A Tale of Pee Pee Horror!

So, there I am, in the girl’s room, mid-pee, when a GIANT water bug (we call them sewer roaches because they are disgusting, huge, live around water and come in through your plumbing) runs right over my foot (MOTHER FUCKER!!!!!) and decides to hang out by the bathroom door.

I, being the little scaredy cat that I am, start screaming expletives by the dozen.

“Fuck! Shit! What do I do? How do I kill this fucking nightmare? Why me? Someone kill me! Ahhhhh fuck! No! Just no! Shit! Shit! Why did God make these fuckers so big? How are they helping the environment? Fuuuuuuuuuuck me!”

With nothing but abject horror coursing through my veins, I jump up (yes, dripping did occur) and stand there, terrified, like a deer in the headlights.

I’m too scared to even pull up my drawers because taking my eyes off it for even a moment might lead to its escape.

I’m too scared to NOT pull up my drawers because what if it comes after me, with the vengeance that I know is in its disgusting little heart, and runs up my leg into my who-ha.

I’m too scared to try and get past it, so I stand there doing the hoppy-scared-shitless dance.

I’m too scared that if I do get past it to try and find the weapon of its demise, because I can’t see anything in the damn bathroom to end its life with, that it will escape and I’ll find it resting happily on my mouth as I’m trying to go to sleep tonight. (There is NO coming back from that–mental institution, prep me a room.)

I’m too scared to squish it, as it’s the size of a small dog. And I have nothing to squish it with except part of my own body (ummmm… no. Never. Not happening. Nope.).

So, I grab the Paul Mitchell Freeze and Shine hairspray and drown it.

I mean, I emptied half that damn bottle onto the dog-sized sewer roach. No amount of alcohol-filled product could be enough to kill that survive-a-nuclear-bomb nightmare of a predator.

I soak that bastard until I ruin the hardwood floor with all the hairspray. And then I wait. And wait. And wait.

After waging war with my own brain for 10 minutes (“Jodi, the damn thing is dead. It’s safe to move.” versus “Are you fucking kidding? Don’t you dare move! It’s playing opossum!”) I finally ran past it, screaming and twitching from the horror, grabbed a bowl from the kitchen, returned to the scene of the crime, and sealed it in its bowl sarcophagus.

I had the twitchies for the next two days. I KNEW that every itch was some gruesome, prehistoric beetle digging its way into my skin or crawling around in my hair. Of course it wasn’t, but damn if you could tell that to my brain. Thank God I sleep with ear plugs or I’d have never slept with the fear of its relatives laying eggs in my ears.

I still fear retribution from its friends and family.

And no, I have not been back into that bathroom yet. Nope. Need more time to heal. 😉

Hang up your freaking phone while I pee or I will END you!

The next person who talks on the phone in a public bathroom while I am doing my girl-business is going to be on the receiving end of my wrath! 😉

As you guys know, I’m not a proponent of public bathroom anything. My husband doesn’t even know I have a colon or a bladder. He doesn’t need to know. I run the water in the bathroom when anything is going on because NO ONE needs to hear my “bidness.” I pretend I’m brushing my hair or teeth or something other than what I’m doing.

I do realize I am probably a bit insane about such things. If you’ve read my book excerpts, you know how I feel about potty-time. I’m a whacko, I know. But setting my insanity aside, who on God’s green earth thinks it’s appropriate, polite or at all acceptable to be on the phone in a public bathroom if anyone else is in there?

Let me set the stage for the tragic, horrifying phone/bathroom incident I bore witness to recently.

The hubby and I were having dinner in a really nice restaurant–no plastic utensils and they actually had tablecloths. We even had a lit candle on the table. It was lovely. At the end of the meal, I excused myself to go “powder my nose” and when I got to the bathroom it was clear that someone was having a rough time in there. Poor girl. As if being tummy-sick isn’t bad enough, but in public, at a fancy pants restaurant? Total suckage. But 5 glasses of water was taking its toll on me, so I had to stay in there. As I’m preparing to make my deposit, a chick walks in smacking gum like she was in a contest and loudly talking on her phone to a girlfriend. Here’s how it went:

Phone idiot: “Yeah, so I ordered the lobster. Why not? If he’s going to date me, he’s gotta pay! …I know! Right? Dumb ass man. I just wore my red dress…yeah, that’s the one. Whoa! What the hell is that smell? Did something die in here?”

There I am, hiding in a stall, thinking several things:

  • You stupid cow, get the hell out of the bathroom.
  • What a bitch to say such a thing where people can hear her.
  • Why are you on the phone in the toilet room?
  • You are clearly a gold digging whore so I hate you anyway. 😉
  • God, please don’t let her think that awful olfactory nightmare is coming from me! (Horribly selfish thought, I know.)

Phone idiot: “Jesus…I hear one girl peeing. Another girl is apparently dying. This place sucks.”

There I am, still hiding in my stall, thinking:

  • It’s a bathroom, you stupid moron. What else do you expect to find? A pedicure chair?
  • GET OUT so I can finish peeing.
  • Oh god, that poor sick girl. It’s just getting worse and worse it here. It’s humid from the misery in the stall 2 doors down. I’m going to die.
  • If I leave the stall now, I’m going to have to beat her to death with her phone. I don’t wanna go to jail. Remain in the stall!

Phone idiot: “I can’t believe anyone would do this in a public place! Can’t you wait until you get home?”

At this point, I’m done. D.O.N.E. Done! I’m going to leap over the stall door (think Superman here) and teach her a lesson on kindness and etiquette. I quickly get myself situated, roll up my sleeves, prepare myself for battle, come out of the stall, and this girl is Mike Tyson in a dress! If she didn’t spend 17 hours a day in the gym, then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. SHIT!!! What to do now? Just because she’s Tyson (in both personality, looks and demeanor) doesn’t give her a free ride to be a douche bag. So, I gathered up all my strength, said a quick prayer about the safe continuation of my teeth in my mouth (she had HUGE, scary hands!) and said, “Excuse me. I need to get to the sink.” I washed my hands and ran for the door. Yep, I’m total chicken shit!!

Aside from my scaredy-cat behavior, the moral of the story is to GET OFF YOUR FRIGGIN’ PHONE IN THE BATHROOM!!! People want you dead when you are jabbering away on your cell, whether or not they say it. It’s horribly rude. And who wants to be on the other end of the phone listening to splishes and splashes and all kinds of icky stuff? The one place where a woman should always feel like she can take care of her business without an audience is a bathroom.

So, next time you are on the phone in a public bathroom just know that every person in there wants to kick your ass black and blue. They may be too polite (or chicken) to say anything, but if you were to catch fire and asked any of your bathroom victims for help, I’m quite certain none of them would even piss on you to put you out. Well, maybe they’d do that because the irony would be delicious, but I wouldn’t count on it. 🙂

Picture procured from: http://blog.timesunion.com/hottopics/eww%E2%80%A6-most-americans-use-cell-phones-in-the-bathroom/7554/. Smart ass commentary procured from my brain. 🙂