No one wants to be the girl who stinks up the company can. You know, the girl who sits silently in her stall for half an hour as rotations of women effortlessly relieve themselves around her, a veritable dragon brewing in her bowels, begging to be unleashed. When will they leave me alone?? she wonders in agony, waiting for a moment of peace to detonate. Pooping in a bathroom with stalls is such a different game.

Horrifyingly, the moment nature called for me to head to the office latrine was the very moment it called half the Total Beauty staff, too. Shit, I thought for every reason. I hid the Poo-Pourri between the pages of a notebook as I tried to play it cool on the walk down the hall.

Surrounded by discerning colleagues, I nabbed the first stall and spritzed thrice, before realizing that in this communal environment, the problem would be less the smell and more ... well, the sound. Sure, my stall might not smell like poo, but it sure would sound like it.

So, I did what any self-preserving office pooper would do: I coordinated my mind with my sphincter and timed to tap the flush right as turd hit water. Three, two, one: Success. No smell, no plop, no evidence. I smiled at a coworker in the mirror as we washed our hands side by side, smugly satisfied with my little secret. Me and the Poo-Pourri really were a team.

So, what was our final, scientific judgment of the much-hyped Poo-Pourri? In a word: Doo-lighted. This little bathroom buddy aimed to help us crap with confidence, and in each of our test environments, it delivered on that promise.

There is one small caveat: Poo-Pourri does leave behind some proof of foul play. I clocked that the scent of its essential oils (which smells more or less like a lemon drop) lingers for up to an hour after flushing. Of course, the fragrance is fresh and elusive, as opposed to rancid and fecal, and I think we can all agree that elusiveness is so much more dignified.

Then again, it's not guaranteed. After I returned from my assumed success in the office bathroom, a coworker swung by my desk and asked if I'd just used the Poo-Pourri. "I thought I recognized that smell," she smiled. For all I know the girl at the restaurant spotted it too.

So, Poo-Pourri or not, you might be found out. But odds are it'll be by a fellow "girl pooper," another member of our club, who also shi*ts lemons and lavender with abandon. She'll exit the ladies' and give you a wink-wink of knowing solidarity, before moseying along, a joyful spritzer of her own never too far from reach. And you'll wink back, knowing your secret's safe with her. After all, we have to look out for each other. It's the girl pooper way.