bathroom follies

My cube at my current gig is conveniently located between 2 bathrooms. Niiiice. The one on my left is a ladies' room, with 2 stalls and the necessary wicker loveseat upon which to drape oneself when one has an attack of the vapors.

It's pretty average as bathrooms go, but the design of the toilet bowl is such that half the time you drop toilet paper in there, it doesn't go down with the water. It clings, screaming, to the side. This is kind of gross, especially when you go to use the thing and someone else's toilet paper is still stuck to the side. People don't want reminders that other people may have used the bathroom before them. The solution for those who don't wish to offend, perhaps, is to reach down into the toilet and give the stubborn toilet paper a shove, and then wash one's hands thoroughly afterward. Or try to sneak out before anyone knows you've been in there.

And stop spraying that Airwick! We know what you're doing in there, and yeah, it's as gross for us as it is for you. But the Airwick just adds insult to injury, if you ask me.

The bathrooms on the right are for whoever gets in there first.

About 10 most mornings, the smell of extinguished matches wafts around the corner and into my cube. I discussed it with one of the writers yesterday.

"Yo. What is UP with the matches? I mean, who does that at work? What's the point? Like that smell is any more pleasant than what he left behind? Why not just open up a can of tuna or crack open some hard-boiled eggs while you're in there? Or just bring some stinky cheese in with you?"

"I think it's some guy from accounting."

"Big guy? Glasses? Slovenly?"

"Yeah."

Hmmmm. Is this the same guy who I've heard coughing up a lung in those bathrooms on several occasions, late in the afternoon, when perhaps he thinks everyone has left?

I mean, it's like he's being exorcised in there, coughing up hairballs or choking on big chunks of bad meat or something. Like he was going to fucking die. So much so that the first time I heard it, I very nearly called 911.

The cleaning woman was on the other side of my cube. She heard it too one day. She peeked around my cubbie.

"Did you HEAR that?" I asked.

"Yeah. Guy sounds like he's dying."

I mean, hacking and coughing and choking and ...well, I think of Kane, in Alien, when the thing pops out of his stomach. That's what I imagine is going on in the bathroom when this guy is in there.

This has happened a few times, so I finally popped my head up out of my cubbie like a whack-a-mole to see him. That's the dude, breathing heavily. The slovenly fat dude from accounting.

Every company has one.

Thankfully, he kept his matches to himself.

panic at the friendly's

Boo and I went on a date this weekend, which mostly consisted of me buying him stuff. We started at the Asian market, because he's going through this phase. Japanese and Chinese people are so much cooler than we are because they make anime. Something like that.

We continued to Barnes and Noble, then Target, the bike store and finally to Friendly's. He's finally at the age where he feels a little stupid going to Friendly's, but he forgets all about that when the ice cream comes.

So we're finishing up our lunch...he's enjoying his mint chocolate chip and Reese's cup sundae (yech) and I'm having a modest dish of chocolate ice cream (oooh, don't tempt me.) (That's a shout-out to all you MST3k fans out there.) (And that's the first and last time I'll say "shout-out.")

All of a sudden, we notice raised voices next to us, and this rather...well, ugly, yes, I'll call her ugly, woman said, "DON'T CALL ME A TRAMP!" And we turn and watch this altercation going on right next to us: apparently, this ugly woman had changed a kid's diaper in the booth. And I missed it!

But apparently that's what happened, because here's soccer mom and dad and the kids sitting in the booth across from us, which is one up from the diaper booth, and soccer mom is saying, "But you don't DO that! People are EATING!"

"I DO!" yelled the ugly woman, with some authority.

"You're a TRAMP!" said soccer dad.

"Don't call my sister a TRAMP!" the tramp's sister yelled.

Friendly's grew very quiet as the four of them went back and forth like that for a minute. It looked like soccer mom and dad and the Tramp and her sister would come to blows in the Friendly's, ironically.

But then the Tramp family gathered up their stuff and left, leaving soccer mom and the kids visibly shaken by the conflict. Soccer dad didn't even look up. Just sat there and said "Tramp" several times, leaving his wife to do the dirty work: trying to reason with them.

Me, I don't like conflict. If I saw this woman changing a diaper in the booth at Friendly's, I'd figure, you know...this is not the kind of person who would listen to reason anyway, so why bother bringing it to her attention that a BOOTH IN WHICH PEOPLE SIT TO EAT DELICIOUS FRIENDLY'S ICE CREAM is NO PLACE TO CHANGE A DIAPER.

That's why they have parking lots outside, in which to dump said diaper after you've changed it in the van. I'm pretty certain these people leave a trail of dirty diapers lying around wherever they go. Balled up wads of plastic and shit and industrial strength absorbent material that goops up into a gelatinous mess when wet.

Tramps. You've gone and put me off my Friendly's.