September 08, 2006
Tempting Fate
Yesterday, I fell back on a Barbie "comic" I had done weeks ago because I didn't really have anything to write about. Well, I do have a couple things meandering around my brainpan, but I lack the motivation to devote any time to developing them.
(I put the word comic in quotes because the jury's still out on the comedic quality of it.)
It's what's known in the business as writer's block. (Heh -- like I'm "in the business.") It's not fatal. Like everything else it life, my muses tickle me in fits and spurts. (Ewwwww, spurts.)
Lately, I've been cursing my boring life. Why haven't The Kids done anything hilarious lately? Why does nothing cool ever happen to me? Why do people even read this? Why haven't I quit my job to go live in the wild with a pack of meerkats?
And I should know better. I mean, really, have I already forgotten what happens when I tempt fate like that? Have I forgotten that the universe is run by a sick, spiteful bastard?
Apparently.
Before leaving work on the looooooooong twenty-five minute commute to get home, I always stop to pee. It's Pavlovian. Leaving anywhere? Pee. I was all ready -- had my keys out and my sunglasses hanging on my shirt and my briefcase packed.
So I peed and pinched off a loaf. I leaned over to get some toilet paper (because God forbid they actually put the t.p. near the toilet), and my sunglasses fell off my shirt, between my legs, and through the narrow gap into the toilet.
What are the odds.
They were my favorite pair, off the four I have. I call them my pink Charlie's Angels shades. I'm not sure exactly why. But there they were. My favorite sunglasses. Lovingly spooning a fecal log. Traitors.
I went over my options:
1. Retrieve them. Yeah, that wasn't happening.
2. Flush. Hmm. I could just see the toilet overflowing and little poops swimming across the floor, and I wasn't sure I could outrun them.
3. Leave it. You know, that's not really nice. The women who keep this bathroom sparkling clean are so nice. I'd be a real asshole to do that.
4. Fish them out. I'm no McGuyver, and there was nothing in that stark bathroom, or my purse, for such an occassion. And even if there WAS an appropriate instrument in my purse, hell if I was sacrificing TWO of my belongings to the poopie water.
Which brought me back around to option #1.
I sighed resignedly at the realization that I had to suck it up and take care of my own problem. Then I did what any decent human being would do -- I stuck my hand in the exrement-tainted toilet and fished out my sunglasses.
You heard me -- I stuck my hand in the toilet.
I dropped them in the little trash recepticle because they certainly weren't going on my face again.
My hand, however, wasn't so simple to dispose of. I pulled up my pants as best I could with one hand and quickly ran to the sink for MUCH SOAP AND SCALDING WATER, leaving my belongings still hanging on the stall door. But I doubted the only other woman in there was going to steal them, especially after hearing what she just heard.
That'll teach me to long for something interesting to blog about.
And no, I'm not telling you which hand I used.
Comments
hahaha
im sorry but picturing that was really funny
Posted by: 83 at September 8, 2006 02:54 PM
this story, strangely enough, reminds me why I am glad I don't have children or pets - or any sort of companion that requires one to interact with poop at least twice a day.
ew. poor wenchie!
Posted by: heather at September 8, 2006 05:05 PM
Heheee! It can only happen to you, Wenchie.
Posted by: Snippy Bitch at September 8, 2006 06:47 PM
That is freakin hysterical.
Posted by: Hope at September 9, 2006 12:10 PM
BTW, I mentioned this story to some people at a cookout Saturday to see what they'd do. Every guy said "you fish them out". The difference was, they wouldn't have thrown them away!
Posted by: Hope at September 10, 2006 01:10 PM