This is a photo of me at a shitty bus stop on a very heavy porcelain toilet that we dragged there. Don't worry, I'm not really using it. Nor am I using the other toilet in the "bathroom" above -- that photo is from inside the Santa Fe Meowolf exhibit. Now let's move on to what I really want to talk about, fancy toilets and shitty people.

Of all my travels, one of the longest and most difficult journeys I have ever been on is the process of trying to get my house built, here in Dallas, Texas. In fact, I am still on that journey. It has taken longer than I could have ever dreamed possible.

But at the beginning, very early in the process all those many years ago (seriously, it’s going on three years now), I had gone to look at bathroom fixtures across town in the Design District. Upon entering the showroom, it quickly became apparent that this was a Very Fancy Place.

I was dressed in what I thought was a cute and rugged REI outfit, perfect for hiking and adventure, but I immediately felt underdressed. As evidenced by all the other clients in the store, as well as the showroom salespeople, apparently this particular adventure required a suit and tie. It looked to me like everyone here was dressed for church, not for picking out toilets and bath knobs. The woman at the concierge desk was no exception, she was dressed to the nines and had impeccable hair pinned up in a bun, but I figured her whole purpose was to greet customers when they entered, so she would probably be friendly and nice.

She wasn’t. She seemed shocked and almost irritated at my presence, and even made a big fuss about how I had startled her. I was thinking how maybe right here at the front desk might not be a good place for someone with such a fragile, jumpy disposition, but I decided to just apologize instead. She instantly cut me off and asked me point blank what I was doing there. She wasn’t politely asking “May I help you,” no, I think her exact words were literally, “What are you doing here?”

Even though she was sitting down and I was standing up, almost looming over her like a Neanderthal, this woman was very intimidating, made me feel very small, and suddenly I couldn’t even remember. What was I doing there? Still sounding like I was apologizing, I managed to choke out an awkward, “I don’t know, I came to pick out some stuff?”

I realized at this point that she’d had a phone in her hand since I entered, with the other hand poised above the keypad (likely trying to decide whether to call security or the actual police), but finally her icy shell melted just a tiny bit, and she capitulated. “Okay, wait here and I’ll call someone. But just so you know, it might be a while. Also, they usually like to meet you around back near the offices.”

“Okay,” I said, all too aware that I should have thought to make an appointment first, instead of just driving here unannounced. To be honest, as I stood there awkwardly in front of her desk (there was a pristine white couch behind me, but she didn’t offer, and I didn’t dare), I was a little miffed at my architect for not preparing me a bit more for the kind of place he was sending me to. I just thought I was coming here to look pick out commodes, maybe some sinks.

As I waited and waited, I noticed that all the other clients in the showroom had beverages and wine glasses in their hands. Maybe that comes later? No one had offered me any beverages, and my desk woman even refused to make any more eye contact with me. She was simply pretending like I wasn’t there. Good idea, I’ll pretend like I’m somewhere else, too. Somewhere nice and warm and pleasant. This place had all the appeal of a freezing cold toilet seat.

As time dragged on and I realized I’d been standing there for almost 20 minutes, I was about to approach the desk once again, and this time suggest that she just help me make an appointment for another day. She beat me to it, and this time I was the one startled when she said the first nice thing she’d said to me all day. “I hope we’re not making you late.”

Nevermind the fact that it came out sounding like she meant just the opposite, it was a start.

I was about to ask her how much longer she thought it might be, and if I could maybe even get a glass of water or something, when she announced, “Ah! Here we are.”

I looked up expecting to see one of the well-dressed salespeople approaching, finally ready to lead me into the showroom, but instead it was a Hispanic man, dressed very much like me in a ball cap and athletic sportswear, and he was pushing a large flatbed trolly loaded with boxes.

Or more accurately, packages.

Outgoing packages.

He wheeled his trolley directly over to where I was standing and kicked on the little wheel break.

“There’s two more after this one.”

I don’t know if I realized it in that moment, or if wasn’t until later on the drive home, but the desk woman must have thought I said, “I’m here to pick UP some stuff,” rather than “pick OUT some stuff.” These were all their outgoing FedEx packages for the day, that this man had parked at my feet.

Everyone just stood there and looked at me expectantly. I must have seemed extra oblivious, because the desk woman stopped ignoring me long enough to interject, “Aren’t you in a hurry?”

Probably because I’d been standing there for a good twenty minutes— observing everything, being ignored, and wondering why everyone else in the showroom was being pampered and had been given champagne and fancy beverages— but I was clearly the first of us to piece together what had happened.

“I might have been in a hurry when I first got here, but you’ve had me standing in this lobby for about half an hour. I thought I was waiting on a salesperson, but apparently I’ve been waiting on these packages? If these are mine then you are amazing, because I haven’t even picked out anything yet!”

“A salesperson?” she manages, and I can see that she is not only realizing her mistake, but is also realizing as I have, that several of her clients and coworkers from the showroom have stopped what they were doing, and turned in our direction, to watch this little drama unfold.

In true Shakespearean fashion, this was a classic case of mistaken identity, and our little dramedy was at a turning point. We could have all chuckled together and laughed it off, finding amusement at the misunderstanding, but sadly, things didn’t go down that way.

It was clear that this woman had f*cked up and prejudged me based on how I was dressed (which I want to reiterate, while not a suit and tie, was still really quite dashing, damn it!). She could have apologized and maybe saved face by saying, I don’t know, that her normal delivery guy “wears a similar cap” or is “also white and nondescript.” She could have said almost anything, really.

But that’s not what she did.

I think she might have hurriedly said the words “I’m sorry,” once or twice, but I didn’t feel apologized to. I felt more like she wanted me to admit that I wasn’t dressed appropriately, and that I had somehow tricked her into behaving like an awful person.

She was flustered and indignant, and kept loudly saying things like, “You didn’t strike me as a designer,” and “most of our clients are working professionals.”

Whatever that means...???

I had made her seem foolish, prejudiced, and judgmental, and now it was like she was pleading her case to the others of her ilk that were watching from the showroom. Was she hoping they’d all rally to her side, and yell out in support?

“You’re so right, Desk Lady! He looks like a delivery guy! Not someone who’s dressed fancy and appropriately like we are, to look at toilets!”

Watching the Desk Lady dissemble as she halfheartedly apologized (but was, in actuality, insulting me with various condescending statements), it popped into my head that this is probably the type of person that calls the police on black joggers in her neighborhood. Ugh! Stop it Ryan, now you are being hypocritical and judgmental, too, no better than she is. You don’t know this lady, and she doesn’t know you.

A manager eventually stepped in, actually apologized, and quickly rustled up a salesperson for me. I was finally even given a sparkling beverage in a fancy wine glass, and I had a decent enough time in the store thereafter. But on my way out, I did make a point to stop back by and tell Desk Lady to her face the one thing I did know for sure about her:

“You may be a working professional, but you realize, right, that your job is literally ‘shit?’ At the end of the day, you sell toilets.”

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HERE is another fun story with a naughty word in the title. I'm starting to get a feel for the kind of thing you like, you dirty minx!