Meeting Ann

I spent the day with Ann St. Vincent on Sunday. You know you guys are jealous. And you should be.

 

Before we met, I’d had this image of her in my head. Something like a cross between Anne Bancroft in  Mrs Robinson, but blonde and blue eyed, but with the hairstyle of Tippi Hedren in The Birds. I don’t know why I was imagining her as some woman from the 60s. She is barely older than myself.

I just noticed they are both smoking.

And in the same pose.

I tried not to build her up too much in my mind before I met her. After reading her blog it is almost impossible not to. But I needn’t have worried. She was as charming as she seems to be on her blog. And just as funny too.

 

When I first got to her hotel, I got a little worried. It was fancy. Way fancier than any place I’d normally be comfortable. And I wasn’t comfortable.

 

She had me valet my car which is really only something I’ve done at the fancy-pants Emergency Room I go to. When I walked into the lobby it smelled like money and sexy man cologne.

 

I went into the hotel’s bathroom to pee before going up to meet her. The bathroom STALL was bigger and classier than my entire bathroom in my apartment. It had a frosted glass door for fuck’s sake.

20141102_103010

Seriously, look at this beautiful place!

When I finished, I went to wash my hands. I coated them in liquid hand soap and then paused. There was no knob to the faucet so I expectantly put my hands under the sink, expecting it to be an automatic. But nothing happened.

 

I looked around. Was I missing something? I started twisting things and pressing things. It was like trying to play a game of bop it.

 

I held my hands under the faucet again. I tend to have issues with automatic dispensers. I can only assume because I do not have a soul.

I haven’t walked into one yet, though.

But nothing happened. I started pressing more and more unlikely things. I was pushing on random tiles in the wall. Like it was some secret passage in a castle that would lead me to the land of water.

 

And still, I couldn’t figure out the magical combination to get that damn sink to turn on. It was like the three seashells in Demolition Man. I was just stuck, with my hands covered in soap. What I really needed was an adult, but they are never around when you really need one.

Look J, a three seashells joke for you.

So I finally broke down and rinsed them with the water in my water bottle.

 

I went back out into the lobby feeling like a failure. I couldn’t even pass the first fancy person test of washing my hands in the bathroom. An entire family was mean mugging me while I waited for Ann to come meet me. I was starting to regret the whole thing.

 

And then I met Ann. She greeted me with a big hug. Which I normally don’t like, but for some reason, it was okay with her. I suspect she just has that ability to put people at ease.

 

She completely swept me off my feet. She paid for my valet parking. She bought me lunch. I felt like the prostitute in Pretty Woman, only less pretty. I joked several times that I was going to swoon. If she was trying to get into my pants, it was totally working.

My outfit wasn’t that bad. I hope.

But she wasn’t.

 

We talked until my throat was sore. She is an excellent conversationalist too. I was my typical weirdo self. We talked about everything from my usual serial killers and cannibalism to sex and the hilarity of unsolicited dick pics.

 

We even got to talk about the real problems with lesbian porn (fake fingernails, fingering, and probably some gross vaginal bacterial infections from funky fake fingernails). My issues with betiality (lack of consent on the part of the animal). And pegging.

 

She’s even trying to get me to do a guest post on her blog, so stay tuned for that.


If I can be serious for a moment (and I can because it’s my blog). I never expected this blog to be more than some good therapy/entertainment for me. But instead it has turned into this whole community of wonderful people and connections. I have gotten more emotional support from my blog friends than I have from most of my real life friends. And as I am turning my blog friends into real life friends, I am so grateful to be here and to know the people that I know. Thank you guys.

Finding the Loo

Hmm, my one year blogoversary was on Saturday and I missed it. Oh well.

I try to not talk too much about my current job, but I’ve already broken the seal with the vagina story. So here is another one.

 

I have worked at my company going on 11 years. But I only transferred to my current office about 4 years ago. It doesn’t really matter where I go, I am the only woman. Or one of very few women. My current office employs over 100 men and me.

 

This is relevant because it leads men to be very creepy towards me in the workplace. I get that I am one of very few women. But when we have our quarterly meetings there are 500 men and about 10 women, if even. So that means that walking around that space is like walking a gauntlet of 1,000 prying eyes.

Apparently this is not a new phenomenon…

I used to think I was imagining it. Until men came up to me from others offices, months or even years later to tell me about the first time they ever saw me. I did not meet these men. They just noticed me and apparently never forgot me. It doesn’t make me feel flattered, it makes me feel scrutinized and othered and creeped out.

