This afternoon I was waiting for The Pony to get out of his once-a-week after-school Algebra II lesson review. Wouldn't you know, the day I had everything caught up and was ready to leave at 3:15, he was staying an hour later?
Have I mentioned that Hick and The Pony have been sick? Hick has been popping Z-packs and old-timey antibiotics like they're sugar-free candy. He has bronchitis. The Pony came down with a bug on Saturday. He tells me, in a raspy voice, between fits of coughing, that he feels much better now.
So this afternoon, I was catching up on some future work, sneezing every time the air conditioner kicked on, blowing my stuffy nose, clearing my throat, and I started to feel a bit...um...indisposed. My stomach was rumbling like that of Davy Lardass Hogan scarfing up blueberry filling at the Pie Eat, just before he set off the chain of events that resulted in the Ladies Auxiliary barfing all over the Benevolent Order of Antelopes.
I wasted no time in scurrying down the hall to the faculty women's restroom which is housed inside the teacher workroom. Yes, no time to waste. And it wasn't a Barf-O-Rama I had a date with. Of course, from the other end of the hall came a colleague. One of my lunch table brethren. OH NO! He's known for his chatfests. I didn't have a moment to spare. I ducked into the workroom before he passed the office. Locked my door behind me, and ensconced myself on the throne.
Dear me. What a predicament. The nature of my...um...indisposement left me vulnerable. One could only hope that Lunch Brother was hard of hearing. Oh, he came in. I heard his footsteps. I heard the tinkle of change, and the thud of the beverage machine. But then I heard nothing. Was he waiting? To chew the fat? Shoot the breeze? I certainly hoped not. I was not comfortable doing my business with him on the other side of one thin concrete-block wall and wooden door. Like Jerry separated from Kramer's boys by one thin layer of gabardine, I was a bit freaked out. And so was the Febreze Air Effects Hawaiian Aloha.
There was no holding back my...um...indisposition. When I exited, I snuck a look over toward the table area. Whew! Lunch Brother was gone. Gone with the mighty wind.
I was in no mood for his rhetorical question of, "Is there really any nutritional value in corn?"
The only thing worse than having (ahem) diarrhea, is having diarrhea in a public bathroom. May your plumbing problem improve--quickly.
ReplyDeleteLike Linda and Lynn "will survive" on Friday when they have a sitting with Gloria Gaynor, your friend survived the mushroom cloud that formed above your school. As did you...
ReplyDeleteBorrow Hick's cpap during the day. It can fill in nicely as a gas mask.
Here's the trick: flush and let the sound of flushing cover the sounds you're making. Flush as often as you need to and the sound will keep others away. I once taught a class on this so I know what I'm talking about.
ReplyDeleteLeenie,
ReplyDeleteDiarrhea? Do you have diarrhea? Surely you are not referring to my indisposedness! I would never write a blog about diarrhea. Fecal transplants, yes. Diarrhea, no.
I seem to be on the mend. Just as well. Today there was a senior boy inside the teacher workroom as I entered. That place has more traffic than the one working Port-A-Potty at the 1980s-era St. Louis Strassenfest.
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Sioux,
I would hope that neither of them become indisposed while sitting with Ms. Gaynor. As far as that mushroom cloud, Madam, I shall thank you to cease and desist from the stalking to which you are subjecting me.
CPAP? Now you're just making me into a doomsday prepper. Perhaps I should build a trebuchet to pull around in a Radio Flyer, flinging the fruits of my indisposedness at the crazed hordes who would come after the 10,483 Mason jars of pickled pigs feet which I have put up for the apocalypse.
*****
Stephen,
Congratulations on the success your Flushmasters class at The Learning Annex. However...you need to adjust your lectures in the face of diversity. Appropriate flushing methods in your neck of the Pacific Northwest may not be applicable to those of us who reside in the heartland.
Such a tactic on the teacher throne at Backroads High would result in Val shooting ceilingward on a geyser of toilet water. And not in a French butt-washing-fixture kind of way. Each flush renders a spray of porcelain reverse-shower droplets out the center of the throne. So much, in fact, that one must wipe down the seat in order for the next member of royalty to not assume that the previous user stood on that seat and performed figure-eights while relieving.