Ladies Room-ology 101

Recently, I found myself involved, albeit silently, in a very odd bathroom situation, and it occurred to me that there are apparently some women out there who are unaware of the rules. So, I am here to offer some friendly advice. If there is a woman in the stall next to you waiting quietly for you to leave, then that is exactly what you should do. Leave her alone in peace. One day, it will be you in there, begging with tacit hand gestures and desperate foot stomps for someone else to do the same. It is all about karma.

Laurie Notaro is a hilarious columnist who now has several books out. In her first (and one of my favorites) book, The Idiot Girl’s Action Adventure Club, she writes an article about the different bathroom behaviors of women, pegging those who, like me, need a little privacy to do a number two, as Waiters. The nemesis of the Waiter is the Primper, known by the loud ‘thunk’ of her monstrous purse on the bathroom counter. Notaro hits every nail on the head, and the result is an essay that is absolutely hilarious. However, her attempt to educate the rest of the world of proper ladies-room conduct has apparently been unsuccessful. Case in point, last Friday night.

Every year about forty of Mike’s closest friends get together for a huge, Italian, family-style dinner at a downtown restaurant before attending the Denver premier of Warren Miller’s newest ski movie. Warren Miller creates a new movie each year highlighting the world’s top skiers and slope tricksters, and each year, we fork out almost $30 per person (not counting beers) to go see it. I secretly think the movie is just the same as the prior year’s movie except with new opening credit scenes each time, but I never say this out loud because Mike looks forward to it so much. Either way, the intent of the film is to get everyone geared up for the coming ski season, and it has become the unofficial kickoff to the holidays for Mike and I and many others, too. Fun is typically had by all, and this year was no different, with the exception of the bitches in the bathroom.

Mike and I were a little late to dinner. This is the norm because I have a hard time getting his sorry ass in gear whenever we have to be anywhere; I think he secretly likes to be late. I do not, and so it is a constant battle with us.

We sat down at the table after saying our hellos to the group. In the past, the table had always been crowded with all of Mike’s college friends and their significant others, people he had known for years and with whom I had, by default, become friends, too. This year was a little different. Todd was there, of course, and Matt, and Nicole, all sitting way at the other end of the table, and Denver, (his actual name is Denver, and I think he moved here specifically to ignite the irony of it all) and that is about it. The rest of the huge group of people at the table were basically unknown to both of us, and because we were late, we ended up sitting with a bunch of strangers.

As is his way, Mike dove right in and began making friends with everyone he didn’t know. I did my best with the very-nice couple seated next to us, but that is about as far as I took it because, quite simply, I am not as friendly as Mike is, and I have a severe aversion to small talk. Still though, I was at least trying. Across from us, there were four girls sitting together. They were nice enough, and cute, and younger than most of the early-thirties crowd at the table. I never really got the chance to talk to them during dinner, but we exchanged smiles while passing the colossal plates of pasta back and forth.

Somewhere around dessert, it hit me. I had to go to the bathroom, and it needed to happen right then, and there was some pretty harsh, acute intestinal trauma involved.

I absolutely hate doing a number two in public. I have driven home from the mall, and from Target, and from friends’ houses with my insides in knots, just to avoid the horror of doing what I consider to be world’s most private deed in public. My friend at the office and I have even coined it a “Number 9” referring to the un-leased floor in our old building where it could be done confidentially. Consequently, we have openly lamented the fact that there is no suitable 9th floor-like replacement bathroom in our new building, although the Number 9 moniker stuck . Basically, I’m like that guy from the American Pie movies they call Shitbreak. I hate doing it in public, and I avoid it at all costs, but sometimes it cannot be prevented.

I sat at the table very aware of my dire situation. I stared at my empty plate, which was most certainly the culprit, and pondered my options. There was no way I could make it home between now and the start of the movie, plus, Mike, who has been trying to cure me of this psychological bathroom glitch, definitely wouldn’t have allowed it. I decided that the best thing to do would be to go while we were at the restaurant, rather than making an uncomfortable ten-block walk to the Paramount Theater where the bathrooms would certainly be filthy and teeming with ski bunnies. I excused myself.

Once in the restroom, I locked myself into the nearest available stall, the one in the middle, and I sat down and began my waiting game. The occupant of the stall to my right flushed, washed, and left. Good girl. I continued to wait as the woman to my left started to button and tuck. She flushed, opened the door, walked toward the sink, and… CRAP!!!!! (no, not literally, but figuratively)…her friend walked in and they began chatting. This is when I realized that these were two of the girls who had been sitting across from us at the table. I assumed they were unaware of my presence as they continued their conversation.

“What time does the movie start?”
“I don’t know, but we better get the bill and head out pretty soon"
“That one guy is pretty cute, huh?”
Then silence.
Then more silence.
Then whispering.
Although I was hidden by the steel door, I wasn’t in a sound-proof booth, and I was only sitting approximately four feet from them as the crow flies; their whispers were coming in clear as a bell.

“That girl from our table is just sitting in there,” the first girl stage whispered, and I’ll assume pointed accusingly at my stall door.
“Which girl?”
“That really tall girl in the white sweater”
“What is she doing in there?”

