Bathroom Chemical Warfare

Other titles considered: Gassed in the Restroom, or, The Closest I'll Ever Get to Toilet Humor.

Relax! Even though I've had plenty of male roommates, this post isn't about what you think it's about. This post is about one of those things that would only ever happen to me.

The day after Christmas, my friend Justin and I decided to go have brunch at...well, for legal reasons let's call it "Smarfish Lafe." On Smarracks Grow. In Schmapitol Mill.

The food was lovely. The service was competent. After the meal, I excused myself to go use the restroom. I noticed a slightly off odor, however, as the Queen of Sinus, my sense of smell isn't that great. I also realized that by the time I walked out, my eyes were burning. A lot. I also kind of felt like I might pass out. There were annoying little itchy tingly sensations up and down my arms. And the nausea. And the headache. Oh, heavens, it was a hell of a headache.

I went home to lie down for a bit. I called the restaurant, and was informed that the janitor may have overused the bleach. By just a bit. Not by much. The person I spoke to was apologetic, but a little less freaked than I'd be if a guest called me to say they'd be poisoned by my bathroom.

After an hour passed with no improvement, I called D.C.'s poison control center. (Incidentally, Mayor Fenty? The magnet you gave me with the Important District Phone Numbers? So totally had the wrong number for the poison control center. That strikes me as a detail we'll want to get right next time. OK?)

The charming poison lady and I discussed bleach inhalation poisoning, with the probability that some ammonia had been mixed in. (Incidentally, bleach + ammonia = chlorine gas, which is apparently a chemical weapon.) Since my exposure had been less than five minutes, I was told to open the windows and that I would improve within hours.

And I did improve. I was all better by evening. But I will say my days of brunching at Smarfish Lafe are good and over.

In the comments, tell me if this is the weirdest restaurant health complaint you've ever heard.

The Annual Report Card

The problem with Christmas is that it feels too much like a report card on how you've spent your life. Are you shuttling from one corner of Creation to another so nobody feels left out? It's because you can't say no, and you've lived your life too much for others. However, if your Christmas company is Wild Turkey and self-pity, you've lived too much for yourself and that's how you wound up on your own.

Or it's an exercise in wondering about the Christmases that could have been. If I'd never left Australia, it would be summer right now. If I had more money, maybe I'd be in L.A. with my sister. If I hadn't gotten divorced, I'd be on my sixth year of marriage, and maybe making myself nuts looking for windup hamsters for a litter of ungrateful brats. If I'd never learned to cook, I might have starved to death. If I'd never filled out, I'd be shopping in the boy's department. Every coulda shoulda feels more and more absurd.

The end of each year feels too much like an exercise in what could have been, and what life should be. It feels unfair, like being ambushed at your annual review with mistakes you never noticed making. Most of my wrong turns took me to wonderful places. Most of my life is being lived the way I'd want it to be. I have a lot to be grateful for.

And part of that gratitude is for y'all, my readers. May you find your peace caroling 'round the tree, at Chinese food and a movie, or alone with your maudlin absurdity.

I, for one, shall be drinking Pimms Cups with any and all who are escaping familial obligations as fast as they can manage it.

In Which You Survive an Interrogation - and Get a Recipe!

Where were you on Friday at 7:50 am? Were you riding an Orange Line train to Vienna? If so, you just might be the jerk who swiped my cellphone and SmarTrip.

To be specific, the phone was Red Samsung T39 slider-cheapie #2. Red Samsung T39 slider-cheapie #1 came to a disastrous end in San Francisco, where it was dropped, trampled, and swept into the trash. I had high hopes and wild dreams for #2, which I have now transferred to Red Samsung T39 Cheapie #3, which was delivered today. My transitory cellphone affection is similar to the way parents assume their next-youngest child won't eat paste or open a crack-flavored lemonade stand.

