Wednesday, June 25, 2008


I had a pretty good morning. I was up earlier than usual, so I unloaded the dishwasher, did a couple loads of laundry, played with my kitties, and even made myself real food for breakfast. I was feeling a little nauseous, but I tend to feel icky when I am worried and I have a lot of family stuff on my mind. So, I thought nothing of the slight flutter in my tummy.

Eventually, I got around to taking a shower, getting dressed and going to work. By the time I got there, I was thinking maybe I would go home early. I was feeling like maybe I needed to throw up. I got busy at my desk. I let my boss and coworkers know I was going to give it a shot, but was doubtful about making it through the whole day. I was busy doing happy little accounting gnome things when the fact that I really better go to the bathroom NOW struck me.

I have a thing about going to the bathroom. I do not like to admit I am a mere mortal and actually have bodily functions. I do not like to go anyplace but my own house. I do not like the idea of anybody else’s bodily functions possibly coming in contact with my person. At my job where I work now, it is a major miracle to find a ladies room with toilet paper and towels, and soap, and God forbid, a toilet that is not clogged and/or filthy. I have on more than one occasion asked if my kidney transplant from refusing to go for eight hours will be covered on our health insurance. One very special day when no soap or paper products were to be found, I remarked to a co-worker who was similarly dismayed that I "am going to have a fucking nervous break down trying to take a piss in this dump." It is generally a pretty nice place to work, but the lavatory situation is the source of much angst for me and most of my co-workers.

Consequently, the whole having to go NOW thing this morning was terrifying to me. Half way to the nearest lavatory, as I prayed for all the necessary paraphernalia to be present, I was horrified to realize that I was pooping uncontrollably, very slowly, and not at all that prolifically, but pooping nonetheless. At work. In the hallway. In the company with the bathrooms from hell. I wanted to run away and never come back. I wondered if the security camera was high tech enough to telegraph my "oh shit, I’m shitting" face to the sweet man who protects us at work. At last, I arrived in the lavatory. Thankfully, it is a private unisex bathroom. Even more thankfully, there was toilet paper, paper towels, soap, Clorox Clean Up and air freshener. I hit the jackpot.

Despite the growing lump of nausea incarnate in my pretty pink panties, I stopped to clean the toilet because I am a germaphobe, and a couple of my male co-workers have really bad aim. I then took off my skirt over my head, and folded it carefully, and set it on the floor as far from the toilet as possible. No hooks to hang things, that would be asking far too much. I tucked my blouse into the band of my bra to avoid accidental contamination during the remainder of my calamity. At last I succumbed and steeled myself to face the music. I was appalled because as I pulled down my panties, they got twisted, and the little bit of poop got flung on the backs of my legs, the front of the toilet, and the floor. Since it is a very small bathroom, I was able to multitask.

I am sure most people would just throw away their panties in a similar situation, but I really like this particular pair, so I set about dealing with my situation expediently. I put my panties in the sink, and ran hot water on them. Meanwhile, I pooped all the rest of the poop I had to poop. Clorox Clean Uped my legs, the front of the toilet and the floor. All with toilet paper because paper towels cannot be flushed without clogging the toilet, and I certainly did not want to be the one who clogged it and have the whole world know that not only did I take a dump, but took a dump in my panties at work. Nor did I want to leave shitty paper towels in the bathroom garbage.

These tasks accomplished, the door handle began to be periodically shook. No one ever asked if I was OK, or what was going on, but I do think I was being checked on while still respecting my privacy. My stay in house of shame was indeed noticeably extended. The handle jiggling spurred me on in my task. I set about removing the debris from my backside. This was quite a feat as it was everywhere. We have one ply toilet paper that seems to rip every two sheets at work. Oh, the humanity. Once I was satisfied that I was no longer harboring any lingering poop lumps, I washed up my nether regions with some soggy toilet paper. Fearful of the dreaded clog, I flushed periodically throughout my ordeal.

At last I set to the task of dealing with my pretty pink panties. I washed them with the hand soap and hot water and rung them out. I had no fear that their pathetic carcass wrapped in paper towels would draw suspicion. Being notoriously germ averse, I am well known to carry a paper towel with me to avoid actual contact with doorknobs. Then I took the Clorox Clean Up and got that toilet sparkling like it never has before, and also went to town on the sink. I did have my poopie panties in there after all. I then pulled my skirt back on, zipped it, and straightened the seams. I pulled my blouse out of my bra. I flushed the toilet again to cover the sound of the air freshener being sprayed because bizarrely I did not want anyone to know I was doing anything that required air freshener.

I washed my hands, grabbed some more paper towels and my cleverly ensconced pretty pink panties. I opened the door and walked right into the President of the company. If he had any idea about how long I had been in the bathroom, or what I had been up to, he did not say a word about it. I took my pretty pink panties back to my desk, stuffed them in the shopping bag I usually use for my shoes, and got back to work. Nobody said a word to me about my prolonged absence, and nobody noticed that my pretty pink panties were in my desk and not on my ass. It’s not every day I shit my pants, hang out in my heels and my blouse while I play housekeeper, and then go commando all day at work. I’m a pretty, pretty girl.


Plain(s)feminist said...

oh, you poor thing. I laughed and laughed, but I also felt sympathetic - hope you felt better quickly!

Plain(s)feminist said...

This is one of my favorite posts of all time!

SoozieQ said...

It is called "sharting" awful term shared with me by the boys at work. Apparently this happens quite often to men and then they openly talk about it with each other, which boggles my mind. I had at least once where a co worker shared he was going commando due to a sharting incident. Yeah way TMI ;)