Please Don't Puke in the Porta-Potty (aka Previously on OBG...)

           

Although inspired in part by a true incident, 
the following story is fictional 
and does not depict any actual person or event...
except that it does.

When we last left OBG...

[Editor's Note: Uh... I have a job now, biotches, I don't have time to recap my life for you. If you must have a recap, I recommend you scroll on down to the archive on the right. Oh, and please forgive the new format. This wasn't originally intended to be a "Previously On" post, so just go with it.]

      
We now join OBG on a "camping trip" this past weekend which turned out to be more of a hippie/redneck music festival in a field than it was a camping trip. 

It's Friday night, around 8:00pm, the car is all packed up and ready to go for the "camping trip." OBG is in the driver's seat and the G-Man is in the passenger's (they're taking OBG's car because it's bigger). They are about to depart for Gore, VA but must first stop for ice, beer, crackers and gas. The GPS gets plugged in and programmed for their destination...

OBG: Whoa. It's going to take us nearly two hours to get there?

The G-Man: Oh. I guess so. Let me check. (opens up smart phone and does some fancy thumb work.) Yeah. Guess it will.

OBG: We're not going to get there until at least 10:30.

The G-Man: Huh. (thinks) I'm hungry.

OBG: Me too.

The G-Man: Huh. (thinks)

[crickets]

[sun begins setting]

[more crickets] 

The G-Man: Want to go grab some pizza and beer and just leave tomorrow morning?

OBG: Sure.

We now join OBG and the G-Man on Saturday, chilaxing with a beer after having arrived at the "camp site" (i.e. the field) and successfully set up camp with no unexpected surprises (E.g. missing stakes, bloody toes, raised voices).

OBG: Now what?

The G-Man: Well... now we go and introduce ourselves to our neighbors. [Ed's note: Neighbors being the six other "camps" set up within spitting distance of our "camp".]

OBG: Say what now?

The G-Man: You know, go say hi, introduce ourselves...

OBG: Fuck that. Camping is supposed to be about privacy and getting away from other people.

The G-Man: C'mon. It'll be fun.

OBG: I think your definition of fun, and camping, is completely different than mine. Fuck. I need to finish this beer first.

The G-Man has now led OBG to a van/camp behind their own "camp" and up the hill a bit. They proceed to introduce themselves to the Modern Day Hippies (MDH) who belong to the van/camp. [Ed's Note: MDH being people who believe in natural, at-home births but also cite Michael Jackson as a parental role model. Kid you not. MDH being people who chose to become vegetarians because they don't want to pollute their bodies with nasty chemicals but then proceed to down three cans of Mt. Dew. Excuse me. *Diet* Mt. Dew. MDH being people who are camping in a field, allow their 7-month old to crawl on the ground, share *tobacco* pipes with strangers, but also carry around a gallon jug of hand sanitizer that they insist everyone visiting their camp use every ten minutes so as not to expose their baby to nasty germs. Just thought we should all be on the same page with my definition of MDH].

MDH Male: My name is Sonny [Ed's Note: Sunny?].

MDH Female: Hi, I'm Melody.

Sonny: And you are?

OBG: Hi, I'm April [Ed's Note: Like you all didn't already know that].

Sonny: April, huh? Is that your first name or your middle name?

OBG: Uh... my first name.

Sonny: Oh. What is your middle name?

OBG: Uh, M------ [Ed's Note: Like I'm going to tell you that, dear readers. Ha. Now I sound like Stephen King].

Sonny: M------... April M------. Is that your real name? Like, were you born with it?

OBG: Uh... yeah.

Sonny: Oh.

In-head OBG: What the fuck?

A few minutes later...

Melody: Giving birth at home was the most transcendental experience ever. Like, it takes you to a whole other plane of consciousness.

Sonny: And there were no hospital bills, and we didn't have to sign anything.

Melody: We had to sign that contract with the mid-wife.

Sonny: Right, but we didn't have to pay anything.

Melody: It did cost $3500. But we didn't take any birthing classes.

Sonny: Except for that one we started at the hospital.

Melody: Right, but we quit after they asked, "Who knows what end of the bottle goes in the baby's mouth?"

Sonny: Right, which is a huge insult to anyone with internet.

In-head OBG: What the fuck?

Later...

Sonny: I don't ruin my mind with TV.

Melody: Sometimes you do.

Sonny: Right, well,  I am excited the new NFL season is beginning. I love the Redskins.

Melody: And it's unbelievable how different the game is when watching it on our 37" flat-screen TV.

In-head OBG: Say what now?

Three beers, one tasty burger, one nap and one trip to the porta-potties later...

