Blood and Guts: Helena Lazaro

Ok. I don’t know where to start!

Ok. Hahaha! Ok. So I’m at work today (you know, manning the desk and phone at The Cable Music Television Network) when, about an hour after lunch, I start to feel not-so-hot. Downright sick, even. It must have been that tuna salad I was so proud of myself for making (first time). I let my stomach turn for a while until it is clear I am about to have an emergency.

At this point, let me pause to have a moment with you all. We’re going to talk about pooping. Now, everyone does it. And everyone sometimes has problems with it. Don’t act like you’ve never had diarrhea, you big fat liar. You’ve totally had it. And you’ve probably had it away from home, with no privacy, and you had no choice in the matter. Admit it. Oh, and before I get any smart alecky comments on the matter, I’d like to assure you that this poo business is not a trend likely to continue on the page. You may also notice a striking parallel to my story, Willie’s Narrow Escape. That’s no coincidence. It’s God punishing me for writing such filthy garbage. So are we good? No wussie baby liars going to act like they don’t know what I’m talking about? Great. Back to the story, then.

So I walk into the bathroom and all the stall doors are open. Score! If I work quickly, I can be in and out in no time. Grab the seat cover, take my mark, and sweet relief is mine. For a moment. Because the very worst thing possible happens–the door opens.

Crap!

I courtesy flush right away, but I know it’s too late. The place is befouled, and I’m responsible. I can’t make a move until this woman leaves. My new enemy strolls into the handicap stall. She fusses with the paper protector like it’s freaking origami, and finally sits down to tinkle. Once she’s done, she sits there. And sits there. Listen lady, I was here first, don’t TRY to have the stall standoff with me! I pay careful attention, hoping to hear some sign that she is wrapping it up. Finally, the roll is spinning, she is zipping, and the stall door opens again. Almost there. Now just wash your hands. That’s right. What are you, a brain surgeon? Enough already! I’ve got work to do here! She dries her hands very, very thoroughly (with ten thousand paper towels pulled tediously from the dispenser), and then puts the mounds of paper in the wastebasket. Then, I can’t see her, but I know where she is standing–in front of the full-length mirror. Now, she knows the other person in the bathroom is in dire straits. Everyone knows what it means to see the impatient feet in that quiet stall. It means GET OUT! And yet she continues to torment me, primping and preening in the mirror, ever-so-close to the door. I want to shout, “You look gorgeous, now get on with it!” But I refrain. She might recognize my voice, and tell everyone about that nasty little receptionist who stank up the bathroom. And my life would be OVER! After what feels like an eternity, the vain, inconsiderate twit finally leaves. It’s all mine again.

A few minutes later, I stealthily exit the bathroom and return to the front desk. I take my seat and replace my telephone earpiece. Immediately, the other receptionist turns to me and says, “You know who was in that bathroom with you, don’t you?”

“No,” I answer, as my curiosity and terror both multiply at a dizzying rate.

“Sharon Stone.”

[a long pause]

“…Shut Up!”

“Yup, she went in right after you did. Here she is on the sign-in sheet.” And there she was, S. Stone, hastily scrawled three-quarters of the way down the page. Sharon Stone: the muse, the murderess, the vixen…the woman in the handicap stall.

I consider submitting the whole scene to US for their Celebrities are Just Like Us! bit (“They pee just like us! They primp just like us! They struggle with the protective toilet seat cover just like us!”), but realize that termination would be swift and harsh. Not to mention that everyone in the world (or at least everyone reading US) would know all about my, ahem, personal problem.

So I came home and decided to write about it on my blog instead! Even though I know some of you will be alternately shocked, disgusted, or turned-on, I knew that this experience was for sharing, and not selfishly keeping all pent up for myself. Only a select few people can say, “I was in the same room as Sharon Stone, and we were both naked from the waist down.”

And proudly I declare, I am one of those people.