Part #2
More than anything on this planet, I hate using the restroom at the office. Our men’s room only has one stall in it. This means, whenever anyone enters and the stall is in use, the first thing everyone does is immediately look to see who’s in there. Since we have a rather small company, you can pretty much always tell exactly who’s taking a dump, simply by looking at their shoes.
I have a serious problem with this concept. Whenever I’m in the stall, and someone else walks in, I instantly feel like I’m being judged. I can’t even relax, because I just know inside their heads they’re thinking, “Boy, Brett must’ve eaten at that Italian place again last night”, or “Hmnh, I wonder if Brett’s okay…this one seems to be taking a little longer than usual.” How can anyone take a dump under that kind of scrutiny? I know if I had a dollar for every time I walked in and yelled, “Oh God Chuck, that smells awful! What the hell are you eating at night…people?” So, I can just imagine the things they think about me when they leave out. I developed so much an anxiety about using the restroom at work that my doctor actually had to put me on nerve pills.
Truthfully, I really don’t understand this philosophy. We can fly people to the moon, and shoot and edit full-length feature films from our phones; yet we can’t find a way to design a bathroom stall that goes all the way to the ground. What’s with the whole peek-a -boo shoe action thing anyway? Is it supposed to be some kind of an emergency crawl space, just in case something goes wrong, and somebody else needs to shimmy under and help? My feeling is, if you can tell who’s in there simply by looking at their shoes, the whole anonymity thing just goes completely out the window. Why not just remove the stall all together? That way when people walk in and see you on the toilet, they can just wave and say, “Oh hey there Rick…I see you’re back on oatmeal” or “Wow Sue, love the new hair cut…we should do lunch when you’re done?”
Finally, I came up with the perfect solution. I started bringing in extra pairs of shoes to work just to wear whenever I took a dump. I’d wear my normal shoes throughout the entire day. Then when it was time for a “sitting”, I’d just slip on the other pair that no one’s ever seen before. It was genius! It didn’t matter what I ate the night before, how much time I took, or even how much noise I made. I could completely go to town in there, and no one ever had the slightest clue it was me. I’d even sometimes hear people on the other side comment, “Hey, who’s the new guy?” It was the most freeing experience of my life. For the first time ever, I actually enjoyed going to work every day.
One day last week, running late for work, I completely forgot my duffle bag. When it was time to go to the bathroom, I was devastated when I realized I left my sh*tting shoes at home. Out of all the things to leave at home, how on earth did I leave my damn sh*tting shoes? I went into that stall, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to go. I tried lifting my legs off the ground so no one could see my feet; I tried sitting on the toilet Indian style; hell, I even tried going with both legs hoisted up over the handicap bars. Just when I was about to give up hope, that’s when I remembered that Gracie was gone.
Gracie is the little old Jewish lady, whose cubicle sits across from the men’s room. With the exception of her drinking problem, Gracie is literally one of the sweetest woman you’ll ever meet. Ever since Gracie got hit by that school bus a few months back, she spends all of her lunch breaks in physical therapy. Since she puts on her sneakers right before she leaves out, I figured her everyday shoes had to still be under her desk. I opened the restroom door and just as I thought, there they were. A pair of beige Easy Spirit sling backs. I thought, “Could I possibly get away with this?” Of course, they were about five sizes too small, but then again I thought, “I just need a pair of sh*tting shoes.” It wasn’t like I was going jogging in them.
I quickly slipped them on before anyone came, and darted into the bathroom stall. Finally, I could go in peace. Sure when people walked in, it must’ve looked a little strange, to see my big size 10 dress socks, sticking out the fronts and the backs of Gracie’s very sensibly cut Easy Spirits. But let me tell you, that was one of the best sittings I’ve had in years.
When I was done, I placed Gracie’s shoes back where I found them, and no one was ever the wiser. With the exception of Gracie, trying to figure out why, she all of a sudden kept slipping out of the front of her shoes, I was pretty much home free. That is until I was walking by later that day, and heard her boss walk over and say, “Hey Gracie, HR wants to see you down stairs. Something about you using the men’s room today?”
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Part 1
It all started with a gift from my mom. Every year she sends me underwear for Christmas. This year for some reason, she decided to send me this thing called a ‘one-piece’ by Hanes. Basically, it’s a tank top and a pair of boxer-briefs all combined in one. Now for the life of me, I can’t imagine why any grown man would ever feel the need to walk around wearing a onesie. But, I figured it was free and it was from my mom. With that said, I threw them in the back of my underwear drawer and called it a day.
One morning, running late for a big meeting with a client, I realized that I didn’t have a single pair of clean underwear left. Suddenly, I remembered that strange pair I got from my mom. With no other options, I found them, slipped them on under my suit, and out the door I ran. Heading to the train I thought to myself, “Hey, this one-piece thing isn’t so bad after all.” It’s warm, it fits like a glove, and believe it or not; I actually enjoyed the extra support you get from the super stretchy fabric. I thought, “Mom might be on to something here. I may have to pick up a few more of these today after work.
