Three coworkers by day, deeply questionable decision-makers by night—we had a long-standing tradition built on clubs, dance floors, and the sacred lie of “this is the last stop,” a promise that had never once survived contact with reality.
So, when Vivian announced she wanted to take a trip to Reno for a job search, there was… a pause.
Not because anyone doubted her.
But because everyone understood exactly what “job search” means in Vivian’s universe.
“To be clear,” I asked Viv, “Are we actually job searching… or are we just bringing résumés near casinos?”
Vivian just smiled—that raven-haired, chaos-coded smile that has historically been preceded both by free upgrades and mild property damage.
And that’s how the three of us ended up on a quick getaway that returned us with snacks, poorly vetted decisions, and a story that honestly should come with a warning label.
Not just a story—a series of regrettable brilliance. The kind that changes a person.
Somewhere between check‑in and getting the room keys, Vivian turned on the charm with the reservation clerk — that effortless flirtaholic energy she refused to turn off — and next thing you know?
Suite upgrade.
No one asked questions. No one intervened. The universe simply… allowed it.
Which is how we ended up with a much‑nicer‑than‑necessary hotel bathroom.
Clean tile. Soft lighting. A dangerous level of confidence in the air.
And sitting innocently beside the toilet… a bidet.
Paula stared at it like it had personally wronged her.
I backed away immediately, already sensing danger.
Vivian? She just tilted her head, assessing it like a puzzle she fully intended to solve incorrectly.
Paula, a grown adult with confidence and absolutely no relevant experience, gave it a once-over.
“I mean… how hard could it be?”
Vivian, already interested in chaos, leaned in.
I stayed near the door. Observing. Judging. Preparing to testify later.
Paula held up a finger as she recounted this part afterward.
“There was a button labeled Mountain Stream.”
Me: “That sounds aggressive.”
Vivian: “That sounds like a challenge.”
Paula: “I’m pressing it.”
She should not have pressed it.
What happened next defies physics, plumbing, and several personal boundaries.
A jet of icy, high-pressure water blasted upward with the enthusiasm of a Yellowstone geyser. Paula shrieked—loud enough to concern nearby guests and possibly alert the front desk to a situation they were not trained for.
The force launched her forward.
I watched this unfold in real time and can confirm… she left the ground… like fully airborne. It was like witnessing a NASA rocket launch.
Paula hit the wall, slid down dramatically, drenched, stunned, and—by her own account—spiritually rearranged.
Dignity? Gone.
Composure? Gone.
Grip on reality? Slippery at best.
Naturally, Vivian stepped forward.
“You didn’t do it right. Move.”
I tried to induce sanity: “No. No one needs to do it right.”
But Vivian had already committed.
She approached the bidet with the enthusiasm of someone who has never been defeated by plumbing—or common sense.
The bidet responded with the confidence of a machine that absolutely intended to win.
Within seconds, Vivian was hydroplaning across the tile like a confused penguin in a disaster film. Towels were sacrificed. Dignity was lost. The bidet remained… committed.
At one point, she caught her reflection.
Hair soaked. Eyes feral. Shirt clinging like she’d just fought the ocean and lost.
She didn’t look human anymore.
She looked like Soakazilla— a damp, furious creature born from dubious life choices and excessive water pressure.
“This is how I die,” she announced, slipping—again—while reaching for the knob.
Paula, still recovering on the floor, offered zero assistance.
I was pressed against the wall, now laughing in the specific tone of someone witnessing history.
Somewhere between the slipping, the shrieking, and the aggressive aquatic betrayal, Vivian managed to hit peak velocity—hydroplaning into the towel rack, careening sideways, and sliding down the wall like a damp tactical mural.
Eventually—after what felt like 8–12 business seconds but may have been an entire era—she shut the bidet off.
Silence fell.
Only the sound of dripping water remained.
And three women reconsidering every life choice that led them to that bathroom.
But here’s where it gets worse.
Because after witnessing Paula’s launch and Vivian’s transformation into a water-based cryptid, there should have been a lesson.
There was not.
There was… a second attempt.
Paula, fueled by wounded pride and extremely poor judgment, whispered, “Okay but I think I understand it now.”
“You don’t”, I pleaded “You absolutely don’t.”
Of course she tried again.
The bidet, unwavering in its mission, responded with the same unholy enthusiasm.
Another blast. Another shriek. Another loss for humanity.
At this point, the bathroom floor was no longer a surface—it was a hazard.
Both Paula (Geyser) and Vivian (Soakazilla) had now been personally victimized by hotel plumbing.
I remained the sole survivor. Dry. Untouched. But emotionally changed.
No amount of personal development will undo what happened in that bathroom.
Some experiences stay with you.
Some follow you.
Some… require towels and silence.
And for everyone’s safety, Soakazilla and Geyser are now permanently banned from unsupervised encounters with hotel plumbing.
I, meanwhile, have been appointed both witness and historian.
If anyone ever suggests a quick trip again—I will be bringing a flotation device.
Because apparently being launched across a bathroom wasn’t humiliation enough, the hotel bill politely informed us: ‘No Charge for the Power Wash.’ Honestly, that hurt more than the water pressure.
© 2026 Jeanie Elizabeth — All Rights Reserved
RIP Vivian, thanks for the memories.
Romancing the Herd 