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Posts Tagged ‘restroom’

NTKOG #105: The kind of rule flouting bladder-centric dude who lets an urgency to pee eradicate the societal construct that is separate-gendered restrooms.

I am: a lady.

I am not: sure what y’all other ladies are doing in there that make our lines so much longer than lines for the men’s room. Seriously, girls.

The Scene: Restrooms up and down this fair city for the past month and a half. If there was a line for the ladies’ only, I dashed into the men’s. And, dude? If it’s a single-occupancy restroom (as is the case in so many of the space-starved commercial lots in this pinched city), there is virtually no difference between the rooms. You can use whichever one you want with literally no repercussions. WHY HAVE WE BEEN WAITING IN LINE WHILE PERFECTLY GOOD RESTROOMS SAT OPEN?! We’re like some primitive bladder-masochism tribe that stands around worshipping the blue and white triangular dress idol. What will future cultures think of us. Honestly.

Non-fortress-style men’s rooms, however, were a bit more difficult a prospect. As moxious as I am, I did my utmost to avoid entering one where a guy was peeing at the time, both out of respect for guys’ privacy and because I didn’t want to catch an eyeful of anyone’s junk. (Figurative eyeful, that is. Although, uh, literal too, now that you mention it.)

However, one night, out with the ladies at a bar in Brighton that skews to the youth demographic, I may have had a drink or two too many, and was emboldened to duck into the men’s room. A dude stood in there, poised to decant over the urinal. He locked eyes with me and barked: “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Ladies, if ever you get in a similar situation — face burning with embarrassment, social reputation on the line — and are already wearing heels and lots of make-up, allow me to give you the five magic words to instantaneously extricate yourself:

“Pre-op. Wanna feel my genitals?”

I’m all class, y’all.

The Verdict: Chalk another one up for “nobody cares what you do, dumbass,” ’cause, truly, nobody seems to care a whit either way which restroom you use. Unless you’re, y’know, watching them pee or whatever. (Please don’t watch other people pee without their consent. Or if you do, please don’t write about it in the comments section.) Although my days of recreational restroom switching are officially past me, if I’m ever at a restaurant with single-stall restrooms and one of them is open, dude, I’m totally using it, regardless of what the little pictogram on the door sign is wearing.

This would have been more of a TMI Thursday if the guy had actually taken me up on the offer to feel my genitals; nonetheless, I submit it for your approval. Go check out Livit, Luvit for more TMI hilarity! And have you entered to win my iPod Nano giveaway yet?!

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You guys! A TMI post that isn’t even TMI Thursday! I know you feel so blessed. You can probably skip reading this if you’d care to. Just a disclaimer.

NTKOG #52: The kind of free-spirited, “anything goes!” girl who — when trapped with pretty dire choices with regards to personal hygiene — chooses to use (ugh!) a Porta Potty.

I am: on the “refined and ladylike” scale somewhere way above “will use a porta potty” but apparently below “will blog about using said porta potty.”

I am not: ever going to use one of these things again. SPOILER ALERT.

The Scene: Salem, Halloween, early afternoon (before the whole city started reeking of Twizzlers and rum). I thought I was pretty familiar with the basic guiding principles of Salem, that great American symbol of the pilgrims’ progress: Puritanism, pre-determinism, hysteria, misogyny, etc, etc. But I had not realized that, as it sloughed off these old-school values, the city acquired an even more grim mantra: No. Public. Restrooms.

So early afternoon, I’ve been chugging water all day, and it dawns on me that the only relief option is a bank of Porta Potties lined up in the park. Usually in situations like this, I’d have two options: bust into a store, make a small purchase, and explain to the clerk (with increasing hysteria) that I’m three and a half months pregnant and need a restroom immediately; or else chug a few beers until I feel comfortable enough to, y’know, find a bush somewhere, because there’s something kind of pleasant about peeing outside when you’re drunk. But the city was crowded and besides, I’m TKOG. I told Sister I had to go and she locked eyes with me. “Porta Potty,” she said. “For the blog.”

Fair enough.

And while I’m not going to hit you with the details, a modest proposal, ladies, on the proper use and maintenance of a Porta Potty on public events days: can we all just agree to sit? Please? Because I know you all want to show off your pilates muscles and squat/hover abilities, but here’s the thing: when you squat, you’re going to miss. There is going to be urine all over the Porta Potty seat and the weird little plastic shelf thing and the floor and, ultimately, the shoes of the next person who’s going in there. The next person who — by the way — will be forced to squat. And miss. And decant a bladderful of urine all over the mess you’ve created. And so the cycle is bound to continue.

