call him spitty

I’m sorry that so many of my thoughts revolve around the bathroom these days. I suppose it’s because I spend so much time there. I have become intimately aware of my surroundings in these places – some good, some nasty, some even pleasingly pleasant. I think I’ll save a post sometime later for my Ode to All the Gorgeous (and not-so-gorgeous) Bathrooms in Seattle.

But for now, I have to tell you about one bathroom in particular: Workplace bathroom. I’m lucky that it’s a largish affair with more than three stalls – I can only imagine just how horrifying such a place would be because there’s simply NO ANONOMITY in a place that small, let alone – GASP – the kind where it’s just you, a toilet, sink, and a door shielding you from the outside world and the next waiting user. So – Workplace bathroom size is fine. Cleanliness? Check. There are even times when I’m in there alone – me and the 10 stalls – having some quiet time. My issue with Workplace bathroom is this one particular stall’s, uh, facility (i.e. TOILET). I don’t know how I do it, but I get this one all the freaking time. I have this weird issue with not using the first or last stall in a bathroom – so I’m always aiming somewhere in the middle. I probably should just embrace my OCD and count the stalls so I know which one to absolutely avoid. The toilet in the Bad Stall is just… contrary. It doesn’t flush when you want it to, or how you want it to. All the others are nice and sensitive to the foot on the handle (Chip and his germ phobia have taught me well). But this one… not so much. The only thing you can do, when flushing, is to actually HOVER OVER THE BOWL as you jangle the handle until it finally whisks the contents into the lovely sanitation system. The main problem with this, besides bringing me a little too close to Contents, is that the toilet is … let’s just call him Spitty. This is not the polite brand of Spitty (is there a polite brand?) – but rather, Uber Spitty, the Aggressive Fountain Toilet, the Perky Toilet that Longs to be a Bidet. Inevitably, I’m in the stall, holding the handle down (jangling helpfully), and then dodging the wickedly spewing toilet water bits lest they hit me in the forehead (as has happened) – or even worse, on the LIPS.

*Chip, I just pray you aren’t reading this because you’ll never hug me after work again.