After taking a chocolate vanilla Dilly Bar straight to the face at Dairy Queen, my grandma recommended we use the restroom to clean my sticky fingers and slimy chocolate coated face and empty my bladder. As a very free spirited 4 year old I remember waltzing into the restroom with my grandma and heading straight for my private stall. As I was shutting the door my grandma reached her arm in and stopped it from shutting. Quickly she announced I needed to learn to make a toilet seat liner (a booty basket). Not knowing what she was talking about I remember her inviting herself into the restroom to teach me the artful ways of lining the toilet seat. I am sure she gave me reasons at the time that were far beyond my grasp as a youngster for why in the world one must use toilet paper to line the porcelain throne. I assume she rambled on about the terrors of splashing yourself with others’ piss, or the fears one should have of sitting on a pee sprinkled seat, or perhaps the always-terrifying chance of receiving a STD from contact with a toilet seat. To this day, my grandma has always been full of nifty tricks for sanitation and an investor in my propriety.
That being said, my apologies to you grandma for my lack of censorship of what I am about to express. (In the off chance that she actually may follow my blog)
But, on a brighter note and to my defense this could be taken as a PSA. Something informative. A call to action. This story may save lives (or female genitalia)! Or this could bring a smile to someone’s face. Who knows, there may be people out there who will get their jollies by my discomfort. Either way, I feel this story is meant to be told.
While working at my internship my life seemed to slow down to the mundane. I simply drove to the Tacoma Dome station, hopped on the link transit, and headed down the road to the closest stop a few blocks from the office. The only thing keeping me on my toes seemed to be that Pacific Avenue has captured the hearts of many people with very diverse cultural backgrounds. What I am really getting at here is the fact that Pac. Ave is full of creeps! Knowing this, my dad equipped me with the necessary arsenal of two different forms of pepper spray. One shoots 15 ft! The other is for short distance nearly hand-to-hand combat situations where it would actually form a coating and stick to the predators face in a thick lathery form. Another form of defense happens to be a pen to the average eye, however it is the most terrifying form of weapon in my little side bag. Thanks to my brothers’ love for martial arts, and the fact that I am actually terrible with my ninja stars (which I received for my 21st birthday from the guy), I was also well equipped with a pen that turned into a knife to better shank the shit out of my attacker. Knowing that I had my personal anti rape kit in my bag provided me with a sense of a vaginal force field.
After I got off the Link I would open stride to a nearly Olympic pace speed walk. My super high heals would clip-clop along, glancing over my shoulders desperately, making sure no one was hot on my trail. I would reach my office building elevator and slyly and somewhat embarrassed, unlace my keys acting as brass knuckles from between each of my fingers, simultaneously taking my right hand out of my side compartment where I kept my weaponry and tampons. Each day my routine seemed simple, I would walk to my desk, set up by turning my computer on, open my email, and step away while I waited for it to load and head to the bathroom to pee and check myself in the mirror to make sure the summers heat didn’t melt my face. Then I’d head back to my desk and start entering names of VIP’s in the company database.
On one particular day, just like any other, I sat at my desk and reached into my bag to grab some lip-gloss. Lathering my lips while I tapped my toes in boredom, I then went to the restroom to make sure I didn’t get sticky bubbles and bumps on my lips. While in the bathroom I decided I should pee and perform my feminine duties due to the time of the month (trust me, its not too much information because it goes with the story). I dug my hand into the side pocket of my purse, brushing against my armory of pepper sprays and shanks, and grabbed the plastic wrapped cylinder. Once I was through, I pulled up my atrocious business nylons and underwear and tucked in my pinstriped blouse, pulling my pencil skirt up and over the tucked in apparel, forming a seamlessly professional ensemble. I then washed my hands took a peak at myself in the mirror and headed back to the front desk where I would sit to greet businessmen and women. I sat smiling typing away at my desk, loving the freedom of creativity they left available to me, when all of a sudden the worst feeling in the world came over me.
-FIRE!- (Down there!)
