Where Do We Go From Here?

Because I'm an erratic spaz—and a redundant erratic spaz, at that—my tales of Corporate Bathroom Woe contain a rather impressively huge GAP. Which is to say that I haven't written about The Puker yet. But because that story has more of an overall tone of desperation to it—and desperation just isn't that funny—I'm going to move right along, past the molehill mountain I manufactured out of this little incident, skipping over The Puker, and on to a more personal episode.

While I could just come out and TELL YOU that this here blather only happened as it did due to MENSTRUATION, I am really quite uncomfortable being that direct. Seriously. There are SO MANY WORDS in the world; why would I reveal my entire agenda for this post with just one? So instead of coming straight to the point with a straightforward—but suitably genteel, introductory CAUTION—I would instead like to suggest that those of you who are happy pretending that the female orifice otherwise known as "The Happy Place" is always pristine and ready for fun (you know, as opposed to GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME, THE AMUSEMENT PARK IS CLOSED DUE TO EXTREME FLOODING AND BY THE WAY I WOULD ALSO LIKE TO KILL YOU FOR LEAVING THE @$*%$%@^&@$ TOILET SEAT UP AGAIN, YOU @#$*#@&%^$, GOD WHY DON'T THEY MAKE INDUSTRIAL-STRENGTH MIDOL®?), well. This post may not, in fact, be for you.

(Mind you, I'm not going to go into excruciating detail about THE MENSES—no more than I just did, anyway—but the fact remains that without this particular facet of BEING A GIRL, I would have a story to tell here. Or here, but that little episode was supposed to be a surprise.)

ANYway, not long ago, in a Corporate bathroom not far away, I had occasion to use the feminine hygiene disposal unit situated handily in the stall. If you are unfamiliar with the stunning array of styles of such units—and if you are a BOY, you might well be—I shall briefly describe said device as, in this case, a metal box situated between the stalls, with flappy, swinging lids accessible from either stall, lined with plain brown paper bags. In this way, you see, efficiency of space is maximized, although a little assembly is required to cut a hole in the wall and install these ugly—but necessary—devices.

Anyway, there I was, with something to dispose in one hand, my stunningly unfashionable Corporate-approved pantaloons in some disarray, and one free hand. It's a typical issue for us females, so do TRY to have some sympathy for the awkwardness of the moment, while I rejoice—YET AGAIN—at the fact that The Pill permits me to experience these anti-joyous moments only FOUR times a year now, and then imagine what would happen if, in such a moment, one discovered that the swinging flap-door of the aforedescribed between-stall feminine hygiene disposal unit DIDN'T SWING.

Huh, I thought, grateful for the deadly silence of the bathroom (I was alone, thankyouverymuch), it's stuck or something.

It wasn't really even a conscious thought, being SOMEWHAT PREOCCUPIED as I was with the task at hand (so to speak), and so I rather distractedly and not-at-all thoughtfully prodded a bit harder at the non-swinging lid. Hello, I just wanted to trash the trash in my other hand and return to the copy-paste coma that WAS my task du jour! So in a matter of about a second, I went from a standard tap to a bit of a poke—certainly nothing to write the Ironman competition abot—and then, with a sound that can only be conveyed accurately as a SUDDEN SHRIEK, LIKE THE LAUNCH OF A GREAT AND POWERFUL ROCKETSHIP ...

... that entire between-stall box blasted out of its between-stall resting spot, flew into the commode in the next stall, and clattered to the floor with an UNHOLY metal-to-porcelain-to-tile racket that HAD to have transcended the hallowed, quiet, sanctity of the phone booth bathroom stall.

I crouched a bit, to peer through this new window—with intense and renewed gratitude for the resumption of crypt-like silence, and saw the formerly between-stall box lying haplessly on the floor directly in front of the next stall's toilet, which appeared to be injury-free. In fact, it had a bit of attitude, like, "Oh yeah? You think you can take ME? Why, your flappy doors didn't even have the balls to COME WITH YOU on your stupid attack, you dumbass feminine hygiene disposal unit."

As for me, I still had a problem. Well, now I had several problems, and it's surprisingly hard to concentrate when your pants are askew and you have something to dispose of but can't quite reach the garbage, because it went and JUMPED THE FRICK OUT OF YOUR STALL. My other problem was that, after briefly sputtering for the right invective for such a situation, I could NOT. STOP. LAUGHING. That's right, despite full-onset of menstrual mortification—also commonly experienced when a tampon falls out of your purse—and a rising tide of introvert embarrassment avoidance—OH MY GOD DON'T LET ANYONE COME IN HERE NOW—I was laughing like a hyena at the dentist. It was tear-inducing laughter, no less, which is the only thing that makes it possible for me to commit this tale to cyberspace.

Anyway, I did manage to one-handedly pull my pants together, wrap the other THING up in a wad of toilet paper, and zip into the other stall unseen. I made a deposit in the on-floor disposal unit and then shoved it somewhat crookedly back into place, not stopping to confirm that the flaps were flapping or that such a power-shift would not occur again.

And now, I'm on the hunt for a DIFFERENT Corporate bathroom. Because one's got The Puker and one's got Unstable Disposal Units, so despite a fairly major case of trepidation, I'm thinking there's got to be quite a range of bloggable features in the various other bathrooms on campus.

Who knows? Maybe one of them is even a NORMAL BATHROOM.