It’s finally time for my first of many Tales from Toiletopia! I’m so excited and I dedicate this post to Normal For Norfolk, who shares my taste for poop. Wait! No! I mean stories about poop. Dammit.
Back when I worked in another place, the greatest thing about our building was that we didn’t have to share a bathroom with the public. Yes, that is snobby and elitist but I am squeamy about sharing my toilet time and having to use a public potty just creeps me out. The one downside to not sharing the bathroom with the public, though, is you can’t blame abnormalities on “them”; you know it came from within the building, like those threatening phone calls to the babysitter. So one day, I walked into our little restroom and headed to my favorite stall. When I pushed the door open, something on the floor caught my eye. It was a little round poop. A tiny turd. A marble-sized piece-a’ feces. It was on the floor right in front of the toilet, tucked far enough back that you didn’t see it until you were in the stall.
I reacted accordingly and professionally: I exited the room to find my co-hort-worker, quietly sidled up to her desk and whispered, “Meet me in the bathroom,” and then slithered away again. Once we reconnoitered, I showed her the offending mass of excrement that was still lying there like a lost…well, a lost poop, really. She fah-reaked and that sent us into hysterical giggles but we knew that at any moment, someone could come in and see us squatting down like children looking at a bug only we were looking at a piece of poop and laughing like crazy people. That would have been hard to explain so we had to take immediate action. Like ninjas or Charlie’s Angels or maybe like Charlie’s Ninjas, we locked the bathroom stall door from the outside (you can totally do that with a quarter if you have the right kind of door) and raced to fetch gloves and Clorox wipes. The co-hort- worker really wanted protective face gear but we didn’t have any so she had to make do with a paper towel over her nose and mouth. We donned the gloves and carefully (no HAZMAT team has ever been more cautious) using about 70 sheets of toilet paper, picked the little turd up and tossed it into the toilet to flush it all away. Then we hand-mopped the entire floor area with Clorox wipes, put those in a bag along with our gloves and her face protection, tied it all up, and crammed it down to the bottom of the trash receptacle. To be on the safe side, we Lysolled the entire stall from top to bottom. I’m a little surprised we didn’t asphyxiate ourselves. We washed our hands as thoroughly as possible at least five times then slathered anti-bacterial goo up to our elbows. It was like we were clean-up professionals, not mere office workers.
We didn’t want to think too hard about who had left that little present but we would have liked to have known if it was intentional or not. And if not, how did it get there? We had our theories but we will never know for sure. I can say with surety, however, that it was a long time before we could look any of our co-workers in the eye.