Ober and Out

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Dear besties,

If there’s one thing I love, it’s a private bathroom. There’s nothing like being able to do your business without seeing someone’s Easy Spirit pumps dangling in the stall next to you (if the person in the stall next to you is the size of a third-grader, wearing cheap high-heels and sitting on the pot, I mean). I’m not a super fan of the public, multi-stall situations. Mall bathrooms are the worst, mostly because they’re the saddest places on earth. Not like I hang out in malls all that often, but you’re picking up what I’m putting down, right?

Anyway, we’ve all had our share of bad experiences in public toilets- you’ve made too much noise, you haven’t made enough noise, someone else is making a lot of noise or not enough, and on and on. I used to have a major phobia of pooping in a public bathroom. I thought that for some reason it was embarrassing, like people in the other stalls would be judging me for my bodily functions. I attempted to counteract this phobia by asking myself “Lauren, do you judge other people if a plop comes from the other side of the hiney-hider or if a funny toot squeaks out?” The answer is, of course. Hell yeah, I do. I sit and snicker to myself. Then I try to get out of the bathroom as fast as possible so I don’t have to come face-to-face with the offender.

But over the years, contrary to what my family might believe, I have matured. I no longer have public bathroom issues, nor do I have to stifle guffaws when funny noises come from other stalls. I just cover them up by pretending to sneeze. But the fact that I’ve evolved into a mature young lady doesn’t mean that I don’t love a private toilet. So when I started my new job, one of the major selling points was that they had not one, but three private bathrooms for employees. I was in hygiene heaven! One of the facilities is actually in the office and it’s sort of not for pooping since it’s festooned in religious tchotchkes and that sort of makes you feel weird and dirty. It’s more like a museum to Maryism and Jesus fanaticism than it is a place to deposit human waste. It’s the bathroom I use to apply my hair goop in the morning. No, when I really need to, uh, powder my nose, I use the bathroom one floor down, just under my desk in fact.

This is what religiousity looks like.

Today, feeling the undeniable call of nature, I double-timed it down the steps and into my own private sanctuary. But wait— mine own privy chamber had been sullied by cigarette smoke. Cack, cack, gag. Who would do such a thing? I mean, one, it’s illegal. Two, it’s disrespectful. Three, it’s just lazy. Lest I be accused of being a whiner, I have to explain something. I grew up with a father who for years, pretended he didn’t smoke. But in our powder room there was always a haze of cig smoke. My mother didn’t smoke and I’m pretty sure my five-year-old brother didn’t either (that came later with the arrival of homemade bongs found in his jeans pockets). The smell was overwhelming. How was I supposed to lock myself in there and look the collection of Playboy magazines that just happened to mysteriously live under the sink if I was in danger of being asphyxiated by the smoke? As you can see, I have a particular sensitivity to cigarette smoke.

So the fact that someone sullied my own private porcelain throne with cancerous fumes bummed me out. I’m bound to get to the bottom of this. It’s probably one of those do-gooders at Vermont Energy Investment Corporation. He doesn’t want anyone to know he smokes. Or she, Whatever. I’ll flipping expose them. Until then, methinks I’ll have to find another bathroom in which to conduct my private business.