 

The first time I ever attended one of our quarterly meetings, I was especially self conscious. I didn’t really know anyone at this new office, in this new region. I was kind of standing off to the side, trying to avoid any eye contact that would be taken as an invitation to come talk to me.

 

Except, I had to pee. Really badly. And I didn’t know where the bathrooms were because we hold our meetings at the Shriner’s club. But I also didn’t want to wander around and give all these men a chance to be gross towards me. Or interact with me in general.

Our meetings would be greatly improved if we could drive one of these little cars.

I decided to approach someone and ask for help. Ideally someone that worked at the Shriner’s Club.

 

I saw a man talking to a group of suits. The man was wearing VERY casual business casual. He was unshaven and unkempt. He looked hungover with bloodshot eyes and was in a state of general disarray.

 

Most people at our company wear name tags, and since he wasn’t, I assumed he didn’t work for my company. I approached the group and walked straight up to him.

 

He finished his sentence and turned to me. He smiled and said “Hello. What can I do for you?”

 

He was very friendly and looked to be in his late 40s. I smiled back and said. “Can you tell me where the ladies’ bathroom is?”

 

The other men in the group looked taken aback. I assumed it was because I was a female, asking a male where the bathroom was. Or because women aren’t supposed to do such disgusting things like have bodily functions. A lot of men at my job act that way.

No girls do, from what I hear.

But the man I approached did not even bat an eye. He smiled even wider and said’ “You know what? I don’t know where it is. I’ve never had to use it. But let’s find it.”

 

He said goodbye to the group of suits and together he and I went into the building in search of the bathroom.

 

We very quickly found it and I felt a little better about walking through the crowds of men with an escort. I am not so shy these days. Plus, I am the boss now, so that helps.

Beyonce Half-Time animated GIF

And I’m walking around like this. Seriously, they make fun of me for it all the time.

After I used the facilities I headed back outside and took a seat in the picnic area, again, away from everyone.

 

And that’s when several people came over to me.

 

“What did you do?” Asked one.

 

“What did you say to him?” Asked another.

 

I was really confused. I still thought he was a janitor. He hadn’t introduced himself as anything other. Or seem offended to help me find a toilet. “I asked him where the bathroom was.”

 

The guys that had come over to me looked horrified. “Why would you ask him that?!”

 

This is where I should have realized something was up. But I didn’t. So I said “Because I had to pee.”

 

“But why HIM?”

 

“Why not him? I don’t get it. He was nice. He helped me find that bathroom. What’s the problem?”

 

“That’s K!”

 

I didn’t know who K was. I was still really new. I stared at them blankly.

 

They told me his last name. But I still didn’t know who that was. I replied “So?”

 

Then they explained. “He’s our boss’s boss’s boss. Like three levels above our level.” They were looking at me, expecting a reaction.

Cursitivity Drawing for 124

I made you guys a flow chart of the hierarchy at the time.

“Well, he was nice. And he helped me find the bathroom so who cares?”

 

I explained to them that I had thought he was a janitor. And they explained to me that the group of suits he’d been talking to were our company’s vice president, CEO and other such higher ups.

 

I kind of laughed and shrugged it off. I couldn’t change it now. K is currently my boss’s boss. He is still very cool and nice and I really like him. And I’m sure he still remembers me as the woman that interrupted his conversation because I had to pee.


That’s how I first got my reputation at this office as being both incredibly weird and having huge balls. I had that same reputation at my other office but for a different reason, which I will tell at some point.

Suppository

After this post, I figured I may as well bite the bullet and finish what I started. So, here you go, the next humiliating thing that happened on that hospital stay.

Two days after the fingering incident, the hospital and my doctor were interested in releasing me to go home and recover in the comfort of my own bed. Where the TV  isn’t censored. It’s a religious hospital and I can only go so long without seeing adult language, adult content, and nudity.

Displaying 20130613_033839.jpg

I took this beauty from the same chain of hospitals. I wish I had taken a picture of the 20 foot tall mosaic at my hospital. I may go back and get one. It’s worth it.

Some of you may not know this, but you aren’t allowed to leave the hospital after a surgery until you have a *ahem* bowel movement. (I won’t be offended if you choose to skip this post and move on to the next one).

The problem was that I was not having one. Between the reaction to the morphine, the physical pain, the emotional humiliation, the medicines, and the terrible cardiac ward food, nothing was forthcoming.

