OCD or Installation?

The other day, I walked into the nearest bathroom to my office, pushed open the stall door (I'll avoid discussing the problems associated with having to do one's business in the workplace) and was confronted by a toilet seat that was wrapped in so much paper, it looked like a Christmas present or possibly a paper throne. I couldn't see any hint of porcelain, no clue that the seat was black. To me, it looked like the most sublime feat of origami in history. Someone had crafted a toilet from toilet paper!

But, no, it seems that someone spent an hour or so making sure all surface areas were covered in toilet paper. What student, I ask you, has the time to devote that much energy to something he will only require for a few moments? Well, unless he had other less obvious plans, that is.

You know, it's impossible to catch an STD - wait, I think we call them STIs now - from a toilet seat. It can't happen, unless there is some sort of new super STI that I don't know about. And, even if you could catch something hideous from a toilet seat, would a few thin strips of toilet paper protect you? I think not.

I honestly believe that it one is that paranoid about catching an infectious disease from a toilet seat, a far better strategy would be to carry around cleaning supplies, like some of those disinfectant wipes. It would be obsessive-compulsive and a little nuts, but creating a paper throne is probably weirder.

Later, I thought that perhaps I had it all wrong. Maybe this was an installation? Now, I regret not photographing it.

A Jerry Seinfeld Moment and Double-Dipping

On my way to a meeting last Thursday, I dropped my pen on the floor of the men's washroom. For a brief moment (perhaps a nanosecond) I considered picking it up, but I was suddenly horrified by what kind of bacteria might have attached itself to it in that short period of time. A recent study on the 5 second rule concluded that whatever bacteria is on the floor is immediately transferred to the object that has impacted the floor, but the authors note that there is far less bacteria on the floor than we expect, except in men's washrooms, to which I have already alluded.

So, I did what Jerry Seinfeld would do and left it where it landed. No, I don't consider that littering. I never litter. I knew that later, some custodial staff person (one day, robots will have this job) will come in to clean and refresh the supplies and this person will sweep up the pen and either throw it away or put it in his/her pocket. Either way is fine with me.

By the way, I dropped the pen at 9:55 AM, and it was still there at 5:00 PM, but it was gone the next morning.

In related news, a study* has concluded that Double-Dipping does indeed spread cooties. The study found that "for every time a bitten cracker went back into the bowl, hundreds, and probably even thousands of bacteria cells went with it." In other words, the dip becomes a bacterial soup. It makes me cringe. I am not, nor have I ever been, a double-dipper because, as Timmy said to George, "that's like putting your whole mouth right in the dip."

*To be published in the Journal of Food Safety, 2008.

Trapped in the Women's Washroom: A True Story (or, finally, I have finished this post)

I think it was Edmunston, New Brunswick on the drive back from a soggy camping trip, during which I camped in the rain in all three maritime provinces. Forget rain dances or cloud seeding: if you want rain, just hire me to go camping where you want it to fall. I am rain man.

By Edmunston, my bladder needed relief, so we (A and I) pulled up to some sort of a mall-like place and headed in. This was long enough ago that I cannot remember the name of the store, but it was something like Zellers or K-mart. Anyway, we found the washrooms easily enough, but they were locked and a notice said that we had to ask to be buzzed in. Just as I was about to ask the attendant, A said, "just come into the women's washroom."

I am not sure why that sounded like a good idea. I must have assumed that this would have been a small washroom with one stall. Later, I wondered if it had to do with a childhood experience. When I was 12 or 13, I had a part-time job doing some custodial work for a local idiot. I tidied up, emptied ash trays (that skill came in very handy when I later worked as a bartender), and some other mundane tasks.

The highlight came when I went into the women's washroom after some event. What a palace! The men's room can only be described as dirty, ugly, utilitarian, and boring. You know, there were urinals, toilets, sinks, paper towels, mirrors, etc. In contrast, the women's washroom had bizarre dispensers on the wall, better colours, and get this - a sofa! I had never seen a sofa in a washroom before. What luxury. What decadence. Even at that age, I knew that women tended to go to the can in herds, and now I knew why. They sat on the sofa and lounged.

You see, that would never work in a men's room (for many reasons). Besides, no one wants to linger too long in a men's washroom. There is too much risk of an overt attack on one's olfactory nerve.

