Let's discuss
Let's discuss the lady that was 20 seconds ahead of me in the restroomial process this morning at work. She washed her hands, dried them, and then got a whole nother (a whole nother, that's right, I said it) paper towel. Perhaps her hands are still wet, I thought to myself as I was drying my own hands and peering at her in what I hoped was an inconspicuous fashion, but was most likely slack-jawed gaping.
But no, she used the paper towel to open the restroom door.
Now look, I'm as hygienic as the next guy, but honestly, lady. Haven't you seen the local news exposés? Haven't you learned yet that POO MATTER IS EVERYWHERE? Sure, you may have deftly avoided the fecal matter on the door handle, but what about that guy in front of you in the hall on the way back to your office? Maybe he just farted. And maybe his poo molecules are going Right. Up. Your. Nose.
Oddly enough though, it really squicks me out when people bring coffee pots and pitchers into the bathroom to fill them up. Can't you do that at the water fountain? Honestly. I don't want to drink the water you harvested in the fields of poo.
If my readership allows me to wax nostalgic for a moment, all this talk of poo reminds me of a girl I went to college with. She was one of those goddamn perfect Barbie dolls you just wanted to pinch (hard): president of Panhellenic, good grades, blah blah blah. She and I were both in a semester-long thingee called the Normandy Scholars Program, during which there was much studying of WWII. The program ended with a month spent in Normandy, ostensibly to look at beaches and shit, but really to drink your body weight in red wine and then yak it all up in the bathroom of your room in the 12th? 13th? 14th? century abbey where you were staying.
Anyhoo! One weekend a bunch of us took the ferry over to England (and speaking of yakking, can I just say that European ferry passengers are the most seasick prone bunch of motherfuckers I've ever seen, as I've had the opportunity to learn TWICE in my life now) and shared a hotel room in London. It was a tiny little room with one of those port-a-potty bathroom/shower jobbies in the corner, kind of like a cruise ship bathroom. So Barbie was concerned that there was nowhere for her to hang her towel, so I suggested she close the toilet lid and put the towel on top of it.
Judging from her reaction, you'd think I'd just suggested she lick the inside of the toilet bowl. Then again, this is the girl whose mother taught her to say "Bless you" whenever someone burped. I guess the rules of ettiquette are a little different in El Paso.
Update! It turns out that my friend C. had blogged about an article on the very issue of germophobes just there other day.
On a note completely unrelated to bathrooms and poo, here's a camera phone shot I took of my drive home. Texas sunsets are spectacular, almost as spectacular as the suckage of my camera phone.
But no, she used the paper towel to open the restroom door.
Now look, I'm as hygienic as the next guy, but honestly, lady. Haven't you seen the local news exposés? Haven't you learned yet that POO MATTER IS EVERYWHERE? Sure, you may have deftly avoided the fecal matter on the door handle, but what about that guy in front of you in the hall on the way back to your office? Maybe he just farted. And maybe his poo molecules are going Right. Up. Your. Nose.
Oddly enough though, it really squicks me out when people bring coffee pots and pitchers into the bathroom to fill them up. Can't you do that at the water fountain? Honestly. I don't want to drink the water you harvested in the fields of poo.
If my readership allows me to wax nostalgic for a moment, all this talk of poo reminds me of a girl I went to college with. She was one of those goddamn perfect Barbie dolls you just wanted to pinch (hard): president of Panhellenic, good grades, blah blah blah. She and I were both in a semester-long thingee called the Normandy Scholars Program, during which there was much studying of WWII. The program ended with a month spent in Normandy, ostensibly to look at beaches and shit, but really to drink your body weight in red wine and then yak it all up in the bathroom of your room in the 12th? 13th? 14th? century abbey where you were staying.
Anyhoo! One weekend a bunch of us took the ferry over to England (and speaking of yakking, can I just say that European ferry passengers are the most seasick prone bunch of motherfuckers I've ever seen, as I've had the opportunity to learn TWICE in my life now) and shared a hotel room in London. It was a tiny little room with one of those port-a-potty bathroom/shower jobbies in the corner, kind of like a cruise ship bathroom. So Barbie was concerned that there was nowhere for her to hang her towel, so I suggested she close the toilet lid and put the towel on top of it.
Judging from her reaction, you'd think I'd just suggested she lick the inside of the toilet bowl. Then again, this is the girl whose mother taught her to say "Bless you" whenever someone burped. I guess the rules of ettiquette are a little different in El Paso.
Update! It turns out that my friend C. had blogged about an article on the very issue of germophobes just there other day.
On a note completely unrelated to bathrooms and poo, here's a camera phone shot I took of my drive home. Texas sunsets are spectacular, almost as spectacular as the suckage of my camera phone.
posted by Karo at 11/11/2004 09:57:00 AM
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