Every time the nurse came in she would check the toilet to see if I had had one. Because in the hospital you are not a trustworthy adult. You are a petulant child that must shit into a pan to get released.

Another day went by. Waiting to be released from the hospital is exactly how I imagine hell to be (if it existed). You are in serious pain. They wake you up every few hours all day and night to poke you with needles and press on your wounds painfully so you never get a goddamn minute of sleep. They humiliate you. There is no much bullshit and red tape. And then, you can’t leave. Ever!

Finally the nurse came in to talk to me directly. This was the same one from the fingering story and she had been avoiding me in an obvious and humorous way. She told me that it had been 4 days with no movements and it might be a good idea to take a suppository.

I didn’t know what she meant by a suppository, I mean, I knew what one was. But I thought that’s how you gave pills to horses and how teenagers get really fucked up on ecstasy.

Fun fact: A suppository can be administered not just up the anus but also in the vagina or the urethra for men. You’re welcome.

For my five male readers; there you go, gentleman.

But she was talking about giving me some kind of stool softener suppository to help me “go” so I could get the hell out of the hospital. I really really did not want to do this. But I wanted to go home more.

She got me the suppository. It was huge! Which I guess makes sense because it’s not like I was trying to swallow it.

Like a fucking missile!

I went into the bathroom. Remember the whole serious agony/heart surgery thing? Yeah, there was no way I could contort myself to get this pill in my own ass. I could still barely bend at my hip bones.

I’m glad I got to use this picture.

I called the nurse back and told her the situation. The look on her face was one I will treasure for many long years to come. I swear to you, I could read her mind at that exact moment. And she was thinking “Seriously, bitch? I already had to root around in your nasty vagina. Now I have to put my hand up your ass? Fuck this job.”

But instead she tried to convince me that I really could do it if I just tried harder. And I assured her that there was no fucking way I could bend like that without re-opening my wounds.

I did not feel the slightest bit bad for her. This was her job. And if anyone was going to be embarrassed it was me. And I had instead chosen to find it all very hilarious. But that may have been the drugs I was on.

At this point, A stepped in. He offered to do it.

I tried to talk him out of it, mostly to fuck with the nurse. But he was very insistent on putting that suppository in my ass (you men, so obsessed with anal).

So we went back into the bathroom and he assisted me. I assume nobody wants the gory details of this, it was pretty straightforward anyway.  I have never taken anything for constipation before or since. But I can say it definitely works as intended. I was released later that day.

Of course, I developed a huge hematoma and had to go back in to the hospital almost immediately, but that is a story for another day.

Gas Station Bathroom

This story may be a new low for my blog. Up till now I’ve kept things mildly classy. And all that is about to go out the window. We all knew it was going to happen sooner or later.

 

A few years ago I held a position at my job that required a significant amount of driving. In fact, all I did was drive all day long. Most of that driving was done in residential neighborhoods.

 

As such, I didn’t always know where I would end up going to the bathroom on a day to day basis. I tried to only use ‘clean’ places. Like Walgreens or Publix. But more often I was reduced to using gas stations.

 

I’ve gotten freakishly good at knowing, just from seeing the outside, how a gas station bathroom is going to be. It’s like a super power. And I’ve created a list of rules to live by.

 

Never use a gas station bathroom that has the bathroom entrance outside.

Hell. Fuck. No.

Hell. Fuck. No.

Never use a gas station bathroom that requires you to get a key with some giant thing attached to it. Common items are rulers, dolls, sawed off 2x4s. And finally, never use a gas station bathroom that is not a chain store.

The classic.

The classic.

 

There are rules about certain neighborhoods to not use a gas station bathroom in too. But I can rarely afford to be that picky.

 

I also have rules about certain chains that I will never use. But I don’t know if I want to slander anyone’s good name here. So I won’t.

 

Also, I always bring a paper napkin in with me in case there is no toilet paper. I keep a stash in the glove compartment of both my vehicles. I can do without paper towels, or even soap. (I have hand sanitizer). I can even do without a door that locks if I have to. But I absolutely cannot do without toilet paper.

 

One day I stopped at a reputable chain of gas stations to take a leak. This particular chain is the lowest I will go in a non-emergency situation. But it was also the only place around for miles.

 

I walked inside and was dismayed to see that this particular station only had one bathroom. For men and women to share. I have no aesthetic issue with sharing a bathroom with men. In fact, I use the men’s room almost as frequently as the women’s.