Instantly I felt my face grow red as I tried to position myself differently hoping it would help. I sat there; squirming for about two or three minutes, then dashed towards the bathroom. Something was wrong. I had never felt such a sensation in my life, and as I reached the bathroom stall I always used, it hit me. I got an instant STD from the toilet seat! I thought to myself. After all of these years of using booty baskets, and toilet seat liners, something had finally gotten through the liner and reached me! After careful attention to the placement of toilet paper or the crinkly sheets readily available in most stalls, something had failed me, and I was paying for it instantly. As I panicked and readjusted my underwear, I realized I had been in the bathroom far too long and I really didn’t want my boss to think I was skipping out (or worse, pooping (because girls don’t poop)). So I re-tucked my blouse in, less artfully than before and left the bathroom in a less than composed eyebrow-furrowed kind of way. I felt like each person I directed for the next half hour at my desk could sense that something was wrong with me.
As soon as it seemed that all of my supervisors were at bay with their heavy workloads, I took off to the restroom to inspect, and then formulate a game plan. How the heck am I supposed to tell my doctor I got an STD from a toilet seat?! I thought to myself. No one is going to believe me. But, despite my thoughts, I knew I had to take action. Immediately I ran from the bathroom stall to the main door and locked it. I then decided I must extinguish the fire that was growing inside of my skirt. I pulled down my nylons and skirt and plunged my ass into the sink with cold running water. Yes folks, I squeezed my ass into a sink of cold water in a highly prestigious building in which city officials work. After momentary relief I realized bathing in the only bathroom on that floor of the building was probably not going to be a long-lived event. Quickly I hopped out of the sink, dabbed my ass off with paper towels and got to some prompt thinking. Grabbing a handful of paper towels and folding them into a rectangle, I then wet them in the icy cold water and laid them in my underwear. Two more hours of work to go and I thought I was going to have to be air lifted to St. Joe’s hospital.
I sat fidgeting, typing the ABC’s and The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog- over and over again. At a time like that, I knew my literary genius wouldn’t be coming out in me. I sat, fumbling with my purse, reorganizing my utility pouch, and chewing on my fake nails, chewing them to shreds, when suddenly, my tongue was on fire too! The more I panicked the more I realized I had a bacteria that spread throughout my body from the toilet seat to my crotch into my blood stream, to my mouth, and its next stop was my brain. As I thought of asking my coworker I hadn’t spoken to before for advice, I then began connecting the dots.
I sat at my desk and ran through each activity during my day that led me to this fire breathing mouth and vagina combo. It suddenly hit me. It had to have been through contact with something spicy. Instant STD’s from toilet seats could not actually be the answer. I began gnawing on my thumb nail some more like a teething child, when I dabbed my tongue against it and began feeling a tingling heated sensation once again. I hadn’t eaten anything spicy that day. Typical iced Americano for breakfast and skipped my lunch break to take a quick bath in the public restroom. I then wondered if when I got gas in the morning I might have some how came in contact with my crotch. But, I don’t even know if gas is actually a substance that causes burning. I know it’s not meant to be used for eye drops, but I have accidentally sprayed myself with a gas hose before like a super soaker and none of my skin got fiery hot. After a few more nibbles of the nails and a full realization that it actually tasted like pepper. It hit me. I must have made contact with my pepper spray cans and gotten it on my hand. Then the accidental skin contact. And the results were as follows:
I pepper sprayed my own vagina!!!
Then came the Google-ing. After typing into my company computer pepper spray vagina, and coming up with porn websites, I realized I needed to refine my search. Pepper spray contact, or something like that ended up having the remedy for it. Just as Dawn dish soap saves baby birds in oil spills, it also saves vaginas from pepper spray malfunctions. Long story long, I owe my down under wellness to the great people that created Dawn. Once I got home I soaked in a tub of dawn for an hour. And Taddaaaaa! Fancy, clean, burn-free, happy, vagina.
So if you actually made it through the longest blog in the world, I hope you take something away from this. And please note, there was no permanent damage.
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