Anti-fart Juice

I snacked on some weeks-old watermelon today. I should have known better; the once-crisp chunks had started to collapse inward like melting pink icebergs, and the pale seeds wept from fleshy sockets. My stomach felt hard and distended within 10 minutes.

Naturally, the only remedy for my affliction was sipping Anti-Fart Juice from a horizontal position whilst moaning. I explained this to my roommate, Alicia, and once she stopped laughing, she asked about the contents of my mug. It is on her behalf that I now reveal my magic potion’s super-secret recipe:

ANTI-FART JUICE

Ingredients:

-1 tablespoon of chopped ginger (fresh is preferable to the graying, bought-this-for-stir-fry-weeks-ago-and-completely-forgot-about-it variety)

-1 squirt of lemon juice

-1 squeeze of honey

-Hot water

Instructions:

-Heat some water. Pour it into a mug

-Dump the lemon juice and honey into the mug

-Stir

-Place the ginger inside one of those metal, medieval torture device-looking tea ball thingies.

-Drop the teal ball thingy in the hot water. Seep

-Sip whilst horizontal and moaning

April Fool (Part III)

I rarely entertain visitors at work, but when I do, they tend to inquire about the row of empty toilet paper rolls affixed to the top of my cubicle. 

“That’s the Wall of Shame,” I’ll say. 

The follow-up explanation makes perfect sense: One of my female co-workers neglects (dare I say, “refuses?”) to toss and replace empty toilet paper rolls. And although I have my suspicions, I have yet to identify the perpetrator of this most egregious affront to human decency (I mean, within the realm of restroom-related calamities, is there anything worse than finding oneself stranded on a communal toilet bowl? The answer to that question, I can personally attest, is a resounding “no.”). So I erected the Wall of Shame to, well, shame the perp. 

I fully expected Human Resources (AKA, the publisher’s wife) would eventually notice my gauche social experiment and politely ask me to knock it off – quite literally -- but Liz has become my most dedicated roll collector. Over the course of approximately six months, she and other participating stall sleuths have collected 20 rolls. There’s a process: we scribble the date and time of the offense on the cardboard and then use Scotch tape to attach the roll to my cubicle.

My point in divulging this passive-aggressive pastime is to provide context for my decision to position Bianca on one of the two ladies’ restroom toilet seats with a sign reading, “I SAW YOU. You didn’t toss that empty toilet paper roll. Shame.”

Bianca and I arrived at the office at 8 a.m. on Friday, April 1, before all but Victim No. 2, who was finishing up some work. I had figured a naked Bianca might be a tad too risqué for a newspaper setting – even on Casual Friday -- so the female form I smuggled into the building arrived fully clothed in jeans and a blouse, my hand-me-downs. She was in position on the first stall toilet seat by 8:25 a.m.

Victim No. 2 did not fully condone my plan. She helped me collect Bianca’s bits when both arms dislocated and clattered to the ground, but I could tell she was nervous about my prank upsetting Liz or, much worse, causing one of the more senior employees to drop dead of a heart attack. I appreciated that; my cubicle offered a clear line of sight to the restroom doors, and I assured Victim No. 2 of my ability to wrestle any old lady to the ground should she attempt to enter.

By 9 a.m., all employees had arrived. I went about my work but always with one eye on the restroom door and the videocamera within easy reach on my desk. Each time someone drew near that door, I activated the camera and bobbed up and down and up and down to peer over the Wall of Shame. But no one entered. No one within the sea of estrogen that is that office had to pee! No one, that is, except me, and I wasn’t about to abandon my sentry and miss recording the first victim’s reaction as she emerged, horror-stricken, from the restroom. By 9:30 a.m., I was crossing and uncrossing my legs and jiggling the alternating suspended foot. Pete was now in on the joke, and he and Victim No. 2 were thoroughly amused by my jack-in-the-box bouncing.

“This is killing me!” I texted them.

“We must have a lot of big bladders in this office,” Pete texted.

“Seriously,” texted Victim No. 2. “Just wait until the coffee kicks in…”

And then J.T. entered the restroom. I activated the camera and sprang from my seat. I took up position between Chris and Mary’s desks and trained the lens on the door. And waited for the scream. And waited. And waited.

Finally, J.T. emerged. She looked at me and looked at the camera, but she didn’t say a word. Her face, in fact, was blank, void of surprise or suspicion or annoyance. She returned to her desk. I returned to mine and exchanged looks of confusion with Pete and Victim No. 2.

Was it possible J.T. hadn’t seen Bianca? I found this unlikely because I had left Bianca’s stall door ajar and the vanity mirror reflected her perpetually serene visage throughout the small room. 

