Fleeing the scene

The irony of me writing about constipation for a living is that I'm actually extremely regular. I know, more info than you cared to know. It seems that this job is making me frighteningly desensitized to the personal nature of bodily functions. But I digress, back to my bowels and their superior voidance regularity – it's like clockwork, everyday after my morning latte. (Note to self: work "superior bowel voidance regularity" into next headline).

Sunday morning was no different. I had decided to enjoy previously mentioned morning latte at a new café near my house in Brooklyn. After sipping the latte and settling down with my laptop to do some work, previously mentioned clockwork kicked in and I got up to head to the bathroom.

We're gonna go ahead and skip ahead 5-10 minutes to when I tried to flush the toilet. It wouldn't flush. Which is not to say that I clogged it or that it was overflowing, it just simply wouldn't flush. The handle wouldn't budge.

After jiggling, repeating flushing attempts and perhaps a few violent whacks, I decided to move to Plan B: play plumber. I opened up the back of the toilet and peered inside. This porcelain machine was like none that I had seen before. It had no valve, no squeezy rubber head thingy, and no ballcock assembly (he he, ballcock). This toilet tank was modern, streamlined, one step away from being an iPod. This was not a tank I could fix.

I was stuck. I had no choice but to go to Plan C: replace the top of the tank, close the toilet lid and leave the bathroom in shame. Luckily no one was in line when I exited. I walked over to the front to explain to the guy behind the counter that the toilet wouldn't flush. The cute guy with the hipster haircut that flashed a sexy smile when he rang me up. The hottie that made a heart design with foamed milk in my latte mug. On second thought, time for Plan D: escape. I walked over to my table, downed my half-full, heart-topped latte, grabbed my laptop, headed for the door and never looked back.

Why have I chosen to relay this embarrassing story to all seven of my readers? Because the blog is my form of confession. And I do feel a little guilty for leaving that little surprise for the next bathroom guest to discover. Guess I won’t be heading back to that café for some time.