(Disclaimer: this is from the WISHFUL THINKING files)
Smallpox has broken out in Olympia! That's right, it has been reported that a freak case of smallpox broke out in Olympia over the weekend. The number of cases is quite small, in fact only one, and the resulting quarantine has inconvenienced the afflicted woman enough that she was unable to attend the fabulous Christmas performance at the Washington Center for the Performing Arts. Confined to her suburban home in Olympia, she now contemplates how she acquired the event tickets.
Approximately one month ago, our patient attended a Silent Auction and Wine Tasting sponsored by Concern For Animals, a non-profit, charitable organization which helps thousands of animals in need. After tasting what some may say was excessive amounts of wine, our invalid sauntered past the tables displaying the auction items. Indifferently scrawling her bidder number and bid on random items, she made her way around the room. After completing the circuit, she hoofed it back to the wine tasting tables where she indiscriminately blew her wad of wine scripts and chatted up the vintners.
Meanwhile, a youthful, honest and unsuspecting woman, who shall remain unnamed, carefully made the rounds of the auction tables. She painstakingly read the description of each item, and deliberately weighed its pros and cons. Before making her bid, she conscientiously checked her bank account balance which was housed in the back of her mind. Upon reading the description of the holiday concert at the Washington Center for the Performing Arts, she mentally checked her calendar. The performance would be the day after her precocious and talented daughter's piano recital. It seemed to be the perfect reward after months of relentlessly practicing (and listening to) Deck the Halls, and We Wish You A Merry Christmas. Our lovely patron imagined the fun they would have dressing up and staying up late. She jotted down her bidder number and bid, already thinking about what they would wear and if they would go out for dessert afterwards. She toured around the remaining items, bidding on just a few others. Making one last pass past her most exciting bid, she saw that her name was indeed the last one on the paper, thus ensuring that she had won the evening out. "OKAY!", a woman shouted, "Time's up! Step away from the tables, please!"
Time stopped. Our unsuspecting claimant paused where she was, only a few feet away from the bid paper. Everyone in the room froze. A small woman wearing a pink sparkly shirt, wine glass in her hand, slithered through the crowd. Eyes were the only body parts moving as they followed her across the room. She made a bee line for the paper describing the Washington Center performance. Glancing quickly around, she snatched up the nearest pen and scribbled something below the last bidder number and bid. She dropped the pen and snaked her way out. She did not look up to see her horrified opposition standing there mouth agape, nor did she hear the curses that were tumbling from her challenger's open portal. Had she heard them, she would have dashed out to get a smallpox vaccination.
Cheaters shouldn't prosper.
More Than A Mom Moment
We all have our hectic days. We oversleep, forget our purses, lock our keys in the car, can't find a matching pair of socks, don't pack a lunch. Mornings at my house seem to fall in the hectic category. There is usually a dearth of underpants and/or socks that match (each other, not the underpants). Hair needs to be fixed, lunches made, breakfast prepared and eaten, cats provided for, and of course, the fire has to be fed. All of this must happen within a 50 minute time period, or all heck will break loose. And don't let me forget to take my daily pill, without which my heart will launch into the mother arrhythmia of all arrhythmias. Did I mention taking a shower and getting dressed?
This morning was no different than any other of our frenzied beginnings. I hit the snooze button four times in a row, cutting that 50 minute window down to an even smaller amount of time. This meant that my shower was cut to a mad minute, and there could be no fashion show before donning the final ensemble. Sofie hadn't gotten herself dressed by the time I had popped out of the shower, so I had to shoulder that decision, too. Seemingly an easy task, it is not usually easy to gain the approval of her chic, seven-year-old eye. This morning, however, it was a piece of cake. Everything seemed to run smoothly, and amazingly, we were out the door on time. I caught myself preening at that fact. I should have understood then that there was more than one thing wrong.