The meeting was a huge success. I couldn’t wait to get back to the office to tell my boss that we were finally bringing Bailey & McLane on as clients. I began to smile just thinking about my huge commission check. Yep, I was definitely taking that trip to Jamaica this year. Waiting for the elevator, all of a sudden I noticed a slight rumbling in my stomach. I thought, “Hmnh, this is a bit strange.” Then it happened again, only this time even stronger. I thought, “Wait, this can’t be good.” Just then, I remembered that 12-Bean Chili the waitress talked me into ordering at the diner the night before. “Damn her!” I cursed. “I don’t even like chili.” After rumble number 3 hit, it became pretty clear that there was no way in hell I was going to make it all the way back across town to my office. Truthfully at that point, I wasn’t quite sure if I could even make it off that floor. I could not believe that this was happening to me right here and right now. This was not looking good.
In a state of sheer panic, I noticed that there was a little private restroom next to Mr. McLane’s office. Now; one of the first things I think they teach you in business school is that you pretty much never want to take a big 12-Bean Chili dump in a potential client’s restroom. That’s sort of not the first impression you ever want to leave; or even the last one. Now…even though I don’t recall ever discussing this one in class; something told me that letting a big one go on your client’s lobby floor was even far less professional. What’s the etiquettly correct way to lead into that conversation? “Excuse me Mr. Customer, but do you have a mop? Yeah, I accidentally just took a dump on your floor.” Martha Stewart herself couldn’t even pull that one off gracefully. With no receptionist in sight, I quickly slipped into the restroom before anyone saw me.
The restroom was small and extremely plush. It felt like a suite at the Ritz Carlton. This was no doubt Mr. McLane’s personal executive washroom. With that said, I figured if I was super quick; I could be in and out and no one would be the wiser. I then immediately sprung into action. After unbuttoning my pants, I realized that there was a bit of a problem here. For some odd reason, no matter how hard I pulled and yanked, I couldn’t for the life of me seem to get my damn underwear down. It was like one bad dream. I instantly began to really freak out; thinking, “What the hell is going on here?” Looking down, I realized that I was wearing that silly one-piece contraption my stupid mom sent me. “Damn her and those f*ckin TJ Max bargain bins!” I thought. “This is just great. Now I’m going to end up sh*tting on myself at work again; all so she could save a measly three dollars!!!” There’s only so many times a fella can leave work early with that excuse before people just start looking at you strange.
Thinking fast, I figured there surely has to be some kind of a quick release/emergency drop hatch built into this thing. However, as I searched my body there was absolutely nothing. This was definitely the unitard from hell. I could not believe I was going to have to take off all of my upper layers of clothing just to take a damn dump. Who in the name of God would design such a thing? Frustrated, I whipped off my suit jacket and placed it on the hook. I then quickly removed my shirt and tie, and tossed them on the hook too. Finally free of all clothes; I was then able to slip the one-piece off my shoulders and down to my ankles. With goose bumps on my chest from the cold air, I finally took a seat on the stool. I thought, “Damn that sure was a close one.”
When I’m taking a dump in a strange place, it sometimes takes me a while to get comfortable. To kill time I figured I might as well finish the video game I started on the train on the way here. So I pulled out my iPhone and began to play. It was just what I needed to relax my mind. In all the madness, I guess I somehow forgot to lock the door to the restroom. Suddenly to my surprise; the bathroom door whips open; and then in walks my client Mr. McLane. Meanwhile, here I am completely butt ass naked, sitting on his private toilet, and playing Ms. Pacman. Talk about awkward. At a complete loss for words; the only thing I could think to muster from my mouth was, “Hey there, fancy meeting you here. You want to play doubles next?” It goes without saying, I didn’t get that deal. If you like this post don’t forget to tune in next week for part 2.
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I finally got a chance to see the new Lee Daniels’ film Precious, everyone has been raving about. And I am pretty darn sure this is just another Hollywood attempt to try to pull a fast one over our eyes. And I for one, am tired of the old flim-flam.
Like millions of other die hard fans, I’ve always had my suspicions. However now after having seen the film, I am even more convinced than ever that the legend still lives. My theory is, that after a life of nothing but turmoil and strife, Biggie Smalls devised an ingenious plan to fake his own death, and hide out somewhere far away from the world for the rest of his days. A place where no one would even blink twice, at a 400 pound black man with gold teeth and a mink coat, walking down the street. So the Notorious B.I.G. went to the only place in the world he could live virtually undetected among the local citizens. He moved to Akron, Ohio. A plan that would’ve no doubt worked seamlessly if not for one thing. He eventually started to miss the limelight of show business.
