The night of our first full day in Arizona, we had reservations at a very popular steakhouse. It’s the kind of place that books up a month in advance, and the dress is nice. So, ya know, Mike and I have to make sure our clothes don’t have stains or holes, and all the words on our shirts are spelled correctly. The food is amazing, we look forward to it every year.

It was DEFINITELY different going with three kids. My nephews are four and two and can’t be restrained. Come ON, you know what I mean. Maddie can be tied into a high chair. Barely. The boys can’t. That’s all I’m saying, baby advocates.

Going into dinner I was certain my nephews would embarrass me (or Mike). Instead, I ended up embarrassing myself. In the bathroom.

This place easily holds 400 diners. I’m not good at math, but I figure that comes out to at least, what, 2,000 female patrons? Exactly. So you’d think they’d have a fair amount of stalls in the bathroom. But, shockingly, they only have two. TWO STALLS in a fancy STEAKHOUSE. After being at dinner for about 90 minutes, I needed to visit these stalls. I was SHOCKED when I walked into the bathroom and no one was in line. In my seven years of going to this restaurant, I have never just walked into the bathroom. The only stall that was open was the handicapped stall. Since I was the only one in line, I went in.

I did my thing (JUST LIQUID, and I’m sorry, but that is important), and while I was finishing up, I heard a mass of women enter the bathroom. I picked up the pace, buttoning my jeans as I heard the toilet flush behind me. I was tightening my belt when I heard,


I thought, “that couldn’t be what I think it is. It must be the other toilet. I will continue to buckle my belt until I have it just so.”

But then I felt splashes on my sandaled feet. So I turned. And I freaked.

Because my toilet was overflowing. I flashed back to when I lived in New York, and my toilet couldn’t handle more than four pieces of toilet paper. Whenever I had to put…more…in the toilet, I either had to go to work, or to the Barnes and Noble up the street. Otherwise, It was overflow city. Just like what was happening at the most popular steakhouse in Arizona…with a mass of woman on the other side of the stall door. Except this time I had barely put four sheets of paper in the toilet. This time, the toilet was being a fickle JERK.

There was only one thing I could do. I pulled up my pants so they weren’t in the splash zone. I took a deep breath, then I opened the stall door, and walked out. I looked at the woman at the front of the line and said,

“There is something wrong with that toilet. There has been something wrong with it for a while, but no one told me before I went in.”

The woman looked at me and said, “ok,” but her crazy jerk bizzotch friend said, “don’t make up LIES! We all know what it takes to clog a toilet!!!”

I was somewhat taken aback by her forwardness. “Yes,” I said, “I know as well. And I know I didn’t do that. I just flushed the toilet. Not like I need to explain myself!”

I put my hands up in the universal symbol for, “Mess with me and I will rub my unwashed hands on your face!!!” and I went to the sink. I washed as I heard her friend say, “EW! There’s, like, ohmigah, WATER and PAPER all over my stall!!!!”

Notice she didn’t say poop. BECAUSE THERE WASN’T ANY.

As I dried my hands, the rude girl said, “Someone go tell the manager that gross girl clogged the toilet. She should have to pay for the fire department.”

I couldn’t resist and started laughing. “Fire department?! I don’t know where you live, but in real life, we call plumbers. Go ahead and tell the manager! Save me the trouble.”

I walked out and I could hear the lame girls snickering as I left. But all I could think was, “They called me a girl! Not fat! Not old! I AM A WINNER!”

Best clogged toilet ever!