Arriving at the babysitter's, I looked at my daughter. "EEEK!", I cried, "I haven't done your hair!" Indeed, she was sporting a bad case of bed head. As I finger-combed her snaggly hair into two new pigtails, I sealed the deal for Sofie to return to the babysitter's after school. Between her squeaks of indignation at having the snarls teased out with my fingers, I ascertained that she had the appropriate bus note for her teacher. I bent down to kiss her rosy cheek. "I'll pick you up on my way back from the dentist," I murmured. Another "EEEK!" issued from my mouth. "I forgot your piano music!" I dashed out the door, my arms propelling me to the car.
Backtracking our morning drive was easy. The hard part was when the gas light came on and I had to make the executive decision to not stop for gas in the morning. It took only seconds to dash into the house and grab the piano music. Heading to work from my house was a little trickier. You see, Doting Reader, the road is being repaired between my abode and my place of employment. Every day there is some change in the traffic pattern, whether it is in the form of cones, flaggers, new lanes, or even a detour. On top of that, I don't traverse that exact route in the mornings. As I approached the area in question, I saw cones on the left and a wide swath of road to the left of them. "Oh", I thought to myself, "they have divided east-bound and west-bound with the cones." This surprised me, for it left two spacious lanes for me and the other driver going my way. As we neared the overpass, I realized that the right lane must be a turn-only lane for drivers entering the freeway. As I was heading to go straight over the overpass, I got into the left lane. It was so roomy on the road for that split second, kind of like sleeping in my own bed without my kid forcing me to the side to "surf the edge". My eyes drifted to the left and I was startled to see the road in pieces on the other side of the cones. In the blink of a moment I was wondering where those east-bound drivers were supposed to be, and in the next moment I realized that I was driving on their side of the road. I swerved back into the right lane and tucked behind a driver who was doing his best to ignore my blunder.
In the same instance that I was exhaling my breath of relief upon arriving to work in one piece, the thought hit me that I had failed to give my daughter money for lunch. Just yesterday we received both the phone call and the email, reporting that her food service balance was negative. I ground my teeth together and whipped out my checkbook. The time clock was ticking in my head, and I was most certainly late. Not only that, there was a major deadline in fifteen minutes, and I had not yet met it. Hastening inside, I found a worthy messenger to deliver the lunch money to the appropriate person at Sofie's school. The next stop was my coffee cup.
I wrenched the cupboard door open and snatched my cup off the shelf. Grabbing the can of precious instant coffee, my heart sank. I could tell there was not enough in it to make an entire cup. Peeling the lid off, I peeked in and confirmed my suspicions. I had just enough for 3/4 cup. Briskly I took my precious elixir of life and made my way to the all-important computer.
The remainder of the workday was rather uneventful, except for the fact that I read the wrong answers to my horrified students and that resulted in some momentary confusion regarding what was assigned and who did what and what was I thinking. In the end we sorted it out to everyone's satisfaction, but not after pointing out that it was I who had been at fault. I warned them not to entrust me with their deepest secrets or most treasured possessions, as I was a wild card today.
Over lunch, I detailed my morning and all of its mishaps to a co-worker. "Oh", she said understandingly, "you had a Mom Moment!"
After work I buzzed to the gas station before heading to the dentist's office. I felt pleased that gas did not shoot out of the tank and spray my pants and shoes, as has been known to happen. My Mom Moment was over.
Arriving at the dentist's office, I sat down with a magazine to wait my turn. Without my cheater glasses, I could read nothing. Instead I contented myself by looking at the other patients, wondering if they were having their teeth cleaned, or like me, did they have mysterious tooth aches? I didn't have to wait long and soon I was seated in the dentist chair. Taking an x-ray was the first order of business, and it was a little less pleasant than usual. Instead of marching into a special room, suiting up in a lead apron and having a hard plastic thing forced in my mouth, I was allowed the special privilege of having it done in the exam room. While this may seem like the royal treatment to you, Jealous Reader, let me point out that it still involved being smothered in the lead apron, and instead of the hard plastic thing jammed in the back between my teeth, it was some sort of contraption that seemed to be stuck on the end of a S'mores fork that had seen better days. The long handle stuck out of my mouth for at least six inches, and the part in my mouth felt like I was biting a metal cube on its extremely sharp corners. One of those corners dug painfully into the roof of my mouth. Of course, the first picture didn't take, so we had to repeat the awkward insertion and removal process. In the end, after numerous bites on various bits of plastic hardware and cotton wads, there was no gaping hole found in my tooth. My day had been rearranged for this appointment, and there was nothing wrong. I know, I should have been rejoicing that there would be no further work in the oral cavity. Instead, I was inwardly fuming about wasting time and gas.
