). Unlike an air freshener, it doesn't mask the smell -- or, heaven forbid, combine with it to create a powdery, crap-stained cocktail that's enough to make you want to crawl under the toilet and die. Instead, Poo-Pourri traps the stink at the source and flushes it away, as if it were never there.

In other words, girl poop. It sounded too good to be true. So, we decided to put it to the test firsthand. Winning the award for my strangest ever assignment, I was tasked to doo in the following high-risk environments: my apartment with the door open and my boyfriend in the next room, the first stall of my office's public restroom and the bathroom of a crowded, trendy new restaurant in L.A. "Take photos!" my editor told me. Hey, it's my job. I charged my camera and took a fiber pill.

First: My apartment. My boyfriend and I love each other enough to pee with the door open, but our bond is not (nor will it ever be) strong enough to withstand exposed poopage. Every time that bathroom door closes, we know to stay away. So when I entered the loo with the intention of dumping, door ajar, boyfriend in sight, I was nervous. Luckily, I am a speedy pooper. But the smell? I have no control. I took a deep breath and squatted.

Everything was going swell until I noticed I had forgotten to spray the freaking Poo-Pourri. Roadblock No. 1: It is difficult to remember to spray beforehand. After years of Febreezing the smell away after the deed, this order reversal threw me. I finished my business and frantically sprayed the toilet. Miraculously, I flushed, sniffed, and all I got was a clean, lemony scent. (I went with Original Citrus).

Could I fool him? Clueless, my boyfriend entered the bathroom just as I exited, peed with the door open and never mentioned a thing. Somehow, I effed up the Poo-Pourri, and somehow, it still worked. Experiment No. 1: Success.

Onto the next ...

My new confidence in Poo-Pourri's power made the hip L.A. eatery a snap. The following week, I made a hard-to-get reservation at the new "It" spot in my neighborhood. All day, I resisted the urge to No. 2, so I knew by the time I got there I'd have a real gift to bestow upon its porcelain throne.

Amidst a pack of thin, blonde women and their beanie-clad boyfriends, I stood in line for the WC, Poo-Pourri stashed in my purse. With all the wine being consumed around me, I knew there'd be a steady stream of visitors after me, so the pressure was on to leave the place pristine. You can do this, I reminded myself. You and Poo-Pourri are a team.

My turn. I slid into the cozy, well-decorated john. Spritz, squat, poo, flush. Nothing left behind but a lemon-scented memory. I felt not a twinge of anxiety as the leggy lady in line behind me headed in. Astounding. There was nothing the Poo-Pourri couldn't do.

That is, until I got to the office ...

No one wants to be the girl who stinks up the company can. You know, the girl who sits silently in her stall for half an hour as rotations of women effortlessly relieve themselves around her, a veritable dragon brewing in her bowels, begging to be unleashed. When will they leave me alone?? she wonders in agony, waiting for a moment of peace to detonate. Pooping in a bathroom with stalls is such a different game.

Horrifyingly, the moment nature called for me to head to the office latrine was the very moment it called half the Total Beauty staff, too. Shit, I thought for every reason. I hid the Poo-Pourri between the pages of a notebook as I tried to play it cool on the walk down the hall.

Surrounded by discerning colleagues, I nabbed the first stall and spritzed thrice, before realizing that in this communal environment, the problem would be less the smell and more ... well, the sound. Sure, my stall might not smell like poo, but it sure would sound like it.

So, I did what any self-preserving office pooper would do: I coordinated my mind with my sphincter and timed to tap the flush right as turd hit water. Three, two, one: Success. No smell, no plop, no evidence. I smiled at a coworker in the mirror as we washed our hands side by side, smugly satisfied with my little secret. Me and the Poo-Pourri really were a team.