They say fame is just like crack. Once you’ve had that first hit, you’re hooked for life. The VH1 Network was practically founded on this principal. Finished with the rap industry, rumor has it that for years, Biggie Smalls had been racking his brain in search for the perfect way to re-enter the business. With his only two other options being VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club, and Dancing with the Stars, hope was almost gone….until one day, while standing in the checkout lane at Winn Dixie. Biggie read in a Jet Magazine, that Lee Daniels was scheduled to begin casting for the film adaptation of Push; a story of an overweight, nappy headed, teen mother from the Bronx, with a speech impediment, and a love for eating fried chicken straight out the box. He knew in that very moment, this was his one shot back to the big time. So with no time to spare, Biggie got a sex change operation, a bad perm, and a 12 piece extra crispy bucket from Popeyes. The rest my friends, is showbiz history.
With all of the Oscar buzz surrounding the acclaimed performance, Mr. Smalls is sure to beat out Mickey Rourke and Whitney Houston as the comeback story of the millennium. “Who knew the guy could act so well?”, critics are saying. I’m simply saying, “Congratulations Biggie!” to a job well done. We wish you all the best in your career as Hollywood’s newest leading lady, and we can’t wait to see what other projects you have in store. Move over Queen Latifah, there’s a new girl in town. And she goes by Notorious G.A.B. “Baby Baby!!”
Biggie taking time out to pose with a few of his younger cast members.
Biggie spitting a few rhymes with Lenny Kravitz between takes to show him he’s still got it.
Biggie at the New York premiere looking radiant in an all red Vera Wang.
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Most women probably see a sequin mini dress and automatically think special occasion like New Years Eve, The Oscars, or The Annual Pimps Up Hoes Down Convention in Vegas. However for Yvonne the receptionist, this is merely just a Wednesday. On my very first day with the company; baffled, I turned to a coworker and remarked, “Wow, that lady is pretty dressed up. Is today some kind a special occasion?”, to which he looked at me and rather simply replied, “Oh no that’s Yvonne. She’s just ghetto.” I eventually learned that no truer words would ever be spoken. Already somewhat of a celebrity on my column; what started off innocently as just a random post on Facebook; somehow has surprisingly evolved into a full blown series. Before I knew it, there were people from literally all over the world sending me regular requests for more Yvonne updates. For those of you just new to Brett and the City, let me take a moment to quickly catch you up to speed.
Yvonne is without a doubt one of the most intriguing woman I’ve ever known. A 48-year-old grandmother of two; Yvonne never leaves the house without her pocketknife, her ‘baby hair’ grease, and literally starts every single conversation with, “Last night at the club…” Yvonne was originally hired as the office bill collector, and from what I hear did an amazing job. That is, until her bill collectors eventually found out where she worked. Turns out, Yvonne owed everybody in town money from Con Ed to the little Mexican man that ran numbers on the corner. She even had the Deacon from her church calling about a couple of bounced checks she put in the collection plate. Bottom line is this this: if Yvonne can bounce a check to the Lord; then what she cares about paying Metro PCS ain’t about nothing. I guess her philosophy is “Hey…who better to collect money, then someone that owes everybody money.” Hell, Yvonne had so many damn bill collectors calling the office, that at one point; my company actually considered changing our number. She’d be busy collecting money on line 1; with her bill collectors calling in on line 2. Eventually the company solved the problem by just making Yvonne the office receptionist. I guess they figured, “Sh*t, it’s kind of had to tell people you’re not in, when you’re the one actually answering the phone.” But oh let me tell you… the cursing you’d hear when you walked through that lobby in the morning.
I must admit; Yvonne confused the hell out of me when I first started working for the company. She had so many damn different hairstyles that I always thought there was a new Black girl that just started. She would literally come in looking like Beyonce, and leave looking Florida Evans from Good Times. Yvonne switched wigs so much; I actually just assumed she was in the witness protection program. Seriously; she’d go to ask you a question with one wig on; and by the time you turn around to answer it, she done already changed it. Yvonne is like the army; she goes through more weaves before noon, than most hairdressers will all day.
Yvonne’s Hair Dairy:
Day 1 Day 2 Day 2.5
When asked, Yvonne always credits her mother “Helvetica” as being her number one fashion muse when it comes to her flare for hair. She always exclaims, “My mama is the baddest bitch I know.” Now, we’ve all heard of the term “driving gloves” before. Well apparently; Yvonne’s mother Helvetica actually has what she calls a “driving wig”. Basically, it’s a spare wig that she keeps in her glove box used only for driving. Every day when she gets off of from work; she slips off her “work wig” in the car, and then quickly switches to her “driving wig” just before pulling out of the Dairy Queen parking lot. To quote Yvonne exactly after telling me the story, “Now you know that sh*t ain’t nothing but class!!!” Judging by the picture Yvonne showed me, apparently her mom must drive pretty damn fast; because I have never in my life seen a wig with an actual chin strap built in.