    

The G-Man: Want another beer?

OBG: Has a clean bathroom with toilet paper magically appeared in the field?

The G-Man: No.

OBG: No thanks then.

Later in the evening...

The G-Man: Want a beer?

OBG: Has a clean bathroom with toilet paper magically appeared in the field?

The G-Man: No.

OBG: No thanks then.

[Ed's Note: You get the idea, right? I don't have to further illustrate for you that no liquids passed my lips at all for the rest of the night after I took that last trip to the porta-potties at 7pm, right? Good.]

Later in the evening, around eleven pm, OBG and the G-Man have wandered down to the stage to hear the headlining, Grateful Dead cover band. OBG, dead sober, is trying to stay warm while avoiding being tackled by the "dancing", not-so sober people around her.

        

In-head OBG: What the fuck am I doing here? I don't even really *like* the Dead. Would it be rude if I went to bed now?

Later in the evening, around one am, after another tasty burger had been consumed and the last band was still performing...
     

OBG: Now what?

The G-Man: I'm kind of tired.

OBG: Me too! I mean, yeah, I'm kind of sleepy.

The G-Man: I'm thinking of going to bed.

OBG: Me too, but I didn't want to be rude. Or sound old.

And it was at this moment when OBG and the G-Man realized that their days of attending musical field festivals were probably numbered. Well, it was actually the following morning when they were sipping their coffee around the propane grill and reminiscing about the previous night's events, like when the high school kids stopped by at one point and were making obscure and unknown drug references that OBG and the G-Man just sort of nodded along with, or like when a beer pong tournament was occurring next door and OBG and the G-Man couldn't be bothered to go over and play, or like when OBG really, really wanted S'Mores but had no desire to intrude on someone else's fire pit [Ed's note: Our "camp" didn't have a fire pit. Our "camp" being the only flat spot under a tree left in the field when we arrived], or like when OBG stopped consuming liquids for twelve hours so she wouldn't have to use the nasty porta-potties or pee in the woods at night [Ed's note: I did use the porta-potties the next morning and was disgusted to see that someone had puked in them. I mean, hello! We were IN A FIELD that was surrounded by woods. What douche-bag pukes in a porta-John instead of IN THE FIELD?]

*Sigh*

Did I mention I have a job now? And furthermore, does anyone know what a "Molly" is?

B.Y.O.T.P.

     

Today I am taking a quick little road trip (5... 6... 7 hours, depending on traffic) with a guy that I've been friends with for the past nine years. (FYI- this is the same guy from the FWB post. You know, the one that I've been friends with forever but there has never been any romantic or sexual interest? Yeah, that one.) It should be interesting. While we're really good friends and can easily converse and frequently give each other shit for being, well, ourselves, we've never actually had to spend so much time together. Alone. In a car. Plus, we haven't seen each other since Christmas... for about five minutes. So, we'll see how this goes. Don't worry, I'll be sure to relay all the good nitty-gritty happenings. 

In the meantime, enjoy this post that I wrote on Tuesday (yes, I blogged ahead, again. Sue me):

In my house our bathrooms are B.Y.O.T.P. You know, Bring Your Own Toilet Paper? While I live with five six five other people, we never really nailed down a system for purchasing consumables (not in the sense that we eat it, but in the sense that it gets depleted by use. Other examples would be paper towels and dish soap). As a result, there are times when we don't have any toilet paper in the whole house. 

There are gloriously wonderful moments when toilet paper just magically appears in the bathrooms and no one knows how it gets there. I'm not sure how that happens, but I know I didn't put it there. I learned my lesson after the first time I picked up a package of good toilet paper. We ran through that shit in a matter of days. The next time I picked up t.p. I bought the cheap stuff. You know, the kind that feels like sand paper? And I rationed it too. I stored it in my bedroom and put a new roll in the bathroom only after a couple of days had gone by and I realized the magic t.p. wasn't going to appear.

One of my housemates used to steal toilet paper from one of the arts buildings on campus. She hasn't done this in awhile. Maybe the custodians are running low on supply. Who knows?

Any ways, I know from experience to always check ahead of time for an adequate supply of t.p. before I plop down on the pot. (Okay, to be honest, I don't always remember to do this. Like when I'm drunk.) We've all been in a situation where you realize too late that there's no paper on the roll, right? Embarrassing, right? I mean, what do you do at that point? While I've been in this situation more times than I'd like to admit, there was this one time when I felt like I'd hit an all time bathroom blunder low. The year was 2002. I was working as a purchasing clerk...

