That’s What the Spot Next to the Dumpster is For

I’m very against pooping in public restrooms, for a variety of reasons.  It’s unpleasant for everyone involved.

I, for one, feel pretty uncomfortable with the knowledge that the next person who comes in will be able to smell it (or if it’s one with a bunch of stalls, knowing that there is someone else in there who can smell it right then, and who I may have to come face-to-face with in a few minutes while we’re washing our hands).  Plus, the paper is never as good as the stuff at home, and I don’t have the option of the bidet, which is the best invention ever in the history of humanity (take that, sliced bread and also the wheel!), and which I do have the option of at home.  If I was the sort of blogger who pushes products on you, I would herein tell you all about what kind of bidet I have and give you a link to buy it, but I’m not, so you’ll have to get your ass (pun intended) to Amazon all by yourself and make your own damn decision.

And then there’s the worker person who has to clean the restroom later, for whom there may be particles of fecal matter decorating the toilet for them to wipe off or refuse to wipe off, while wrinkling their nose, depending on what kind of place it is.

But it’s the worst for the person who comes in afterward (or smells it from the next stall and has to avoid eye contact with you at the sink).  This happened to me just a few minutes ago at the coffee shop where I am currently sitting and writing.  And it’s not that I’m particularly horrified by the smell of poop or anything.  It’s that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that anyone else who went into that bathroom within a few minutes after I left thought it was me.  And it wasn’t!  I swear!

I came up with a brilliant solution, though.  It’s so simple, which is how you know it’s brilliant.  All the best solutions are the simplest, right?  So here’s what I did: before I left the bathroom, I put the seat up.  I figure the benefits of this are two-fold.  First off, people will know that I couldn’t have been pooping, because obviously you can’t poop with the seat up.  But, even better, the logical assumption would be that I used a penis to pee, right?  So, if the next person to walk in is transphobic, they’ll have to think, “Wow!  That stunningly beautiful woman is transgender?  I should really rethink my entire ideology!”  So, the whole world wins.

The point I’m trying to make is that you really should just go into the alley out back and do your pooping there, next to the dumpster.  That way, the smell will dissipate quickly (or be masked by rotting trash), and it’s not really all that likely that anyone will come out there during or soon after.  And if they do, you both have a great story!  I mean, think about it, all the best stories start out with either, “So, I was pooping in an alley,” or “You’ll never guess what just happened to me out by the dumpster!”

I’m going to forego a photo on this post, for obvious reasons.

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Just Pretend the Cross is a Skeleton Key

There’s this wall of clocks in my living room.  Let me back up.  I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned before that Zeb and I live at his grandmother’s house.  We moved in to help take care of her a little over a year ago, and now there are all kinds of other people who live there with us, but they don’t enter into the story today.

All you need to know here is that Zeb’s Gram has a wall of clocks on our living room wall.  Exhibit A:

This is also Chalupa’s favorite spot


I’ve always liked it, because it feels kind of steampunk to me, and I enjoy steampunk, as a concept (although most examples of the actual literary genre are not great).  Of course, it needs some cogs and skeleton keys in there, but overall, it’s pretty bad-ass, in a very specifically nerdy way that I am 100% sure was not the intention behind it at all.  Up until a couple of weeks ago, none of the clocks worked, which, to me, just added to its charm.

Then, Zeb’s Gram decided they should all tell the correct time, and she started putting new batteries in them.

And it turns out that ALL OF THEM TICK.  They are so loud!  Every time I sit in this room now, it’s like a constant grim reminder of mortality and the passage of time.  In other words, it has gone from being steampunk to goth.  Now, instead of cogs, it needs a pendulum and a shelf with a stuffed raven.

At least the random gold cross among the clocks fits better with the goth theme.  And it’s still delightfully nerdy, but in a very different, still specific way, that I am still 100% sure would just confuse her, if anyone pointed it out.


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One is a Crowd

Do you ever find yourself talking to yourself in your head as though you were talking to someone else?  Like, the other day, I was thinking through a minor decision, weighing the options, and I found myself thinking, and I quote, “Well, if I were you-”

And then I stopped short, because I am me, so this was very confusing.  And then I thought, “Oh, crap.  I’m a crazy person.”  And then I started to panic a little, because what if I’m developing multiple personalities, and they’re just sort of starting to talk to each other, and, well, I’m very introverted, and I’m concerned that if there are too many people in my head, none of us will be able to properly recharge, and I’ll just be frazzled and overloaded all the time.

I won’t be able to escape, and it’ll be like I’m at a party all the time, which I realize sounds appealing to a lot of people, but it sounds really awful to me.  I hate parties.  Parties are the worst – manically trying to  make small talk for hours?  No, thank you!

Then again, if they’re in my head, maybe I won’t need to make small talk, because they’ll already know me pretty well, so we can discuss deep, meaningful topics instead.  Or maybe some of the voices will turn out to belong to animals or plants.  I like talking to animals and plants.

The cacti in my head
Image by liqionary from Pixabay

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