Keep in mind that this friggin’ atrocity was going on at 3pm, when people were still sober and actually trying to aim. I can’t imagine what those Porta Potties must have been by midnight. But I’m imagining a jarringly warm flood every time the doors were opened, like the blood pouring out of the elevators in The Shining. Except, y’know, scarier.

Holy fucking christ. I always imagined the first time I made contact with someone else’s fresh urine, said urine would be the product of one of my own children. Or I guess maybe a partner but he’d have to ask super super nicely and I’d really have to think about it and probably would not be wearing shoes or a cute outfit.

As soon as I was done, I stormed across town, found the one shop with a customers-only public restroom, and frantically offered the restroom attendant bribes in increasing dominations to unlock the men’s restroom so I could go in and wash my hands — which he let me, for free, because I think in his heart he knew that Hell hath no fury like a woman who desperately needs to run the hot water in a public restroom sink and scour every inch of exposed flesh off of her body.

The Verdict: Never the frig again. Never. Never. OMG NEVER.

Lessons I learned from this harrowing experience: 1) I will never again make fun of those girls who carry Purel and Kleenex in their purses everywhere they go; 2) huge public gatherings and music festivals are not for TKOG; 3) nor will I ever borrow shoes from the types of people who go to public gatherings and music festivals; 4) thank god for men who are fundamentally mystified by and scared of the myths of the whole female reproductive/urinary/pulsing mollusk female situation, because their ignorance and fear opens some dang doors. And they are public restroom doors. And it is, in this situation, good and noble.

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Intended NTKOG: The kind of girl who, while in a public restroom, makes calls on her cell phone, heedless of public decency, dignity, or her callers’ eardrums.

I am: shy of bladder and faint of heart when it comes to public restrooms. During my two years in the dorms in undergrad, it was my primary goal to be that girl no one ever sees entering or exitin a restroom. I was eerily successful.

I am not:  really big on talking on the phone anyway, let alone in the cavern of bodily shame.

The Scene: The large restroom of the food court in the mall next to my current temp gig. Ideal, I figured, as it’s a) full of people, that b) I will never see again. All morning I chugged iced tea to flood out my bladder’s introversion, and when the moment was right, took my lunchbreak.

It took a while to figure out the perfect victim — er, lucky phone recipient. Finally, I settled on The Ex, because after living together for a few years, I figured the odds were slim that he had not at some point heard me peeing. Heck, he could probably pick the sound of me peeing out of some sort of terrible, dystopian auditory line-up just from my particular bladular cadence. (You can see I’m campaigning hard for the role in his wistful reveries as The One That Got Away…)

After pacing anxiously outside the restroom doors, I finally girded my (aching) loins and stormed the nearest stall like the Bastille. Snag: I was alone in there. So I crouched on the toilet for five or six minutes, clutching my cell phone, before, mercifully, a group of eight or nine women entered en masse. The time had come! 

I started to loosen my muscles, but then — TWIST! As I scrolled urgently through my contacts, I remembered: I deleted his number out of my phone a few weeks ago in the throes of break-up pique. Frantically I scrambled to remember his number, and right as my bladder was slipping, I hit the send button.

Only to find that the mall architects had apparently pre-empted this particular social dysfunction by rendering the restroom I was in as the only thirty square feet in the whole friggin’ mall with no. cell. reception.

For a moment I considered just faking the call, to at least give my fellow restroom compatriots the awk-talk treatment, but no, I decided. It would be against the spirit of the NTKOG project. It would be ignoble. It would be another twenty seconds at least until I was finally able to pee, and that just wasn’t an option.

So What Went Wrong? Ultimately, I decided to wait on this, the NTKOG I have been dreading since the conception of this project. Not to discard it altogether, mind, but merely to postpone it. And like the deferral of all dreaded tasks, this greatest mortification looms before me even more horrifying than before.

On the bright side, this massive TMI moment does suit nicely for the lovely LiLu‘s weekly TMI Thursday roundup — if only because no blog I know of features a WAAAAAAAAY TMI Wednesday.

But, as a cautionary note for everyone other than The Ex, who is now off the hook because all of the surprise will be gone (much like the magic in our relationship after he reads about my pee travails), beware any calls from TKOG. Because you might be next.

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