... at a company that manufactured the operating systems on train doors (if you've ever used a subway, you've used their operating systems). Or something like that. It just so happened that the restrooms were located out on the floor. If you don't know anything about manufacturing facilities, the floor is where shit is built, separate from the offices, which was super convenient, let me tell you. As you can imagine, the plant primarily employed men. Remember this tidbit for later. 

So, I headed to the bathroom in a hurry because I have a bladder the size of a walnut. I looked into my regular stall (yes, I had a stall I used regularly. Doesn't everyone?) and took note of the toilet paper situation. There was a roll perched on top of the holder. Score! I plopped on the pot and took care of business (for the record, I only did #1. Had I needed to do #2, this story would have ended much worse than it actually did). 

Business taken care of, I grabbed for the roll of t.p. Being the oh-so-coordinated person that I am, I managed to knock the roll off the holder when I grabbed for it. I watched in horror as the t.p. rolled across the floor of the stall. Thinking quickly, I checked the actual holder for toilet paper. No luck. Just empty rolls. Not even a measly scrap of paper. 

I assessed the situation and realized that the roll on the floor was just within reach. I carefully stretched my right leg out and was just... about... to... get... it... but no. My foot succeeded in reaching the roll just enough to bump it right out of the stall. I watched, head down, peeking under the door, as the toilet paper mockingly unrolled across the bathroom floor.

Fuck!

What now? I'm only slightly embarrassed to say this, but I proceeded to check the floor for scraps of paper. Of course, the one time I could benefit from toilet paper litter the floor is bare. Double fuck.

I again assessed my situation. I concluded that I had three options...

1. I could sit there, patiently, and wait for someone else to come in to use the bathroom. Knowing how few women worked in the building, I concluded that there was no telling how long I would be sitting there, waiting. It could be hours.
2. I could do the whole drip-dry thing, hoping that things would dry off enough so I could pull my pants up part way and then waddle into another stall to snag some t.p. Of course, it would be just my luck that someone would enter the bathroom at the exact moment my bare, white ass was waddling across the room. 
3. I could yell for help and hope someone would hear me and come to my rescue. Of course, if you remember, the only people who would hear me would be the male production workers.

As you can imagine, I concluded that these options were not actually options. So I sat some more (like I had anywhere else to go) and thought some more. At this point, my eyes happened upon the empty cardboard toilet paper rolls hanging on the holder. A-ha! Another option! 

Yup! I peeled some cardboard off the roll, and I used it! Not one of my finer moments, and certainly not one of my most comfortable ones, but it did the trick.

How about you? Do you have any embarrassing, no-toilet-paper stories to share? I would love to hear about them. Especially since I anticipate needing a few laughs after the car ride today. Comment away!

Three things you should never, ever do while in the bathroom

                             
Eat. Gross. End of story.  

    

Read a book. Magazine... okay. Newspaper... probably not a good idea. Book... it's not a library, folks! What the hell are you doing in the bathroom where you have time to read a book. I, for one, cannot start reading a book and then just stop anywhere, willy nilly. I have to stop at a chapter or a sub-section. And I certainly don't take so much time on the toilet that I can read an entire chapter. If you're spending this much time on the toilet, go see a doctor. Or drink more water. Something. (this rant was brought to you as a direct result of the influence of my step-father, who could always be heard telling my mother, "The bathroom isn't a library.")

(My biggest use of the bathroom faux pas/pet peeve after this picture of the coolest toilet ever. I'm assuming it's nonfunctional)

(Source)

Talk on the phone. Please, don't ever, ever, ever think it is okay to have a phone conversation with me when you are on the pot. Who does this? Okay, my mom for one, and my dad, and I'm sure a plethora of other nasty people in my life, but I don't. I don't even bring my phone into the bathroom with me. Ew. Why? Yuck. Bathroom time is my time and not to be shared with some poor, unsuspecting fool on the other end of the phone. There's nothing worse than having this conversation take place:

Me: Well, why does he always have to go up there?
Other Person: I don't know. You would think he would want to meet people like him and who would enjoy his... hold on a sec... [swoosh... slup, slup... gurg...wish]
Me: (in shock in disbelief) ARE YOU IN THE BATHROOM?
Other Person: Uh, yeah.
Me: WHY WOULD YOU ANSWER THE PHONE WHILE YOU'RE IN THE BATHROOM?
Other Person: Uh, I do it all the time. Sometimes I have conversations with clients while I'm in the bathroom.
Me: (in total disgust) I am not impressed.

Gross. Gross. Gross. Gross.

And for the record, I'm compiling a list of all the people I know who use their phones while in the loo. I will never, ever, ever ask to use your phone. Ever.