Green Latrine

“It's painted drab, a rustic green. That's why its called … the Green Latrine”*

The Beatles imply that “she came in through the bathroom window”. Liars. Why would any woman risk falling head first into the unclean abyss when she would only need the protection of footwear to enter through the door? Women like to avoid potential life-threatening head injuries from ceramics, and disgusting toxic splatter whenever possible.

I, for one, hate public bathrooms. There, I said it. I do. They generally smell of decaying human products, they put you at great risk for being short-sheeted, and worst of all, as the name implies, they are PUBLIC. Doors fail to latch, or have no locking mechanisms at all, causing one to employ the stretch-and-hold-as-you-pee approach. Such body bending maneuvers during tender moments can’t be colon-healthy.

My worst nightmares come in the shape of public bathrooms full of small, ill-behaved children with a curious streak. Once, while minding my “business” at a local Pizza Hut restaurant bathroom, I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet arrive in the bathroom. The entourage, consisting of 2 small boys and the mother entered the stall adjacent to mine. I heard the mother say in a stern voice, “Porter, stand up. People don’t like you to look at them when they’re going potty.” As cued, little Porter ducked under the wall, entered my stall, stood up and said,

“Whatcha doin’?”

I screamed, as only a girl can do. I restrained the impulse to kick at the urchin lest I draw a felony assault charge while squatting. It would no doubt draw curious onlookers to the scene, and I was feeling quite vunerable. I put on my best camp counselor voice and said, “This is my stall; you need to go next door.”

“Why?”

I resisted the urge to reply, “BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T, I SHALL RIP OFF YOUR ARM THAT IS CURRENTLY UNTIEING MY SHOELACES AND BEAT YOU WITH THE BLOODY STUMP.” But I didn’t have to. Intrigued by his brother’s conversation, Urchin 2 apparently swerved at an inappropriate moment with regard to bodily functions, causing undue peril in his stall. There was a silence, and then I heard,

“Mama, I made the wall ugly.”

I had never been happier to be childless, unless you count the day when my nephews asked me,

“Do we have to wear underwear today?”

Porter disappeared under the wall, and I hear, “Preston look at what you’re doing. We’re going to have the clean the wall up now. LOOK AT WHAT YOU’RE DOING! We’re going to have to find someone to give us a sponge.” Darn. This was my not my day to equip my bat belt with sponges. In fact, I wondered how many people usually carried spare sponges with them on a daily basis. Forgetting the sponge enigma I hurried as best I could to escape the impending flood. As I exited, both Porter and Preston were engaged in plying paper towels to the floor, to each other, and into the toilet. Eeeuuuuwww. They were dipping their paper towels in the toilet, and then “cleaning” the walls with them, as their mother searched frantically in her purse for wipes. Her purse was clearly much smaller than would necessary to accommodate all the wipes she needed. I thought how thankful I was that I was not currently employed in the janitorial industry, and I stepped away from the sink to throw away my paper towel, when one of the little urchins asked

“Do we have to wash our hands?”

For the love of all that is holy, I hope they did, but I didn’t stay to find out. I have a weak constitution. I’ve also renewed my vow not to have children. It also fosters my hatred of public bathrooms, and my quest to point them out.

One of the most poorly designed public bathrooms in the Midwest is the women’s facility in the building where I work. (Having only entered a men’s room once at the Astro Dome in Houston, I have little experience or basis for comparison.) There is an entrance door, which leads to a small antechamber and another door that leads into the stalls. The problem is that a) the antechamber is approximately the dimension of a human body and b) both door swing in to the center. In addition to the total inability of anyone with a physical disability to use this facility, this creates a potentually perilous situation if you happen to be in the antechamber when people are coming a) out of the bathroom or b) into the bathroom. If you would like a demonstration of how a mammogram feels, stand in the antechamber while both doors are being opened. If you are on crutches, or have mobility problems, avoid liquids the day before your visit.

The worst part may have to be the Lilliputian dimensions of the room, which add up to nearly three square feet. Should you get through the gauntlet of the doors, you’ll find yourself in a room somewhat smaller than a portable toilet, and not nearly the charm. This room contains 3 stalls, 2 sinks, a baby changing station (no doubt so that you can change your baby into something more practical), and a prehistoric tampon/pad machine. It doesn’t take coins; you insert wampum beads to get out a product. You also need to be familiar with feminine hygiene products of the 1940’s, and have an appreciation for index cards, which are a suitable alternative for the chafe-inducing excuse for toilet paper. It could be worse, you could be at the fair.