First of all, my sweater was ivory, not white. Second of all, I was really glad they said tall instead of fat, or ugly, or snotty or something. Third of all, I CAN FRIGGIN HEAR YOU!!! I wanted to say it out loud. I wanted to say, “Do you think I’m in here waiting for my health? NO! I am waiting for you bitches to leave so I can tend to my very-important stomach business!!!”

But, alas, I am not that brave. Instead, I coughed. Twice. Then I waited for the first chick to leave and the second one to pee (surely staring at my shoes for identification purposes the whole time) and leave. Then, I was alone. And of course, at this point, I couldn’t even do anything. Those pretty, skinny, young girls with their conniving bathroom sneak attack had constipated me. I would spend the rest of the evening in horrible discomfort, thinking of about fifty different smart-ass retorts I could have spewed from my throne in the stall to shut those bitches up. Had they never shat in public before? Were they just so perfect that theirs really didn’t stink? Did they have no souls!!?!??!

Back at the table, I tried to quietly explain to Mike what had just happened, while simultaneously avoiding the blatant stares of the bathroom princesses who were now huddled together with their two friends in a gossiping hive of blonde ponytails and Prada bags.

“Honey, why can’t you just go like normal people?” Mike asked pleadingly

He really didn’t get it, and it suddenly occurred to me that my very own boyfriend might be just like the disgusting guy at my work who tucks a copy of the Wall Street Journal under his arm and strolls into the men’s room to perform his Number 9 Symphony with no shame whatsoever. It’s just so sad.

Seriously, I don’t know why I have such an issue with what is most certainly a natural bodily function. I don’t know why I have to hide it from the world, but I do, and I know I am not alone. I have my friend from work, and Laurie Notaro, and (I know for a fact) my sister, as allies. Aren’t there any others out there? We need to band together and get the word out before we all do irreparable damage to our colons, not to mention our pride. If there is someone waiting, leave her the hell alone. Tell all your friends; because I now have proof that there are some women in the world who do not know this very basic rule. It is all up to us now.

iPhone-itis

Sorry, Steve Jobs, but I hate your effing iPhone. No offense.

My boyfriend, Mike, says it is because I am jealous that he has one and I don't, but after some real soul searching, I realized that just isn’t the case. I am pretty sure I know what the “i” in iPhone stands for, and that is 'ignore'. It stands for ignore your girlfriend, ignore your job, ignore everything else that is going on around you while you gingerly caress the new love of your life. However, although annoying, it turns out that still isn’t the main issue.

I thought the iPhone was cool… at first… for a few minutes, and then I went back to living my life. I have discovered that Mike, however, has taken on a new "i" dentity. He is bursting with the pride of being an early-adopter, the possessor of a fabulous man-gadget. But most importantly, what I have discovered is that he is now the proud owner of a brand-new, shiny second penis, courtesy of your folks over at Apple. What follows is my theory and the accompanying research.

Mike and I have been together for two-and-a-half years, and over that time we have become pretty familiar with each other’s anatomy. After watching him care for his penis for two years, and then watching him with his iPhone, I have realized that the two are, for all intents and purposes, one and the same. When I explained to Mike that he acts like the iPhone is basically an extension of his penis, he even looked a little guilty and sheepish before he rolled his eyes, and so I knew that I hit the nail on the head. He treats both items the exact same way. He is actually sometimes even a little bit nicer to the iPhone, not because he loves it more, but because it the newer of his two penises. He is so careful with it, and never goes anywhere without it, and he even checks it every couple of hours or so through his jeans to make sure it is still there, just like his original penis. And, just like his original penis, his iPhone also tells him the answers to all of life’s questions. It tells him what to do and where to go, and he can even use one to service the other, accessing pocket-sized porn at the touch of a button.

Many guys might enjoy having two penises, so just as a community service, I am here to tell you that, for $399, you can buy one. An extra penis of your very own. Just don’t expect your girlfriend to swoon.

And it isn’t just my boyfriend who acts this way about his iPhone. When we were watching the Broncos game last week at Hooters (what?) I asked where one of the players went to college. Before he even put his hot wing down, Mike whipped out his proverbial second penis and began touching the front of it, slowly at first, and then with more fervor. And, just as if it were a real penis, people began staring at it. They were whispering to their friends and wives…they were saying “look at that, that guy has one of those second penises…and he is caressing it right here in front of us at Hooters. I need to get me one of those. Only $399 for a second penis.”

And it even started a chain reaction. In typical men’s-locker-room fashion, the other men who were lucky enough to have them began pulling out their second penises so that they could be part of the show. Why should my boyfriend get all of the attention when they had two penises too?
Completely embarrassed, I made Mike put it back in his pants.

So, Steve Jobs, I am sorry to say that I will not be purchasing one of your iPhones. While I truly appreciate the opportunities that having even one penis would provide me, (making more than 75 cents on the dollar, for starters) I will stick with my little flip phone and allow my boyfriend to be the big strong man, the owner of all of the penises in our relationship. At least until it comes out in pink.