I investigated. Yes, stall still open. Yes, creepy face still reflected in the mirror. Huh. Pete suggested I attach an “Out of Order” sign to the remaining stall door, thus forcing victims to confront the interloper. So I did. And we waited. And waited. 

“We need one of those nature sound machines that plays the sound of a running stream,” Pete texted. “Hope no one gives Bianca a swirlie!”

“Man, I have heartburn again from all this anticipation,” I responded.

At one point, an elderly employee did venture close enough to the restroom door for me to seriously consider tackling her – or at least cutting her off at the pass – but she returned from her trip to the copy machine unscathed. And then Leverne stepped inside the restroom. She emerged 10 seconds later.

“MEGAN!” she shouted. 

It would take another bathroom visit from J.T. – and her resounding scream – before the entire office became aware of our visitor. And then both men and women clustered and crammed into the ladies’ restroom to behold Bianca and snap her picture. The onlookers included the newspaper's editor-in-chief, the associate publisher and Liz. The publisher, Paul, entered holding his nose.

J.T., it turns out, had not seen Bianca on her first bathroom break, and the fact that my recording her exit confused but didn’t phase her should provide some indication of the degree of weird my co-workers associate with me.

Liz approached my desk once the excitement died down.

“Can you come with me?” she said, putting an arm around my shoulders.

Uh-oh. I glanced at Victim No. 2. Now I too was genuinely nervous. 

I allowed Human Resources to escort me past the reception area and halfway down the office stairs. Then she paused and turned me around. We ascended the stairs.

“Hello,” said a voice from behind the receptionist’s desk. “How can I help you?”

Bianca was seated in the receptionist’s chair and Dawn, in the cubicle behind the receptionist’s station, was using the phone intercom to provide her with a voice. I laughed and watched, dumbfounded, as Liz snapped a photo of Bianca. Despite the heartburn, anxiety and near bladder rupture suffered by poor Victim No. 5 (me) -- that unexpected appreciation for silly made this year’s shenanigans all worthwhile. 

April Fool (Part II)

It was Jackie who suggested I videotape the victims’ reactions. (This was after her "Ur sick" text but before the one in which she questioned how I acquired Bianca in the first place.)

“We are witnessing Megan’s usual Saturday,” she replied to a texted selfie I sent she and Kelsey.

“Yep. I am so happy right now,” I told my friends. Visions of viral YouTube fame-dom danced in my head.

“U gotta put it in the bed and record matts reaction when he thinks it’s you,” Jackie added.

But while Bianca’s permanently seated position proved quite suitable to the car, it did not lend itself to the horizontal. So I did not attempt slipping her between the sheets of my marital bed. Instead, I targeted the downstairs half-bath, the one that features both a toilet for human-sized behinds and a litter box for feline-sized ones. Getting the videocameras inside proved easy. Smuggling in a laundry basket full of fiberglass body parts was not because Matt (Victim No. 1) happened to be cooking dinner directly across from the bathroom. An impromptu phone call from his brother proved advantageously distracting, but the position of the steaming pasta pot he so diligently monitored would prove a challenge. Luckily, Victim No. 1 began pacing. Into the living room.

I tossed a towel over Bianca’s bits, seized the basket and prepared to waltz from the garage to the laundry room to the bathroom, a distance of about 15 feet. But then Victim No. 1’s once-muffled voice grew louder. I hastened back into the shadowy alcove beside the dryer. Pasta noodles stirred. The voice fell faint once more. I tiptoed into the rumpus room – no! Victim No. 1 returned! Damn those noodles! 

Like the ocean tide, my basket and I receded and returned. Receded and returned. Receded and – then, a break! We rounded the corner and slipped into the bathroom. I closed the door, turned the lock and commenced assembling my woman.

I set Bianca – still in the buff – on the toilet seat and positioned the videocameras to best capture each victims’ stunned visage as they entered the tiny room. The plan, now fully formed, was to terrify Victim No. 1 and then recruit him to terrify Alicia (Victim No. 2) when she returned from the gym. I mashed the record buttons and strolled into the kitchen.

“One of the cats’ dropped a real bomb in there,” I said. “It’s absolutely awful.”

Victim No. 1 ate the bait.

“OK,” he groaned. “I’ll clean it up after dinner.”

And so we sat down to eat. Noodles slurped, salad speared. But then – calamity! – Victim No. 2 arrived home earlier than expected. We invited her to dine, and I did my best to concentrate on the spaghetti before me.

“Um, excuse me,” I said, halfway through the meal. Although Victim No. 1 and I generally consumed meals without much fanfare, adding bubbly Victim No. 2 to the mix would surely prolong the chitchat – and drain my camera batteries. I stepped into the bathroom, ran the water and flushed the toilet to mask the telltale beep as I switched both recorders into the “off” position.

