My Red Letter Day

I generally like Wednesdays.  It’s Hump Day…the day that means the work week is half over.  And I was ready for this day to be over.

Quitting time was marked by the animated foreman as he grabbed the tail of that animated bird at the broadcast equivalent of the Slate Rock and Gravel Quarry, pulled it hard making it squawk loudly and that was our cue.  Down the dinosaur’s back we slid.

I yabba-dabba drove home and walked through my front door and into the loving arms of……my cat.

Now, this is the part where you inquire as to why my day was so bad.  Then that would be followed by the part where I explain why.

But trust me, It won’t be pretty.

I got to work at my prescribed time and did so in the midst of a nasty thunderstorm.  We’re talking a full spectrum onslaught from the angry cumulonimbus above.  It was a heavy rain, lightning…the works.   I broke a number of bones in an accident several years ago and days like this  wreak havoc on me physically.  Walking is tough; sitting ain’t no treat neither.  So, I had that against me and then there was the work load.  I had three commercials to write and a slew of other things that while easy, are extremely tedious.   And I’m on a deadline.  My own really, but I make it my goal to get a certain amount done each day.

You have to understand that I am my own Simon Legree.  I crack my own whip and do this “Scarlet Letter” Reverend Dimsdale self-flagellation bit because well, I’m Catholic with a Jewish rising and guilt and shame are what I do best.   That results in stress and stress creates huge, painful knots in my neck and shoulders and that coupled, with the weather induced skeletal pain results in Laurie being….well, a bitch.

After lunch, I hobbled in to the bathroom to take care of 32 ounces of iced tea I had at some generic restaurant and of course, the minute I walked in I was assaulted by the most egregious olfactory insult that had ever existed.   I’m not sure why Satan himself chose to afflict the intestinally distressed woman in Stall #4 with such a malady on my watch!!!   I certainly wasn’t in the mood.

What had she eaten?  I don’t know.  It may have gone in as a wonderfully,  delightful gastronomic feat, but it came out as rank, rancid, fetid and vile and this nasty, culinary postmortem in water and porcelain, was making me very, very queasy.  And this was just in the first two seconds of entering Hell itself.  The stench was so bad that it actually changed the atmosphere in the bathroom.  The air had…it had this….this “density”.   Ordinarily, I would’ve gagged and run out but Tiny Tank that I am, had to void–even where prohibited.

With one hand over my nose, the other took care of business–which wasn’t easy for me as a woman considering the intricacies involved –and all the while I prayed for sweet death, knowing full well that the sad, sad  Shit Bag in Stall #4 had to have been embarrassed by what her sinister creation was creating.

Another woman walked in and was far less tactful than me.  She sniffed and said “Damn…yuk!!”

Appropriate.

I finished what I needed to do and ran out.  I didn’t wash my hands.  I was willing to risk Hep C, skin eating Staph, Pink Eye and freakin’ Kuru just to get out of there with the delicate lining of my nose and throat still intact.

I went out to the hall, took a deep, cleansing breath while removing the two impromptu toilet paper corks I’d hastily shoved in both nostrils.

I went back to my desk and continued to work…only weeping sporadically now.

I was so busy, the afternoon flew by.  I looked at my watch and it was mercifully, time to go home.  I was tired, I ached; I was in no mood for any falderal.  I just wanted to curl up with my kitty, drink a beer and watch “Ghost Hunters” on Sci-Fi.

I packed up my stuff and headed for the lobby of the seventh floor elevators and one stopped just as I approached.  It was empty.  I’d be alone, hopefully.  Great.  I love solitary elevator rides.

BUT NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It stopped on the 5th floor and in walked this middle aged man and as God as my witness, not two seconds after he boarded, he cut a nasty, silent fart. Either that, or he did it right before he entered the elevator and OF COURSE, it followed him in and like this ectoplasmic whore of Babylon, it anthropomorphically grew hands and held my head back by the forehead and forced my nostrils open.

Oh make no mistake, I breathed deep the gathering gloom, my friends.

And might I remind you that I am a well bred woman.  Formally finished, if you will and I know how to act.  I am by and large,  poised and would never shame or humiliate one to one’s face, but after the day I had, after the previous  shit storm I endured in the bathroom, I just couldn’t take any more.  I’d had enough and I said out loud, “For the love of God!!!”

Embarrassed, he immediately turned to face the corner of the car and stood there, head down, hands clutched at his waist and motionless…like that guy who was getting ready to be killed by the Blair Witch.

The car reached the first floor and he ran out before the doors fully opened.   I exited just as two more people were entering and of course, the stench was still quite strong and wafting about.

As I limped away, I heard one say in disgust,  “My God, do you smell that?  I can’t believe she just farted in the elevator!!”

Some days, you just can’t win..

.

5 comments

  1. Courtesy flush, man! Courtesy flush! You hit that button a millisecond before you expect the splash, it’s just common sense! You’re not paying those water bills, so what’s the issue? I hate that, oh do I feel your pain. Well, not physically, but olfactorily speaking.

  2. This entire post made me laugh out loud. I read it to my husband and he laughed, too. We’re still quoting it to each other.

    Ridiculously funny.

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