Who knew?

Here I am, in all my vulnerable glory, standing...watching...waiting, as the waters of my demise rise to a frightening level.

Who knew that in the year 2009, toilets STILL get stopped up. Didn't they fix that horrible plumbing issue decades ago? Well, if not, they should have. A stopped-up toilet at a social event can be the ticket to loser ville for a single lady.

"You are forced to use a valuable lifeline, self. One that may or may not be a solid (no pun intended) choice."

I venture out.

Amongst the people. Amongst watchful eyes that seem to question, "Where have you been for the past 15 minutes?" I am dreadfully aware that my re-appearance has not gone unscathed, and painfully aware that the lingering signs of my activities have crept into the public arena. I rush to my lifeline's side.

"Friend, come with me!" I hiss.
"What for? Are you OK?" she asks.
"PLEASE!" I plead.

We're off.

We slither into where the crime has been committed. And the evidence is looking us dead in the eye. I have lost my lifeline in the mere seconds it takes for me to quickly push my stiletto against the door and click the lock: she has whithered into a ball of giggles.

"GOOD GRIEF, WOMAN! Get up! Help me! What are we supposed to do!?!"
"I'm going to be honest with you, I have no idea what to do!"

Rats.

My trustworthy confidant has nothing to offer! I am forced to go back to the drawing board, and figure out plan b.

"Matt. Let's get Matt. He'll know what to do." Chuckles and snickers are heard from the peanut gallery. "SERIOUSLY! Can a girl take a..."

I must trudge on.

We escape. One by one.

"Shut the door!!" I breath.
"Geez, sorry...," my loyal partner whispers.

We find lifeline #2. He is mingling. Enjoying the company around him. Sipping a fruity cocktail (pun intended).

"Come with us!" we say, as we pull his body towards the bathroom.
"What the?" He has little time to respond, before being thrown into the crime scene.

His face says it all. I quickly want to defend myself and blame it on his cheesey dip, but I retreat. I must remain with the grain, not against it.

"Well...," I protest, "what are we to do?"
"You what? In the what?" he stammers. "Good God."
"PLUNGER! Get a plunger!" The fumes must have ceased, because an intelligent thought has surfaced.

He's off. Slinking out the door and through the crowds. Then he's back— good God that was fast, man! (Not something a gentleman likes to hear, I might add)—gleefully holding the plunger in his hand, a cocktail in the other.

"Did you SERIOUSLY just come through the party with that THING!?" I shout. Appalled that my second lifeline may have revealed me to all.

"NO!" he spats, "I came up the BACK stairwell...past the kitchen full of people, past the living room full of people, and through the back hallway...."

No time for explanations. This girl has got to plunge!

And there she goes....down, down, and away. Through the pipes of humility, the waters of shame....I breathe. Thankful that my shame is gone.

We return. Amongst the people. They question why two females and one gay male were just seen leaving a bathroom.

"Hey, you know I'm still gay, right?" Matt protests.

At least all eyes are off me....