I rejoined the dinner table. Victim No. 1 and Victim No. 2 were trading favorite movie selections. Although I had prompted the conversation, I could not fully follow what either of my companions said. Fiery indigestion danced in my chest. Should I restart the cameras or wait? How long should I wait? When would this meal end?!

“Excuse me,” I said, ducking into the bathroom to activate the cameras once more. Victim No. 2 had consumed her last noodle and Victim No. 1 was lingering in the rumpus room, dangerously close to Bianca. Luckily, Wolfie saved the day.

“Don’t let him go in there,” I told Victim No. 1 as the dog trotted toward his anticipated second dinner.

“I’ll go clean it now,” Victim No. 1 said, sighing. He neared the bathroom. I bit my lip. 

“Watch this,” I told Victim No. 2, pulling out my iPhone, a third videocamera offering yet another angle for my future YouTube masterpiece.

“Huh?”

The moment, when it finally came, was supremely unsatisfying.

“What-the-crap-is-that?” Victim No. 1 said, raising his arms in disbelief. No scream. No screech. No shout. Just a bemused smile. And an about-face.

“Huh?” Victim No. 2 said again. "What did you do?"

l-r: Victim No. 2, Victim No. 1 and one confused dog

“Go in there,” I said.

Even though Victim No. 2 entered the bathroom fully expecting something amiss, her reaction was candid; she expected – at worst -- a giant smelly cat turd and instead feasted her eyes upon a remarkably naked stranger presumably going about her business.

“Whhhhhhhooooooa!” Victim No. 2 sang, clutching herself. “She’s scary!”





Jackpot. 

“Tomorrow, I’m taking her to work,” I said.

To be continued...

April Fool (Part I)

It could be said orchestrating an April Fool’s prank is more stressful than being the victim of one. Consider, for starters, the time devoted to brainstorming and to set-up and, if you’re exceptionally ambitious, to cleanup. But the worst, by far, is the time spent mired in anxious anticipation.

This year, I managed to play both the roles of victim and victimizer, and it’s the latter that caused me heartburn and nearly made me wet my pants.

I began crafting my own prank last Saturday, the very day I met Bianca. She was seated on a chair beside shelves of discarded cookery, regretted QVC purchases and framed prints even Motel 6 might scorn. She wore her sandy blonde hair short and feathered in a fashion not unlike pop star Justin Bieber. She was completely nude, but I didn’t care. I had to have her. I hoisted Bianca at the waist and folded her neatly over my shoulder, like a caveman preparing to transport his cavewoman.

#BFFs

“We’re eloping,” I told the first GoodWill shopper who noticed my cargo. I had reached the dishware department, and Bianca’s permanently pointed right foot swung dangerously close to the stemware. He smiled.

“Now I can ride in the HOV lane,” I quipped to a woman in the shoe aisle. She laughed.

I settled Bianca’s bare behind on the checkout counter. My mouth was fixed in an ear-to-ear smile, but the cashier’s eyes refused to return it. He registered my $25.99 purchase, swiped my credit card and accepted my signature. The receipt, I noticed with some disappointment, was not itemized. 

Back at the car, I settled Bianca into the passenger’s seat and adjusted her arms to accommodate the seatbelt strap across her chest. I slipped sunglasses over her blank blue eyes and protected her modesty with my jacket. I snapped selfies and sent them to my parents, sister and friends. And then I started the car and we completed my remaining errands together, pausing for occasional frivolity along the way. On Highway 101, I detached Bianca’s right hand and used it to wave to day workers crammed into the cab of a landscaping truck. They laughed. I selected the most conspicuous spots in parking lots and fantasized about the double takes my patient passenger earned as I shopped. And, as promised, I ventured into the HOV lane (technically, it was a Saturday, but imagine the thrill!). Yes, I was deliriously pleased with myself. In a decade of thrift shopping, this had to be my finest purchase.  

My husband, Matt (you may refer to him as “Victim No. 1”), was fully immersed in the new HBO show “Vinyl” when I returned home, and so I had little trouble smuggling my prize into the garage. First, I unscrewed Bianca’s torso. Then her legs, one pointed, one bent, popped off. Finally, I detached her arms and dislodged each delicate fiberglass hand. I piled the parts behind the compost bin, entered the house and greeted Matt and then unlocked the garage side door.

For nearly a week, Bianca’s bits remained stacked haphazardly within the garage water heater closet. I briefly considered the horrified screeches their discovery might elicit should Victim No. 1 or Alicia, our new roommate (henceforth referred to as “Victim No. 2”), suddenly experience an urge to open said closet, but reasoned that scenario would likely best even my intended plans.

To be continued...