To be very specific, the SmarTrip was serial number 0834293597579something-or-other. It was precious to me, well, as precious as any piece of plastic that is not an IUD, counterfeit Romanian driver's license, or American Express Plutonium Card.

I'm sure I'll have many stories to tell about my fun encounters with Customer Service, WMATA, the phone insurance goons and more, but in the interest of time and waning enthusiasm, I instead share my cure for a very, very bad day:

Bourbon-Spiked Honey-Mulled Cider
(adapted from the Five Ingredient Slow Cooker Cookbook)

3 quarts apple juice
2 cinnamon sticks, broken
1 tsp whole cloves
1 tsp allspice
1/2 cup honey
Maker's Mark (optional for some, mandatory for me)

Pour apple juice into a slow cooker. Place spices in a cheesecloth (tied with kitchen string) or a tea infuser and add to slow cooker. Stir in honey and cinnamon. Cook on LOW for 5 hours or HIGH for 2.5 hours.

Optional Step: Stir in a splash (or three) of bourbon into each mug just before serving. Continue until all drinkers are in a relaxed and horizontal state.

Turkey Dinner with a Side of Awkward

Dear Shannon,

I am having Thanksgiving dinner at my boyfriend's (we'll call him Steve) house this year. He and I have been dating for over two years. About six months ago, his ex (Lila Fowler) with whom I am not friends, sent me an email alleging that she had slept with him sometime around our first anniversary. As she is not particularly credible, that blew over relatively quickly.

As it happens, I have met his parents before and got along with them fairly well. I have not met his sister (Jessica) before - with whom he does not get along and who is still good friends with Lila (which leads me to think Jessica believes that her brother did, in fact, cheat).

So... what do I do here? Other than bring a hip flask of Patron for myself and a nice bottle of white for everyone else, I mean. I'd just like to be prepared for any eventuality, including snide remarks from the sisterly peanut gallery.

Thanks!

Billie Winkler

Dear Billie,

I think if someone invented the Truly Perfect Comeback that worked on every snide remark, advice columnists around the world would instantly go out of business.

Also, never mock the trusty hip flask. It has seen many a guest through many a disastrous event (proof: Foggy Dew brought one to my wedding). Finally, there is no way to be prepared for “any eventuality” – life just doesn’t work that way. All you can really do is carry yourself with dignity and hope for the best. This situation is about 60 percent under Jessica's control. Here’s the breakdown of where the rest of the control lies:

20 percent: Your boyfriend. Does he normally back you up when there’s a dispute with his family? This is important for two reasons: 1. if you’re considering marriage, this is HUGE, and, 2. if his family sees him as someone who sticks up for you, and won’t be a pushover, then his sister will feel less tempted to make snide remarks because she knows he won't put up with it.

15 percent: You. You’re going to have to hold your head high, be friendly and interested in what she has to say, and give this woman a chance. If you’re shy by nature, this is going to be a challenge. But it’s totally necessary: if you show up for dinner all defensive and ready for a fight, you’ve already lost. You’ve gift-wrapped an excuse for her to go nuclear on her brother’s bitch queen stuck-up girlfriend.

5 percent: Random chance. Maybe something will happen before dinner that puts Jessica in a good mood, making things easier, or bad news could turn her into the haranguing devil sister from hell. Or maybe she'll catch the swine flu and miss dinner. Who knows?

In the end, all you can do is show up as your best self, and hold your head high. She may make a snide remark, in which case you have two choices: the etiquette-approved subject change, or, for the truly daring, playing dumb. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Could you please explain what you meant by that?” can make even the most toxic person fumble. But in the end, this is about how well you and your boyfriend team up to deal with outside drama...so a spat with the sister may be a good thing after all, as it can help you figure out whether your guy is a keeper.

Good luck, and let us know how it goes!

PS – I do hope, whether the cheating allegations turn out to be true or not, that you got yourself thoroughly checked for STDs. Never take chances with your health.

Have a sticky etiquette question? Send it to scannerjockey@gmail.com!