 

My issue with unisex public bathrooms is that: even though they get twice as much traffic, they aren’t cleaned twice as often. In fact, they seemed to be cleaned less than a gender segregated bathroom.

 

But it was bordering on an emergency and I didn’t think I’d make it to another location.

 

I walked in and found the room to be in my expected state of filth. I could handle it. I can handle almost anything as long as my expectations are met.

 

I pulled my pants down, honestly, farther down than I generally do. And I did my business. I don’t even know where my mind was. There was nothing remarkable about anything that had happened thus far in that day.

 

I should just go ahead and admit here that I love bathroom graffiti. It is amusing and entertaining. Actually, I like all forms of graffiti.

graffitti

 

When I finished, I went to pull up my underwear. And that’s when I saw it. There was a brown smear all across the inside of my underwear. My lovely pink underwear that I had recently bought. In fact, I couldn’t have worn them more than once or twice.

 

Also, I knew I hadn’t had an accident. I was confused for a moment. Staring at what could only be poo. I leaned in to sniff it. Maybe it was, I don’t know, chocolate, somehow?

 

No, it was definitely poo. And it was definitely not mine.

 

I looked down at the toilet bowl. And there it was. Something I had somehow missed when entering the bathroom. Something I had somehow missed when pulling my pants and underwear down.

 

Someone had gone all over the toilet base. It wasn’t just on the base of the toilet. It was running down the underside of the bowl.

 

When I pulled my underwear down so far, I somehow managed to not only brush against it. I managed to smear it all over my lovely underwear.

 

I angrily went through the process of loosening my boots so I could step out of my pants, without stepping in my bare socks, on a public, gas station bathroom floor. I had to balance very precariously as I also didn’t want to accidentally touch myself with my ruined underwear.

 

I stepped out of the underwear and threw them in the trash. Then I got re-dressed. It felt wrong to go commando. I needed underwear. I hated the feeling of my jeans on my naked privates.

 

I washed my hands several times. As I exited the bathroom I breathed a sigh of relief that I had noticed the smear before pulling my pants up. Because that is not something I would have ever recovered from.

I won’t be offended if anyone stops following me after this horror story. Honestly, it’s probably for the best. Shit is going to start getting weird over here. And I have way more repulsive stories to tell.

Urination

When my younger sister and I were very young and impressionable, we saw a news story about a man going to the bathroom on his toilet in his own house when a snake came out of the sewer pipe and bit him on the butt.

snake in toilet

True story

 

I had not been afraid of snakes. And I am still not. But that story made me and my sister terrified of sitting on a toilet. And I still am (but only a little).

 

As a result, I would wait to go to the bathroom until it was a total emergency and I was nearly pissing myself. I wanted to spend as little time as possible on the toilet. I would jump up as soon as I was done, fearful of something biting my ass.

 

My little sister took a more drastic approach. She began peeing in plastic cups. But she wouldn’t dump them down the drain. I am not sure why. Was she saving them for later? Was she afraid of all drains and not just the one in the toilet?

 

She would pee in these cups and leave them all over the bathroom counters. It was obnoxious and disgusting. I hated having to smell her pee everytime I went into the bathroom because she couldn’t pee like a normal person. Like me.

 

One day I came up with an evil idea. I don’t even know where this idea came from. I used to think I was the good one, until I started this blog. And remembered this story.

 

I called my little sister into the bathroom. I told her the secret to how our older sister had grown so tall and beautiful. My older sister was the most attractive tall person either of us knew in real life. I told my sister; she drank her own pee.

urine

Full of urea goodness.

 

I don’t know how I convinced her of this. I guess because she was a little gullible and because she very much trusted me.

 

She took one of her plastic cups of urine. She put it to her lips. And took a gulp. You might know where this is going. That exact moment was when my mother walked into the room.

 

My mother walked in on me gleefully watching my little sister take a huge swig of her own urine. I like to believe as soon as the initial bitter taste of it hit the back of her throat it engaged her gag reflex. This caused her to sputter and spray her mouthful of urine out in a lovely spray all over herself, and me, and the bathroom mirror. And? My mother.

 

She was like one of those fountains with the peeing cherubs. Except it was actually urine in this case. And it was coming out of her mouth. And it was getting all over us. Like when you see kids running through those fountains that shoot up out of the ground and you are super jealous even though you know that’s how you get bacterial infections and hepatitis and all but god damn it is hot out and the water looks AMAZING.

I think my mother grounded me until I was 30, so I technically am not allowed out with you guys for another six months. But; my sister drank her own pee. So: Worth it!