Squishy Situations

It’s just getting worse. The dilemma of avoiding germs at all costs has me in a funk. From keeping little bottles of Purell’s instant hand sanitizers in each of my coats and one in my purse--to keeping a full bottle of rubbing alochol on my desk. This has truly become either an obsession or I’ve mastered the art of battling germs. Or have I? Even with the warmer weather coming in, I still find myself wearing gloves when I go to the grocery store so I don’t have to touch those shopping carts. Maybe I should just get those long fancy gloves looking like a princess on crack. Lovely.

My girlfriend kissed my hand last night. What a gentleman, huh? ...No. She kissed my hand and all I could think of was, “I need my Purell!” What’s my deal? She holds my hand, looks at me and feels me pulling away a bit. She continues to stare at me and tries to draw my hand back in. Oh no sister! You are not kissing my hand again! I have this weird thing with anyone kissing my hand. (And no Madelene, no one else kisses my hand but you…) I always get myself into heaps of trouble with my big fat mouth. As I said in a previous post, my girlfriend and I went out last Saturday night to meet her friends at this nearby restaurant. After drinking a few martinis, the dam broke and a bathroom trip was in order. Usually, the bathroom situation in that restaurant is just amazing. No droplets on the sink and no leftover remains of someone’s dinner lying in the bottom of the toilet. The clientele is either a classy bunch, or their cleaning crew has OCD as well. You really never know who walked in there before you.

So I open the door to stall #1… Unt-uh. There is no way I am parking my rear on that seat. It looked as though some girl pissed standing up. I am not kidding. Fine, I have two more doors to check.

Stall #2… You’ve got to be kidding. I know sometimes they throw in garbanzo beans into the antipasto appetizer, but I didn’t think it would show up “whole” in someone’s stool. Just lovely. I have one more door to swing open, and it’s the good ol’ handicap stall. (The one I should be using since I was three sheets to the wind here…)

Stall #3… Ah. Perfect. Nothing seems to be stirring in this stall. The handicap gals that dined here were some classy chickies. Great. So I continue to pull down my pants and proceed with draining these potent martinis down the loo. What the? All I felt was ~squish~… You ever hear of black ice? It’s there, but you just can’t see it? I ran into ‘black piss’. What’s wrong with women? I know, I know---levitate, levitate! But I’m tired, I’m drunk, and I need to sit and take a pee in peace. No. It never happens that way. Maybe if I didn’t close out restaurants and bars, I wouldn’t have this problem. Everything in moderation, right?

I get up, and my ass is soaking wet. The worst part about it was, there was only enough toilet paper for the ‘essential duties’ which I intended for. This? It was more like someone threw a bucket of piss on my backside. How the heck am I going to clean up? I had to think fast, because I'd been in the bathroom long enough for someone to check up on me.

I prayed. Yes…God helped me with this one. I prayed, and ran out with my slacks around my ankles and grabbed the paper towel that was dangling off the machine.

Shit! They only gave me enough to blow my nose with! I try to grab another one—but the machine had to wait a few seconds, because it only dispensed one sheet at a time when it detected your hand in front of it. Fricken technology sucks when you’re ass is hanging out for all to see--if someone were to walk in. How embarrassing! Still praying—I waved my hand in front of the high-tech dispenser a few times and got what I needed.

I cleaned up the best I could and walked back out to join my friends again. What happens when I sat back down in my chair?