News Flush

After the excitement of Labrador tipping earlier this month, I thought the rest of my dog days would drone on like a pre-lunch period Geometry teacher. (Please don’t send geometry hate mail. My parabolas are already weak and couldn’t stand the shock.)

But now, from the same state that brings you a politician named Dick Harpootlian and a smalltown mayor that decreed the police shall be forbidden to chase the bad guys, comes a criminal mastermind: the Port-o-Potty Pistol Packer of Myrtle Beach South Carolina.

Seems that our man—let’s call him John--was in line behind folks that took a little longer than he considered necessary at a portable public toilet. Vulgar language ripped through the air, feces, er faces, were flushed, and weapons came into play.

I know how he feels. I was the youngest of four children. I had to mark all my “personal necessity trips” on the family calendar in January. If I slept through dawn on a Monday in June, I might not get another chance to go to the bathroom until late one afternoon in mid-October. Hoping for a cancellation, there were a few times I was tempted to pull a pea shooter on my brother, but appreciation for superior fire power always held me back.

And at least once when I was 36 months pregnant and standing in line for a gas station restroom holding a key attached to a giant Slim Jim, I could easily have committed murder by jerky.

But what sort of logic told this guy that pulling a handgun is going to help the situation? Granted it might speed the biological aspects along; haste makes waste after all. But apparently the holdup here was a handful of tourists changing clothes.

Excuse me?

Changing clothes in a portable public toilet? Is there any train of thought that could make this a good idea?

You could plant vegetables in the smell of the last Port-o-Potty I was in. I’m fairly certain that you would have to hold a gun on me to MAKE me change clothes in one.

Given all the evidence, I’m siding with our friend John. Even if he did have a potty mouth, at least he was in the right location for it.

And if you ever find me on the verge of a public potty wardrobe malfunction, call John. He'll know exactly what to do.

It's a Wash

Moving from last week’s baby poop extravaganza up the time line to indoor plumbing, we come to public potties, where I also have issues. Now you can tell if you ever drop by the house that I have no tendencies toward a cleanliness fetish of any kind, so that’s not the problem. I don’t panic over germ infestations unless they present themselves in the form of a creature that is hopping, flying, crawling, buzzing, or of course rubbing its little hands together menacingly in my direction.

But let's move back down the pipes to the potties. My problem is the trend toward installing automatically flushing toilets in public restrooms. I’m not sure what sort of fiendish mind conceived of such a device. Obviously the same mind that thought of squirt cheese or miniature cookies that come in tiny packages labeled 100 calories each. Everybody knows it takes a quart-sized baggie of cookies to equal 100 calories, particularly if chocolate is involved.

Now when it comes to plumbing, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the advanced technology that takes away the need for manual flushing, but I can’t seem to operate the things. When I open the stall door to enter, they inevitably begin their erratic tidy bowl dance, complete with crashing tidal waves and whirlpools. Not having thought to bring along a change of clothes, I favor an approach most often used by a goal-oriented runner approaching a closely guarded second base at Yankee Stadium. I slide in low and hope I don’t need laundry detail.

Next, I settle onto the nest like a laying hen, my pocketbook clutched tightly in my lap. I realize that as a good citizen and a proponent of clean living I should hang my pocketbook daintily on the hook provided, but I don’t do that because a) I'll generally forget it when I leave, b) I intend to reapply my lipstick, Blushing Berry, available for $7.98 at Wal-Mart, while seated, and c) I never remember the hook until the optimal time to arrange for its use has passed. This immediately leads to a logistics dilemma requiring remarkable dexterity in reaching the necessary accesories. I lean forward to place my purse on the floor, in spite of agitated e-mail circulations that implore me to choose a better option.

Immediately with a roar and the crash of waves of water, the auto-flush option jumps enthusiastically into service, cleaning more surface area than I find comfortable. I involuntarily leap to attention, realizing too late that quick attention should be accompanied by returning all possible garments to the upright position. My knees are bound together by nylon and elastic lace and a sizable amount of yardage in the form of stretchy pants as I hop awkwardly in an attempt to avoid the purse obstacle situated on the floor like a hungry mouse trap ready to snap to work given the slightest provocation.

I bend to remedy the fabric situation which sets off a renewed frenzy of water fun. By this time, bystanders are bending to peer under the door to see if distress requiring the jaws life of is taking place in Stall Number 1. After repositioning all my garments to their accustomed areas of coverage, retrieving my purse, which once again sets off a tirade of flushing action, I hold my head high and exit the stall.

Now to wash my hands. Which I would do if I could figure out how to activate the automatic faucets long enough to reach the soap. I wet my hands and wipe them off on my pants. I'm not about to attempt the automatic dryer.