The Phantom Shitter Among Us
Initially, I was going to write about a member of the knitting group and badmouth her lack of manners in all things club-related, even though she will probably discover this and I�ll be fired from my job for badmouthing said slacker knitting-club member. Once every three weeks, someone hosts the meeting. The host spends approximately twenty-five dollars on various snacking products and places them on a fancy serving plate from the back of their cabinet. The host also provides comfy seating arrangements and napkins. They ask if the computer chair is providing enough comfort. They say if the cat is bothering you, just to push it out of the way. If someone spills chocolate sauce on white carpeting, the host cleans it up. (This, thankfully, has not yet happened.)
In addition to the host, someone volunteers to bring a bottle of wine (as if my knitting needed the help). A particular member of the knitting group (who shall remain nameless for the sake of my pathetic and yet seemingly secure employment) has managed to never host the event. She has also managed to never bring a bottle of wine to the meeting. EVER. I sent out an e-mail that said something like �Oh, has everyone had a turn already?� and she didn�t even get the lousy hint. Anyway, I was going to complain about what a slacker, moocher, yadda, yadda that this person is. But this afternoon, she volunteered to bring the damn wine and took the wind right out of my bitchy, nit-picking sails. So what comes next is really her fault.
We are a happy, productive, competent group of workers. And there is a phantom shitter among us, my friends. What began as a joke has suddenly turned into a kidney-stone-inducing nightmare. Let me explain.
I drink a lot of tea. When I say a lot, I mean at least six cups every day. It is supposed to be healthy for you. But now, I�m reconsidering. Every single time I visit the water closet, I experience something akin to a war zone. There is a toxic cloud of hellish fury in the room. It�s horrific. I practically dry-heave (also known as the �air hork� maneuver) and run screaming from the room.
Herein lies the problem. If I decide to weather the storm and a coworker enters the bathroom, will they recognize my shoes? Should I refuse to leave the stall in order to avoid being wrongly accused as the phantom shitter? Do I move my feet into an awkward position so my shoes cannot be seen from the other stall? Do I play it off as, �Boy, someone had a party in here!� while I wash my hands? If I decide to run, do I exit the restroom and wave my hand in front of my nose in disgust? How long do I wait to reenter? Again, I drink a lot of tea. There is only so long I can wait.
You see my dilemma. I am on the same schedule as the phantom shitter.
The phantom has (s)hit our office bathroom on a constant basis. It began with girls sitting down and unintentionally making contact with foreign urine. Now there are half-flushed presents and absolutely no Lysol is being used. This person lacks the common courtesy of a mangy street mutt. It�s as if the phantom is mocking our goddamned editorial utopia and I, for one, am standing for it no longer!
There were theories. At the time, our company was interviewing prospective employees. Some of us believed that a stray interviewee had committed the atrocious act. That theory was defeated when act became acts. Then, there was the theory that one of our two male employees had used our bathroom and, true to all experiences with my guy college roommates, didn�t heed the target zone. That theory was dashed when we were hit while both men were out of the office. The only remaining theory is that a woman from the building across the way is using our facilities to mask her true identity. The sickness continues and it is threatening my dedication to hydration. There is only so much I can take�even for all of the antioxidant benefits of green tea.
So now I�m going to have to set up some sort of camera. Only, I�m too broke for that kind of surveillance. Maybe I�ll create a guestbook and ask people to sign it before using the facilities. I heard that Sylvester Stallone�s mother reads ass prints (people sit in paint and leave a unique map of their lives on paper�the �map� is read much like a palm)�maybe there are other unique �signatures� that can be analyzed. Is there such a thing as a bathroom channeler? I don�t know. The only thing that I do know is that this person must be stopped. I don�t want to think about the fact that I�m probably knitting and sipping red wine with the shitter. I can�t take it. I want her fired. Okay, that�s too drastic. I want her forced to take court-ordered bathroom etiquette sensitivity training. Something, dammit. SOMETHING.
Save the hygienic!