I jumped back into the car, drove to the babysitter's at a regulated speed - this day would be topped off by getting stopped, wouldn't it? - and picked up Sofie. We headed for home for a quick pit stop and fire check before heading to the piano lesson (thus nullifying my trip home this morning and the subsequent errors in judgment made in the construction zone). Arriving home, we were met by the workmen who had been threatening to come for days, but had not called to confirm their actual start date. The house looked a shambles, with a trailer-full of moldy siding in front of the house, bits of trash all over the yard, plastic wrap surrounding the most exposed parts of the house. As the supervisor proceeded to tell me of the perils they had faced while working on my house and the problems they had found, my mind was mentally counting up the spare minutes we were allotted for this stop. I nodded whenever he stopped speaking, totally ignoring the words that were coming out. He finally left, allowing us about five minutes before we needed to depart for the piano teacher's house.
I used my five minutes to make myself a cup of coffee. Having had only 3/4 of a cup in the morning, and enduring a day like the one I had had, I knew I deserved that hot cup of heaven. I poured it into a travel mug and took it with me. Arriving at Miss Sally's, we took off our shoes and entered the studio, perfectly on time. I felt smug. A day like mine, and I was still able to deliver the music student punctually. For the next half hour, I sat cozily in the studio, sipping my coffee, bathed in Christmas songs, happy that for those thirty minutes, I had absolutely no responsibilities. I made my weekly sketch of Sofie on the piano bench and savored my well-earned cup of orange café. The day's events ran through my mind again, and once more I marveled at my ability to roll with the day's punches and cope with all that was thrown in my direction. In all, I had forgotten to fix my daughter's hair, failed to give her the lunch money, left her piano music at home, driven on the wrong side of the road, arrived late to work, and practically missed the all-important deadline; I had run out of coffee and nearly out of gas. I had endured the dentist, two trips on the freeway and a surprise visit from the remodelers. All of this and yet we had still made it in one piece on time to the piano lesson. Heading out the door, we paused to put our shoes back on. My eyes went to the whiteboard posted outside of Miss Sally's front door. "Absolutely no food or drink in the studio!", the sign read. "This means you!" My shoulders slumped and I heaved a sigh as I slunk toward the car. This day was definitely not a Mom Moment. This was a Life Moment.
This morning was no different than any other of our frenzied beginnings. I hit the snooze button four times in a row, cutting that 50 minute window down to an even smaller amount of time. This meant that my shower was cut to a mad minute, and there could be no fashion show before donning the final ensemble. Sofie hadn't gotten herself dressed by the time I had popped out of the shower, so I had to shoulder that decision, too. Seemingly an easy task, it is not usually easy to gain the approval of her chic, seven-year-old eye. This morning, however, it was a piece of cake. Everything seemed to run smoothly, and amazingly, we were out the door on time. I caught myself preening at that fact. I should have understood then that there was more than one thing wrong.
Arriving at the babysitter's, I looked at my daughter. "EEEK!", I cried, "I haven't done your hair!" Indeed, she was sporting a bad case of bed head. As I finger-combed her snaggly hair into two new pigtails, I sealed the deal for Sofie to return to the babysitter's after school. Between her squeaks of indignation at having the snarls teased out with my fingers, I ascertained that she had the appropriate bus note for her teacher. I bent down to kiss her rosy cheek. "I'll pick you up on my way back from the dentist," I murmured. Another "EEEK!" issued from my mouth. "I forgot your piano music!" I dashed out the door, my arms propelling me to the car.