Bathrooms far worse than the Ohio facilities may be found at the Indiana State Fairgrounds. (Specifically the ones near the Pioneer Barn…oh the irony.) They were designed and constructed in pre-world war II Indiana, no doubt by blind pygmies without any regard for person hygiene or comfort. Perhaps it’s the proximity to the animal barns, but the first thing to hit you is the welcoming “Oh-My-God-What-IS-That-Smell?” Should you be able to soldier through the olfactory sensations, you walk through aisle after aisle of kelly green doors, trying to choose wisely. It doesn’t matter. There are no Monty Hall prizes behind THESE doors. Instead you have short, plywood doors with no latches, and rather obscure spring mechanisms that cause the door to snap back with all the grace and power of rusty bear traps. Once you make your way into the cubicle, judging your clearance carefully into the stall lest you be whapped in the haunches with spring-loaded, splinter-bearing plywood, and you begin your descent toward the sticky primal ooze that is the floor. You then notice that the floor seems to be the origin of the nostril-burning stench that welcomed you.

As you continue to ponder the genetic and/or chemical makeup of the ooze you begin to stare at your surroundings and have a conversation with yourself. The clarity comes quite quickly. “Self, I these doors are mighty short. I wonder if people can see…Oh look, there’s a woman I know from work…OH MY GOD!” There are really few things more disturbing in life than making eye contact with people you know while you’re relieving yourself. Actually, making eye contact with ANYONE during this time is a little unnerving.

Only more irritating might be the lacerations you receive on your right hand as you try to tear off the sheets of “toilet paper” from the torture device placed at an inconceivably bad angle for humans who don’t have prehensile tails or Stretch Armstrong-like features. Ripping the paper with any sort of force creates momentum that propels your hand into razor-sharp teeth, puzzling in that the one-ply sheets need only the grasp of the human hand to separate from each other. It takes 10-15 attempts to prepare enough “paper” to adequately use. The blood-soaked, paper-towel covered right hand is a Red Badge of Courage for anyone brave (desperate) enough to visit.

You leave the facility with watering eyes, burning nostrils, sticky shoes and a mangled right hand. It could only be worse if someone walked in on you while you’re standing in a porta-potty, dressed in 18th century clothing, inserting a tampon. Not that I would know. But, I know that the Beatles were wrong. She SO wouldn’t have come in the bathroom window.





* camp song

Hard Lovin' Loser

“He's got them taking off their heels, and they like the way he feels
And they call him a carnival clown.” *


Ah, the Olympics! I, like many patriotic others, have abandoned my local cable fare for a few days of Olympic glory. I’ve forsaken my design shows, abandoned my BBC, and applied my full attention to “Torino”. I even *gasp* watched an entire hour of curling. I don’t understand it anymore than I did before, but I watched it. Granted, I am not one for figure skating, or ice dancing or any of vast myriad of “pretty” sports. I like a good competition with some action and edginess thrown in, and certainly not an activity where subjectivity and sequins reign. If I wanted that kind of drama, I’d watch Project Runway with a chaser of Dancing with the Stars. I applaud the Olympic committee for embracing the “misfit” sport of snowboarding. This is the only marginally dangerous sport I would indulge in my advanced age. If not for the looming potential orthopedic reconstruction fees, I’d be out on the slopes in snowboardcross. Who knows, I could be the Anne “Grandma Luge” Abernathy of the snow boarding set. We’ll now overlook that Columbus, Ohio really doesn’t have anything that could be defined as “slopes”.

But realistically, I don’t have the discipline or desire to commit myself to the routine of the Olympic athlete. I don’t like the structure of the weekly trash take-out, so I could never live with the 2 or 3 a day workouts. Besides, I have a Master Card, not a Visa, so the commercials would pose a moral problem for me. I'll have to be content to watch at home. Enter Bode Miller. For the one or two of you rock-dwellers who don’t know who he is, check your local newspaper or Sports Illustrated web site. He’s a brilliantly talented skier with one really bad attitude. Even if you overlook his 60 Minutes interview about “skiing while wasted”, you get a sense that he just doesn’t care.

I really wanted to like him. I’ve been known to be a maverick (though unlike my friend Ericka, I never actually sported purple hair…I just supported those who did). I would stand in support of any athlete who condemns conformity on the sake of principle and practices their right to individuality. Except for the Olympics. The US sends a TEAM to Turin. You’re sent there to represent the country, not your own individual values. Before you stone me for not crying that he IS being American because he refuses to conform, hear me out. He has said to the press things like “and as an athlete you can't underestimate the importance of proper rest and nutrition. Those are 50 times more important than any training you do.” Yet, the night before his big run he’s out partying and drinking ‘til midnight. You don’t have to be an Olympic judge to deem that as the antithesis of “proper rest and nutrition”. It is not our standards he is not conforming to, it is his own.