Years later, I wondered if I went into the women's bathroom to verify that there is some serious inequities in washrooms. In all of those years, I have never encountered anything that could be described as luxury in a men's washroom. Well, there were those few washroom attendants who hand you towels, but I always felt sorry for them, having to sit there listening to men fart and groan.

So, I went in and was amazed to discover a huge washroom, complete with about 10 stalls, half a dozen sinks, but, sadly, no sofa or chair of any variety. This was New Brunswick, so maybe that was the reason. Clearly, there are no urinals in female restrooms, so I choose a stall, dropped my pants, and then, before I could even start, about ten women came in. There I was, pants around my ankles, afraid to go, fearing that the sound of masculine micturition would give away my gender, when I had already done so, by dropping my drawers. Women, I found out later, do not do that: they only pull them part way down. Who knew?

Eventually, I had to go, and managed to keep it quiet. The trouble was, there was a constant stream of women coming in, and I panicked that I would never be able to leave. A loitered in front of the mirror, waiting for a good time to usher me out of my temporary prison. After half an hour, or so it seemed, she gave the all-clear. We walked to the door, and opened it, just as a large group of women flooded in. We got very strange looks and one women looked so perplexed, I thought she would summon security, so I fled as fast as I could - without looking like a shoplifter - to the Volkswagen in the parking lot.

Technorati Tags: Edmunston, washrooms, restrooms, bathrooms

No Progress

So, I started to write my trapped in the women's washroom story, but it is not going well. It is far too long and not as interesting as I had remembered. So, I am sitting here, working and listening to Godspeed You! Black Emperor's Slow Riot For New Zero Kanada. Well, not really working, 'cause I am typing this, but it is lunch, and so I am diverted from work, which is a good thing. Oh, the CD is over ... let me change it to ... let's see ... how about ARC. Okay, ARC it is (this is the Aidan Baker ARC, not the other ones). OK, somehow, it is now 4:12. How did that happen?

You see, this post is going nowhere, but - trust me - it is far more interesting than my attempt at desrcibing the time I got trapped in a women's washroom. Okay, here is an exceprt from the draft:

I am not sure why that sounded like a good idea. I suppose I assumed that this would have been a small washroom with one stall. Years later, I wondered if it had to do with an experience I had when I was 12 or 13. I had a part-time job doing some custodial work for a local idiot. I tidied up, emptied ash trays (a skill that came in very handy when I later worked as a bartender), and some other mundane tasks.

The highlight came when I went into the women's washroom after some event. What a palace! The men's room could only be descibed as dirty, ugly, utilitarian, and boring. You know, there were urinals, toilets, sinks, paper towels, mirrors, etc. In contrast, the women's washroom had bizarre dispensers on the wall, better colours, and get this - a sofa! I had never seen a sofa in a washroom before. What luxury. What decadence. Even at that age, I knew that women tended to go to the can in herds, and now I knew why. They sat on the sofa, smoked, chatted and generally lounged about. But, what did they talk about?

As an aside, I will say that I have many many drafts in Blogger that will probably never see the light of day. Do you?

Link of the day: http://zydecofish.youaremighty.com/

Technorati Tags: washrooms, gender, music, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, ARC, Aidan Baker

Men's Rooms

Kinda gross: proceed with caution

Since I am on the general topic of Gross, I thought I would discuss the state of men's bathrooms. They are disgusting. I am not talking about the washrooms found in parks and other public gathering places -- I gather those are a no-go zone for most sane men and women. I am talking about men's washrooms is places like bars and restaurants and cinemas and malls and on university campuses.

Many women I have spoken with assure me that female bathrooms in these places are horrible, but, I can't imagine that you will find urine on the toilet seats in a women's bathroom. Please correct me if I am wrong. You see, some men will not lift the seat, perhaps because they feel that if they touch the seat, they will develop an incurable disease or maybe syphilis or herpes or whatever. Instead, they piss on the seat, without a thought for whomever might want to use the toilet after them.

Men leave toilet paper on the floors, draped over the seat (half in the water, half out of the water). Some defecate on the seat and the floor. I have seen feces smeared on the stalls. I have seen paper towels stuffed into the toilet, broken beer bottles on the floor and in urinals.

And, more and more, I have noticed that there are some men who will not turn off the tap. At least he washed his hands, I think, but it took me a while to figure out why these idiots leave the water running. It occurred to me that they do not want to touch the tap, after they have washed their hands, for fear of contacting an incurable disease or maybe syphilis or herpes or whatever. Men are pigs (except me of course).

Technorati Tags: washrooms, men