Backtracking our morning drive was easy. The hard part was when the gas light came on and I had to make the executive decision to not stop for gas in the morning. It took only seconds to dash into the house and grab the piano music. Heading to work from my house was a little trickier. You see, Doting Reader, the road is being repaired between my abode and my place of employment. Every day there is some change in the traffic pattern, whether it is in the form of cones, flaggers, new lanes, or even a detour. On top of that, I don't traverse that exact route in the mornings. As I approached the area in question, I saw cones on the left and a wide swath of road to the left of them. "Oh", I thought to myself, "they have divided east-bound and west-bound with the cones." This surprised me, for it left two spacious lanes for me and the other driver going my way. As we neared the overpass, I realized that the right lane must be a turn-only lane for drivers entering the freeway. As I was heading to go straight over the overpass, I got into the left lane. It was so roomy on the road for that split second, kind of like sleeping in my own bed without my kid forcing me to the side to "surf the edge". My eyes drifted to the left and I was startled to see the road in pieces on the other side of the cones. In the blink of a moment I was wondering where those east-bound drivers were supposed to be, and in the next moment I realized that I was driving on their side of the road. I swerved back into the right lane and tucked behind a driver who was doing his best to ignore my blunder.
In the same instance that I was exhaling my breath of relief upon arriving to work in one piece, the thought hit me that I had failed to give my daughter money for lunch. Just yesterday we received both the phone call and the email, reporting that her food service balance was negative. I ground my teeth together and whipped out my checkbook. The time clock was ticking in my head, and I was most certainly late. Not only that, there was a major deadline in fifteen minutes, and I had not yet met it. Hastening inside, I found a worthy messenger to deliver the lunch money to the appropriate person at Sofie's school. The next stop was my coffee cup.
I wrenched the cupboard door open and snatched my cup off the shelf. Grabbing the can of precious instant coffee, my heart sank. I could tell there was not enough in it to make an entire cup. Peeling the lid off, I peeked in and confirmed my suspicions. I had just enough for 3/4 cup. Briskly I took my precious elixir of life and made my way to the all-important computer.
The remainder of the workday was rather uneventful, except for the fact that I read the wrong answers to my horrified students and that resulted in some momentary confusion regarding what was assigned and who did what and what was I thinking. In the end we sorted it out to everyone's satisfaction, but not after pointing out that it was I who had been at fault. I warned them not to entrust me with their deepest secrets or most treasured possessions, as I was a wild card today.
Over lunch, I detailed my morning and all of its mishaps to a co-worker. "Oh", she said understandingly, "you had a Mom Moment!"
After work I buzzed to the gas station before heading to the dentist's office. I felt pleased that gas did not shoot out of the tank and spray my pants and shoes, as has been known to happen. My Mom Moment was over.
Arriving at the dentist's office, I sat down with a magazine to wait my turn. Without my cheater glasses, I could read nothing. Instead I contented myself by looking at the other patients, wondering if they were having their teeth cleaned, or like me, did they have mysterious tooth aches? I didn't have to wait long and soon I was seated in the dentist chair. Taking an x-ray was the first order of business, and it was a little less pleasant than usual. Instead of marching into a special room, suiting up in a lead apron and having a hard plastic thing forced in my mouth, I was allowed the special privilege of having it done in the exam room. While this may seem like the royal treatment to you, Jealous Reader, let me point out that it still involved being smothered in the lead apron, and instead of the hard plastic thing jammed in the back between my teeth, it was some sort of contraption that seemed to be stuck on the end of a S'mores fork that had seen better days. The long handle stuck out of my mouth for at least six inches, and the part in my mouth felt like I was biting a metal cube on its extremely sharp corners. One of those corners dug painfully into the roof of my mouth. Of course, the first picture didn't take, so we had to repeat the awkward insertion and removal process. In the end, after numerous bites on various bits of plastic hardware and cotton wads, there was no gaping hole found in my tooth. My day had been rearranged for this appointment, and there was nothing wrong. I know, I should have been rejoicing that there would be no further work in the oral cavity. Instead, I was inwardly fuming about wasting time and gas.