Yvonne later went on to tell me that she actually comes from a long line of wig wearers. According to Yvonne, “As far back as I can remember; the women in my family have always been known for two things: Fighting and Wearing wigs.” Now in my mind, I instantly imagine an old ancient tribe of African women; prancing through the Serengeti, and swinging their long luxurious blond hair that went all the way down to their buts. Meanwhile across the river, sits a bunch of bald headed and extremely pissed off lions. Can you imagine being a lion, and just walking through the jungle minding your own business; then all of a sudden out jumps a pack of ghetto ass high yellow African women carrying rocks and sticks? Who knows; perhaps that’s really the reason that lions started sleeping in trees? I wouldn’t be surprised at all if one day while watching The Animal Planet, we discover that wild lions actually adapted their ferocious hunting style, from an even wilder pack of bald headed African tribeswomen called “The Yvonnas”.
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During the summer season, Manhattan is even more crowded than usual. This means even longer lines to get into public restrooms. It’s no secret that Starbucks is no doubt the restroom of choice for most of us New Yorkers. For starters, no purchase is necessary; there’s three on every block; and most important of all, the homeless people use the ones at McDonald’s. There is this unspoken pact we have here in New York with the homeless. They stay out of the restrooms at Starbucks; and we stay clear the heck out of the ones in McDonald’s. A lesson I unfortunately had to learn the hard way. I’ll never forget the day I accidentally stumbled in on an old naked homeless man bent over, giving himself a foot bath in the sink. A sight I wouldn’t even wish on Osama Bin Laden. To this very day, I’ve never looked at chicken nuggets the same way. Or sinks.
Today while shopping in Union Square, I really had to go badly. So naturally, I ran into a Starbucks to take a quick leak. Believe it or not, I ended up waiting nearly 17 entire minutes for a lady to come out of the restroom. Talk about being pissed off. In my book, holding up a Starbucks restroom is one of the absolute rudest things a person can ever do. It’s right up there with licking a spoon at the salad bar, or giving yourself a toe job on the bus. It’s just inappropriate, classless, and shows a definite sign of low breeding. I mean, I really had to pee. So naturally, I did what anyone else would do. After the clerk refused to give me the key to the door anyway, I then banged on the door and shouted “Lady, what the f*ck are you doing in there…taking a nap?” I think the Black woman behind me was even more upset than me. Because she stated pretty clearly that if she didn’t see a wheel chair roll out out, she knew she was whooping “somebody’s” ass. Just to be certain, I asked her to make sure she didn’t mean mine. She was pretty big, and I find in life it’s much better to be safe than sorry. Bedsides, it wouldn’t of been the first time I got my ass beat in public by a big Black woman. Or the second.
My question is this. Unless they start installing showers and halogen reading lamps in public restrooms, what the hell can a person possibly be doing in there that long…relaxing? Public restrooms are freaking disgusting. You get in, get out, and you try like hell not to touch anything in there besides yourself. I always question these people that go in there and actually do number two. Where were they raised: in a damn crack house? Some things you just do at home. The last one I was in was so filthy; I would’ve rather had taken a crap in my own hand and hurled it into the toilet before I touched anything in there. I am a germaphobe like you wouldn’t believe. The scariest day of my entire life, was the first time I had to take my 3 year old into a public restroom. Kids have a tendency to touch everything they see and then put their hands back in their mouth. I remember in that moment praying to God, “God… You know I love this little girl more than life itself. But I swear if she touches anything, God I will leave her little ass in here.” I was serious too. I would’ve just sat her down and ran. I figured, “Hell, she’s a beautiful little girl, plus she already can count to three. I’m sure somebody would make her a nice home.” I knew though if she touched that damn toiled and put her hand in her mouth, it just couldn’t be me.
Here’s my theory. To hell with all this economy crap; I think Obama needs to pass a new public restroom bill. It should state that each person is allowed just 2 ½ minutes to use the restroom and that’s it. When your time is up, whether you’re done in there or not; the door should just automatically swing open for all the world to see. This would totally revolutionize the world of public restrooms as we know it. It would force people to prioritize in that bathroom like never before. Sure, it will take some getting used to in the beginning. But like anything else, you just practice first. Run drills at home with the family until everyone is up to speed.
This may sound a little harsh to some. But the way I see it; if you can’t do whatever it is you need to do in there in under 3 minutes. Then perhaps you just shouldn’t be going to the restroom in public, period. Grandma; this means you too. I love you dearly but truthfully; it’s just not fair to the rest of us to have to wait 22 damn minutes for you to untangle your bloomers from your stockings.
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