A Stall Story

Last week, I had a meeting in a shiny office building with a woman named Gina. Gina is nice and tough and professional. She talks fast and she runs the show. Her assistant offered me a glass of water; it was tall and clear with big glorious ice cubes that clinked. It tasted filtered and delicious. It ran through me like a river.

So I was glad when Gina got up to take a break and use the restroom. Now usually, I would wait until Gina got back from the restroom and then casually decide that, what the heck, I should use it too, smile politely, exit quickly. Not today. She must have seen something flash across my face when she started to excuse herself. "Come on," and she waved me toward the door. "I'll show you where it is." Ok. We'll go together.

Maybe I'm alone on this one, but I feel like there's something private about peeing. When you're in the restroom with someone else, it's best to pretend that you're alone. Or at least that you aren't paying attention to them and what they're doing in the other stall. Somehow, talking to someone while you're both peeing induces a mental image of that person on the toilet, peeing and talking. Which is, of course, exactly what they're doing. But I don't want to see it.

So we go into the bathroom together and each take a stall. I start to pee. She starts to pee. I am not paying attention to her. "So," she says. "How do you like your new job so far?" Now she's done it. "Great," I answer to Gina, who I am now envisioning sitting on the toilet, peeing. Hm.

The peeing sounds finally end, and now we're both pulling up our nylons, zipping our skirts, reaching to flush. Gina is the first to exit her stall: I hear water running at the sink, soap being dispensed. I flush and I'm going to join her for the awkward hand-washing side-by-side, oops, excuse me I need a paper towel exchange, but I can't open the door to my stall. I turn the little silver knob to the left and push. No give. I turn it to the right. I turn it to the left and right. This will make a fantastic first impression: the girl who can't even figure out how to work the bathroom stall. It will be one of those things that Gina will forever remember about me, like a sign around my neck that reads: "This is the girl that got stuck in the shitter." I do the fake laugh. "I'm stuck in here," I say.

"What?"

Rather than yell to powerful businesswoman-on-the-toilet Gina that I am indeed locked in the bathroom stall and can't get out, I throw my weight against the door: it opens and I just about fall off my high heels and into the beige tiled wall facing the stall. I look down the row of stalls at Gina to see if she knows what excruciating business just transpired, but she is just drying her hands, picking lint from her sweater. I straighten my jacket and walk over to the sinks. I compliment Gina on the quality of the soap and the availability of hand lotion. She holds the door open for me as we leave the restroom to return to our meeting.

There's all those sayings about women having to go to the bathroom in groups, movies showing women in group make-up sessions, crowded together in some great female bonding ecstasy. Right. I'll take the single stall, please.

Bad News on the Block

My neighbor's building got broken into last night. Right next door to us. They broke in through the glass of the basement door and busted right through the thin wood doors into their apartments. They didn't take much, and what they did take would suggest desperation or teenage depravity, but certainly not experience.

We are most likely going to install a security system. Until then, at least I can rest assured knowing that my ferocious dog will protect me. She's a killer.

Miscellany

My beau is on the phone with his parents. He is on a cell phone and he feels that he has to talk at a volume that closely resembles shouting, and there is not quite enough square footage in our charming apartment to find a quiet place for concentration and writing of anything meaningful. So, here is a run down of passing thoughts for the day.

We clipped all three animals' nails today. There was growling (from the cat) and a bit of whining (from the dog), but all went well. One of our cats has decided that the livingroom couch possesses a texture that simply cannot be replicated by any sort of stratching post, carpet remnant, sissel board, cardboard box scratchy thing covered with catnip, or cat tower. He must have the couch. I have covered the corners of the couch with double-sided cats-off sticky tape, but this cat is no slouch. He moves over six inches and has his way with the back of the couch. I cannot cover the entire couch with double-sided tape, so I have resolved to clip his nails at least weekly to minimize the damage. A slip-cover may be in order shortly, but I fear that such a simple measure will not deter him. Perhaps several slip-covers are in order. Hm.

My favorite photo-maker and I ate brunch at a new vegetarian diner today. We ate lots of tofu and my man has been producing volumes of noxious emissions for the past hours. I don't fart. Ever.

After brunch, we did some browsing around antique stores. We browsed through rusted crap, dusty crap, rotten crap, falling-apart crap. Some decent stuff, especially in the newer stores targeted toward the retro crowd. But lots and lots of crap. Who buys this stuff? I feel for the owners whenever we go to that area of town. They look at me and think: always a browser, never a buyer. That seems to be the rule for most people down there. I don't know how they stay in business, asking $50 for a dirty table with three legs. Call me unappreciative. I call it overpriced.

I am reading Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer. It is great.

That is all.

Yum.

To celebrate my new job (see next post), my favorite man and I went out for a fondue dinner. It was fun and tasty. I think it's kind of a racket to charge that much money for raw food, but I can't deny that the experience is worth it. It's fun to play with your food.

Here is our main course:


That's Coq au Vin (wine and broth and spices) for cooking our meats and veggies, sauce, and me and my wine. I love Charles Shaw. I call him Chuck. He makes a lovely merlot.


Here is my favorite man, doing the fondue thing:


It was quite a party for two. We made about six toasts, and I was in a veritable food coma after dessert.

An Office? Yes, an office.

I have an office. With a window and an actual wooden desk and a printer right next to it. I am very pleased with these latest developments. Why such change, you ask? What did I do to escape the padded cubicle, to escape the beige world of white clock faces and pencil-necked bossmen leaning in over my low cubicle walls?

I got a new job. Ha.

I am still raising funds, but for a larger agency. One that works on several fronts to help rebuild communities in a particularly blighted area of St. Louis: providing free and reduced childcare to help the working poor, offering business incubator and small business development services, and organizing with the neighborhood association. And they really walk the walk. My boss lives in the neighborhood, our offices are in the neighborhood, and we bring our supporters into the neighborhood for meetings, lunches, and just to show them around.

I feel good about this. I feel like I'm walking the walk. Aside from the much improved working environment and the progressive mindset and atmosphere, I really feel like taking this position is my small contribution to the movement to bring people, families, and commuinities out of poverty, one neighborhood at a time.

My favorite photo-maker will back me up on this point: I have been in a great mood since leaving my last job, and an even better mood since starting the new one and dissolving the anxiety that always comes along with taking a new position.

I feel renewed. Check out their website here.