He has blamed the fans and media for applying too much pressure to win on his “pure sport”.
Note to Bode: Those fans and media writers have made you a millionaire. If you don’t want the pressure, I’m sure the sponsors would like their money back. I don’t hear other Olympic athletes complaining, and I’m sure there are countries that would love to have a trailer of skis available and a staff to wax them. Try skiing your “pure sport” without all the support you’ve had until now.

You mentioned to an Italian newspaper asking about your trouble on the slopes, “As soon as you start having millions of dollars, you literally don’t any longer have money as a motivating force, unless you just simply try to continue to acquire more and more of it.” There’s always a worthy charity if you find financial security to be so cumbersome. I don’t pity you Bode, and remember when I mentioned that I don’t have the discipline to become an Olympic athlete? Apparently you don’t either. We want our Olympians to be heroes, and you’re no hero. You’re just like us, undisciplined, immature and too cowardly to handle pressure without a beer in our hand. We’re back in America watching the Olympics, which is where you should be. Leave the competition for the heroes, and join us in the bars. You’ll be more comfortable there.


*Try Judy Collins on the album In My Life

“Their Brains Were Small and They Died”


I was engaged in the waiting game at the local optometry hut standing patiently just in front of the counter. The busy clerk who was scheduling some other poor sap for the “blow your eye out with a dart gun” test made eye contact and said “be right with you hon.” Why women over a certain age feel the right to call ANYONE hon, I don’t know, but I felt certain that my waiting would soon be over. Enter Mr. Enormous Ego. He invades my personal space at the counter, causing me to naturally edge away from the coveted primary consumer spot I was occupying. Another counter woman, who we shall call “bimbo”, was just returning from escorting another victim to the dart gun test, and Mr. Enormous Ego displayed marvelous athleticism by pivoting around me and demanded to be helped. Despite my objections, Bimbo helped HIM, delivering a circa 1970’s pair of serial killer metal framed glasses and completely ignored the “first come first served” rule. (In addition to his lack of social skills, the fashion police had an APB out on him as well.) Bimbos cannot, apparently, hear the vocal manifestations of the same sex when Alpha Males appear. I believe this was recently the focus of a National Geographic special.
The testosterone bearer was clearly impervious to the death rays that I was shooting into his occipital region of his brain as he walked off with the counter bimbo. Sunken by defeat, I had my tests done, paid the enormous sum of money for small pieces of Saran Wrap to be placed in my eye, and returned to my car, wishing at some point in my life to be able to realize the Kathy Bates mantra “I’m older and have more insurance”. I was older, probably have more insurance, but still lost out to youth.
I started my car, on my way to console myself with a cold fountain cola beverage, when a car coming the wrong direction down the aisle zipped out and ran the opposing stop sign. I generally detest honking since it rarely serves a good purpose. I don’t believe that there has been a recorded instance of “Gosh, I really glad I used my horn.” More often than not, what the horn is saying is “F_ _ _ Off!”. (I personally believe that this popular phrase should have been added to the School House Rock! “ Interjections!” song, as I believe it is the most frequently uttered exclamation.) Despite those personal feeling of anxiety toward public honking, I hit the horn. Not an “excuse me, sir, you appear to have forgotten protocol” type of honk, or a “Mr. Smith’s friendly toot” but rather a “YOU F_ _ _ING BUTTERBALL, I HOPE GOD REACHES DOWN AND YANKS YOU UP BY YOUR BALLS!” type of honk. Then, and only then did I glance over at the driver, who was “saluting” me. There before me screaming silently at me was Mr. Enormous Ego. I was flipping through the Rolodex of vicious retributions to inflict upon him when I took a close look at his car. A “vintage” Honda Civic held together by duct tape, 3 mil plastic, and a few random coat hangers. Through the smoke-filled interior I could see the broken driver’s side window. There in the parking lot of the local Mega Mall, I smiled. More of a vindictive smirk really, but CLOSE to a smile. Mr. Enormous Ego had gotten the bimbo counter help first, gotten out of the parking lot first, but I have a nice job, a nice car, a wonderful, smoke-free life shared by someone who loves me deeply. The driver of the other car clearly has no support system, nor in my opinion did he deserve one. He may have won the battle, but I clearly won the war. May they bury his tobacco filled body next to the Bimbo.