I jumped back into the car, drove to the babysitter's at a regulated speed - this day would be topped off by getting stopped, wouldn't it? - and picked up Sofie. We headed for home for a quick pit stop and fire check before heading to the piano lesson (thus nullifying my trip home this morning and the subsequent errors in judgment made in the construction zone). Arriving home, we were met by the workmen who had been threatening to come for days, but had not called to confirm their actual start date. The house looked a shambles, with a trailer-full of moldy siding in front of the house, bits of trash all over the yard, plastic wrap surrounding the most exposed parts of the house. As the supervisor proceeded to tell me of the perils they had faced while working on my house and the problems they had found, my mind was mentally counting up the spare minutes we were allotted for this stop. I nodded whenever he stopped speaking, totally ignoring the words that were coming out. He finally left, allowing us about five minutes before we needed to depart for the piano teacher's house.
I used my five minutes to make myself a cup of coffee. Having had only 3/4 of a cup in the morning, and enduring a day like the one I had had, I knew I deserved that hot cup of heaven. I poured it into a travel mug and took it with me. Arriving at Miss Sally's, we took off our shoes and entered the studio, perfectly on time. I felt smug. A day like mine, and I was still able to deliver the music student punctually. For the next half hour, I sat cozily in the studio, sipping my coffee, bathed in Christmas songs, happy that for those thirty minutes, I had absolutely no responsibilities. I made my weekly sketch of Sofie on the piano bench and savored my well-earned cup of orange café. The day's events ran through my mind again, and once more I marveled at my ability to roll with the day's punches and cope with all that was thrown in my direction. In all, I had forgotten to fix my daughter's hair, failed to give her the lunch money, left her piano music at home, driven on the wrong side of the road, arrived late to work, and practically missed the all-important deadline; I had run out of coffee and nearly out of gas. I had endured the dentist, two trips on the freeway and a surprise visit from the remodelers. All of this and yet we had still made it in one piece on time to the piano lesson. Heading out the door, we paused to put our shoes back on. My eyes went to the whiteboard posted outside of Miss Sally's front door. "Absolutely no food or drink in the studio!", the sign read. "This means you!" My shoulders slumped and I heaved a sigh as I slunk toward the car. This day was definitely not a Mom Moment. This was a Life Moment.
This Is Not Table Talk
I have a love - hate relationship with toilets. Devoted reader that you are, I know you are wondering how a self-proclaimed, card-carrying, hand-sanitizer-wielding germophobe can love toilets.
It all started when I went to an alternative elementary school in Portland. The gist of it was that at the beginning of every week, the students planned out their schedules for the whole week. We were probably supposed to write things like "math", "reading", "art", etc. in the time slots. There were no rules, except that we had to do what we said we would do. Remember, this was the 70's. So, being in first grade, I wrote "play", "play", "play","play", "library", "play", "play", "play", all day every day, five days a week. And five days a week, I played played played played played in, of all places, the Bathroom! Sometimes I added in "art" for variety, but I spent most of my days at Metropolitan Learning Center in the basement "comfort station". [Gentle Reader, please be assured that, although I played for two years in the bathroom, it in no way affected my educational progress.]
It was a big bathroom, painted institution mint green. There was a lot of light owing to the windows near the ceiling that were at street level. There was also a big ledge under those windows, so if a person were to climb on top of the sink, a person could pull one's self up on to the ledge and sit up there, like Queen of the Castle, and survey the comings and goings. On a sunny day, the sun dazzled through the glazed windows and made for a warm window seat, perfect for reading a library book. Sometimes those windows leaned open to the inside, so a person could gaze out at the feet walking past on the sidewalk. Additionally, if a person were to go in the stall and stand on the toilet, a person could jump off the toilet and grab the bar above the stall door, like a trapeze artist, and swing back and forth. I gained a lot of upper body strength in first and second grades, but not because I ever went to P.E.
