Bulletin From Your Vagina-American

WOW I’m a fricking genius. Longtime readers may know that I have special issues with the wetting myself (once, I swear) and being able to pee in public at all. Well, friends, today I had an interview for a job I would enjoy having, I think. I put on my foncy lady clothings and took the metal shit out of my face and tied my hair back into a bun so awesome that undead Melvil Dewey would have immediately taken me as his unholy bride right on the spot.

Look at this, disclosure within disclosure! I have also discovered the wondrous world of Spanx in the past six months. Let me say, you cannot hide what is there. It will not go away. Where will it go, into some kind of weird vacuum hammerspace (“Yeaaaah, I’m only a tubbo on the weekends, thanks.”)? But it will make things smoother. Ensmoothen, if you will, and I know you will. So you can look nicer in your foncy lady pants.

Of course I had purchased the one that was best for wearing under thin summer dresses, and as such provides a fair amount of coverage. So much coverage that you don’t even have to pull them down while you’re out and about. They have this weird gussety thing, and you just kind of…pee out of that. I know, I know. Doing it the first time scared the pickles out of me, because it just sort of feels like you’re wetting your pants or something, but it worked, and all the other times after that, EXCEPT TODAY.

Did I mention I had an interview today? Yeaaah.

I took a loooooong drive to get there, nom nom nomed the coffee all the way there, stuck in traffic, etc etc and slammed a big glass of water before climbing into the car. I was doing the carseat peepee dance by the time I got to within a block of the interview site. LO! There was a giant department store just calling my name.

I wanted to pee and pick up a magazine (No, Jessica Simpson, I don’t want to hear about how you Found Love Again, please choke on your hair extensions) to kill some time, since I am appropriately afraid of the commuting situation in this town and left very early.

I went into the bathroom and got ready to do my thing, positioning myself over the toilet in a way that seemed like optimal deployment. Some ladies, I know, can fire it off with no mistakes or trouble, and can even go standing up, but I am one of those who can get all cockeyed and pee on my leg and stuff. No homo. I was just having that thought, “Gee, this would be terrible timing for me to OH GOD OH GOD what is that FEELING NONONONO!”

There I blew. The pee went all cattywampus and ended up soaking into the edge of the gusset. No NO NOOOOO! I couldn’t stop, though, I had been holding it too long. The problem soon spread about a bit, as it all wicked around. I hopped around in the stall desperately, trying to contain the wetness with wadded toilet paper and prayer. Blot, blot, blot, Jesus God, I am going to be that person at the interview, Spanky McWettibutt. This is my Fergie Ferg moment. It was middle school all over again: EVERYONE WILL SEE AND EVERYONE WILL KNOW. I will be that weirdo who leaves the wet spot on the seat. I can’t untuck my shirt. Should I take it off? Then I will have nothing. I can’t go commando to this important interview.

I imagined myself cramming the moist Spanx into my purse and then them somehow jumping out at the interview (like I wouldn’t just leave them in the car) like a snake in a can of trick peanuts. Nice to meet you, BOINGWETSPANX.

I blotted. I flushed. I tucked and emerged, remembering that no matter what I do, I will do it clunkily and with as little grace as humanly possible. I looked at my butt. I looked at my front. Butt. Front. Butt. Front. BUTT. FRONT. Rhythm! I started to dance. “WHAT IS LOVE? Baby don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me, no more.” I remembered that it was 9:15 in the morning and snapped out of it, making a hasty exit from the large department store bathroom.

I sat down in the car with my legs open a little bit like I had seen dudes do, as if I had nuts to mash or something. I waited til it was almost the appointed time. I peeked into my crotch a little, like it was the aforementioned snake in the can. I could see my pants looked a little darker. Oh dear. It would be hidden by standing and sitting, I reasoned.

I walked into the interview. I smiled. I sold myself like crazy. How was your day?

If you are having no luck with comments, I always like to get an email. (sj at this site.) But not you, Nebulon. No one likes your style.

4 thoughts on “Bulletin From Your Vagina-American

  1. I loved this story. I loved the linked story. I still had to google spanx however, tee hee! I lurk here often, and just wanted to come out and say thanks for sharing with sincerity. Cattywampus is a new favourite word.

  2. Take one for the team. Splash yourself with a latte, and then just loudly announce your embarassment about the coffee. “What a dope I am. Oh WELL, at least I didn’t PEE my pants.”

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