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Tuesday, April 19, 2011

The Act of a Demented Woman OR How I Dropped the Portable Phone Into the Potty OR How the Portable Phone Magically Threw Itself Into the Commode

It was a cold day.  President Obama had just said something stupid on the news.  There was a celebrity having a massive meltdown in a motel room somewhere by snorting tequila and ingesting Drano with a little lime twist on the side for effect.  HIM had left for work.  Cressy was in school learning about important aspects of the educational system that will be instantly forgotten as soon as she stepped off the bus.  I was at home, doing stuff, important stuff that need not be mentioned in this blog unless it suddenly becomes highly amusing.

I was carrying around a portable phone.  You know, a phone without a cord.  For those of you who were born after 1990, this means there used to be only phones with cords and we didn't get to wander out into the yard with it until it was out of range of the base set.  Also there wasn't any cell phones that weren't the size of car batteries.  (We used the extra long cord for our phone to torture the cats.  Not in the way you think.  We'd wait until the cat walked across the cord.  Ladedah.  Then we'd flip the cord up and the cat would leap straight up into the air and backwards because something strange touched their tummies.  It didn't hurt them and it was funny.)  Anyway, it was a portable phone.
This is the phone.  It look very innocent,
doesn't it?  However, it has an...agenda.
(Shh.  Don't speak too loud.  It might hear you.)
I made a grievous error.  I took the phone into the bathroom with me.  I set it upright on the corner whilst I did my dirty, sinful business.  After I was done I flushed the toilet.  (Good thing, too.)  Then I swung around and knocked the phone into the john.  (It's a small bathroom.)
The scene of the crime.  One can see how setting the
phone on the counter was a tactical error.
Or was it really a conspiracy?
We should call Oliver Stone.
(I bet you didn't really want to see my
itty bitty bathroom, but too bad.  It's my blog.)
So there I was, standing above the throne, considering what to do about the phone that had just been knocked into a pot full of water.  It was split seconds of pondering.




Immediately I went into the 7 stages of WTFDID? (What The Fuck Did I Do?) and WTFAIGTDAI?  (What The Fuck Am I Going To DO About It?)

Stage One is shock and denial.  I stared down into the commode and furiously screamed, "NO, I did NOT just do that!  No, it couldn't possibly be happening!  No!  No! NO!!!"  I pulled out large hanks of hair and contemplated running off to become a Buddhist monk or maybe a stunt actor in Hollywood.
This isn't about Stage 1 but I thought it was funny.
Stage Two occurred seconds later.  This is pain and guilt.  "What can I do about the poor phone?  Is it suffering?  Will the garderobe break if I try to flush it down?  Oh, how can I make amends?"  I stared dismally into the toilet considering the aspects of how the phone felt about being ruthlessly tossed into the yucky waters of the stool.
This doesn't have anything to do with Stage 2
but I couldn't help myself.
Stage Three involves anger and bargaining.  "Can I blame this on someone else?  No, no one else is home but me.  Cressy is speaking completely now and isn't subject to bribery after the fact.  HIM is completely sober and I can't fool him into thinking HIM did it on a drunken binge.  This is so fucking unfair!  If God will raise the phone out of the lav right now I will become a nun!  Or I will become better about tithing!  Plus I won't kill any more spiders."

Stage Four is depression.  "Oh, I'm so upset that I knocked the portable phone into the crapper.  Why did I bring the phone into the bathroom?  I think I'll go hide my head under the blankets in the bathroom and pretend that I suddenly went into a coma."  I bowed my head sadly.  Oh, woe is me.  Horrid, wretched depression over the stupid phone falling into the porcelain throne.
Running with a theme here.

Stage Five is the upward turn.  "OH, fuck it. I'm fishing the goddamn thing out."  So I did, taking immediate action and not allowing myself to hesitate.  If the toilet hadn't been previously flushed, that phone would STILL be in there to this day.  Nuh-uh, there was no way I was going in after the phone if the privy was still full of you-know-what.  Hell, it was bad enough as it was by association.  Don't get me going on the germs and crap that come out of the amenity.  Or off the phone for that matter.  Double yuck.
Stage Six is reconstitution and working through it.  I broke out the plastic gloves, the Lysol, Q-tips, and a brand new roll of paper towels.  I briefly considered a flame thrower and the HazMat Team but decided I would get in trouble if I went there.  The phone was getting cleaned off and it was serious business.  I wiped, sprayed, dabbed, rubbed some more, emptied out the battery compartment and did some interior wiping.  I dipped Q-tips into places I didn't know had existed previous to this incident.  If the damn thing didn't work after that, I would own up to it, vow never to bring a phone in the bathroom again, and go buy a replacement.  Possibly I would do it before Cressy or HIM came home.  "New phone?  No, it's just...really shiny."  "Hmm.  I don't know how all the telephone numbers got erased from that unit.  Must be something really weird."

Stage Seven is acceptance and hope.  So I waited patiently for several hours.  Then I went to test out the phone.  It was the moment.  I pushed the button on it.  It made a sound like a man whose weewee was caught in an industrial sized zipper.  (I'm told this is a baaaaaad sound.  I'm also told that this sound can make other men's testicles re-ascend into their pelvic cavities.)  It whorped loudly and then farted.  (I swear!)  And...I got a dial tone.

The angels began to sing somewhere.  (I had left the television on and a religious show had come on.)

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