In third grade, I lived at my grandma's and grandpa's house. They had a cleaning woman, whom I'll call Mrs. Harper. FERPA and HIPPA laws dictate that I must protect her identity and privacy at all costs. Mrs. Harper was exceptionally fastidious in her cleaning duties. It was a well-known fact that anything that Mrs. Harper cleaned was most certainly cleaner than it had ever been before. I had such confidence in Mrs. Harper's abilities that I was compelled to prove it to my cousins. That's how it came to be that I washed my hands in the toilet one day, encouraging my kin to do the same. "It's clean water," I insisted, "just cold!" Oddly enough, I wasn't sufficiently convincing and they stuck to the old-fashioned method of washing. Looking back, I'm wondering how I held myself back from brushing my teeth there, too. The looks of disgust I received must have put a small chink in my faith in Mrs. Harper's attention to detail.
Fast forward to the present day. One modern upgrade to public toilets is the automatic flusher. Many people are of the belief that this is a wonderful feature on a toilet, thus preventing the user from touching an otherwise filthy flush handle, which is reported to house 40,000 germs per square inch fighting for a piece of the real estate. "What luxury to not mingle my germs with all of those germs", you may be thinking, as the toilet's sensor discerns that you have finished your business and begins the flushing process. Dedicated reader, you know what I'm going to say next. If you don't, please refer to the previous post, "Cover Your Mouth!" In the flushing process, germs of all walks of life are spewn up into the air, creating an invisible mist with a potential 4-foot radius. Depending on the sensitivity of the sensor, it may not be humanly possible for you to exit the stall before being be-dewed (really, no pun intended) with all sorts of unthinkable germs. If you are like me, your mind is racing back to the last time you were in a stall with an automatic flusher. "Did I get out in time?" "Are the germs on the back of my down jacket?" "My red purse?" "Was I facing the toilet or the door?" "Where did I put my purse when I got home - the kitchen counter?" The questions will come faster and faster as the reality sinks in, along with that panicky feeling of never being clean, ever again. You will find yourself tripping over your pant legs in your effort to escape the stall before the spritzing begins. Heaven help you if the sensor doesn't work and you have to flush it the old-fashioned way. Don't think that this free-for-all germ spouting action is restricted to automatic flushers - all toilets issue the germ-laden brume. Even in your own home, nothing is sacred. Do you have a toothbrush or comb nearby? Do you have a bathrobe hanging within that misty radius? Do you cover your soaking contact lenses at night? Where is your washcloth when all of this is going on? The questions are endless, and the more you ponder them, the more questions will be generated. You may lose sleep over this, don't say I didn't warn you.
Let's recap. In my early years, I was attracted to bathrooms. I played, read, exercised, and hid in the powder room. I washed my hands in the toilet with confidence. I dropped numerous items in the toilet and happily fished them out bare handed. The toilet was my friend. As I became more aware of the hidden dangers of the world, i.e. germs, the toilet and I grew apart and went our separate ways. I recognize the importance of the toilet in Western culture, but I no longer have that soft spot in my heart for the porcelain goddess. We are no longer friends. We are frenemies.
It all started when I went to an alternative elementary school in Portland. The gist of it was that at the beginning of every week, the students planned out their schedules for the whole week. We were probably supposed to write things like "math", "reading", "art", etc. in the time slots. There were no rules, except that we had to do what we said we would do. Remember, this was the 70's. So, being in first grade, I wrote "play", "play", "play","play", "library", "play", "play", "play", all day every day, five days a week. And five days a week, I played played played played played in, of all places, the Bathroom! Sometimes I added in "art" for variety, but I spent most of my days at Metropolitan Learning Center in the basement "comfort station". [Gentle Reader, please be assured that, although I played for two years in the bathroom, it in no way affected my educational progress.]
It was a big bathroom, painted institution mint green. There was a lot of light owing to the windows near the ceiling that were at street level. There was also a big ledge under those windows, so if a person were to climb on top of the sink, a person could pull one's self up on to the ledge and sit up there, like Queen of the Castle, and survey the comings and goings. On a sunny day, the sun dazzled through the glazed windows and made for a warm window seat, perfect for reading a library book. Sometimes those windows leaned open to the inside, so a person could gaze out at the feet walking past on the sidewalk. Additionally, if a person were to go in the stall and stand on the toilet, a person could jump off the toilet and grab the bar above the stall door, like a trapeze artist, and swing back and forth. I gained a lot of upper body strength in first and second grades, but not because I ever went to P.E.
In third grade, I lived at my grandma's and grandpa's house. They had a cleaning woman, whom I'll call Mrs. Harper. FERPA and HIPPA laws dictate that I must protect her identity and privacy at all costs. Mrs. Harper was exceptionally fastidious in her cleaning duties. It was a well-known fact that anything that Mrs. Harper cleaned was most certainly cleaner than it had ever been before. I had such confidence in Mrs. Harper's abilities that I was compelled to prove it to my cousins. That's how it came to be that I washed my hands in the toilet one day, encouraging my kin to do the same. "It's clean water," I insisted, "just cold!" Oddly enough, I wasn't sufficiently convincing and they stuck to the old-fashioned method of washing. Looking back, I'm wondering how I held myself back from brushing my teeth there, too. The looks of disgust I received must have put a small chink in my faith in Mrs. Harper's attention to detail.
Fast forward to the present day. One modern upgrade to public toilets is the automatic flusher. Many people are of the belief that this is a wonderful feature on a toilet, thus preventing the user from touching an otherwise filthy flush handle, which is reported to house 40,000 germs per square inch fighting for a piece of the real estate. "What luxury to not mingle my germs with all of those germs", you may be thinking, as the toilet's sensor discerns that you have finished your business and begins the flushing process. Dedicated reader, you know what I'm going to say next. If you don't, please refer to the previous post, "Cover Your Mouth!" In the flushing process, germs of all walks of life are spewn up into the air, creating an invisible mist with a potential 4-foot radius. Depending on the sensitivity of the sensor, it may not be humanly possible for you to exit the stall before being be-dewed (really, no pun intended) with all sorts of unthinkable germs. If you are like me, your mind is racing back to the last time you were in a stall with an automatic flusher. "Did I get out in time?" "Are the germs on the back of my down jacket?" "My red purse?" "Was I facing the toilet or the door?" "Where did I put my purse when I got home - the kitchen counter?" The questions will come faster and faster as the reality sinks in, along with that panicky feeling of never being clean, ever again. You will find yourself tripping over your pant legs in your effort to escape the stall before the spritzing begins. Heaven help you if the sensor doesn't work and you have to flush it the old-fashioned way. Don't think that this free-for-all germ spouting action is restricted to automatic flushers - all toilets issue the germ-laden brume. Even in your own home, nothing is sacred. Do you have a toothbrush or comb nearby? Do you have a bathrobe hanging within that misty radius? Do you cover your soaking contact lenses at night? Where is your washcloth when all of this is going on? The questions are endless, and the more you ponder them, the more questions will be generated. You may lose sleep over this, don't say I didn't warn you.
Let's recap. In my early years, I was attracted to bathrooms. I played, read, exercised, and hid in the powder room. I washed my hands in the toilet with confidence. I dropped numerous items in the toilet and happily fished them out bare handed. The toilet was my friend. As I became more aware of the hidden dangers of the world, i.e. germs, the toilet and I grew apart and went our separate ways. I recognize the importance of the toilet in Western culture, but I no longer have that soft spot in my heart for the porcelain goddess. We are no longer friends. We are frenemies.
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