Tuesday, June 28, 2011
I consider many things before I use the work bathroom. Hermetically sealing my body in plastic, determining how long I can hold my breath, and wearing gloves to avoid the germ-infested door handle come to mind.
Giving away my crap? Not so much.
And yet people bring in all kinds of unwanted toiletries to litter the bathroom counter. Stinky lotions. Hand soaps. Dental floss. Hair dye.
Just sitting there, waiting to be adopted.
The other day someone left an opened box of unused tampons.
Allow me to speak for the entire populous when I say… Not all trash is someone else’s treasure. I'm just sayin'.
On the crazysauce scale, giving away crap in the bathroom is not all that crazy.
That said, I can barely remember to bring myself to work – let alone unwanted tampons for people who clearly have jobs [and can buy their own.]
In the cafeteria, they give away free plastic utensils. There has never been a limit on how many utensils one person can take.
Today, I noticed a dispenser. A utensil dispenser. Just press a lever and out pops one lonely fork.
“I see they put the clamp down on the how many forks a person can take,” I said to my friend, Chloe. “I mean who would press the lever 20 times just to get 20 forks. That would be crazy.”
“I would,” she laughed, without missing a beat. “I know it’s crazy but I would do it anyway. At least, I own my crazy.”
So funny. And so true.
Owning one’s crazy is more efficient than pretending it’s not there.
Once I started owning my crazy,
I started to feel less crazy,
Then, I started liking my crazy
Which lead to liking me.
Just for the record – by crazysauce, I mean the quirky bits that are so uniquely me [not actually crazy].
I will not eat from salad bars because the human body sheds thousands of dead skin cells per second. And I don’t like strange skin on my food.
[I need therapy just thinking about it.]
I have always dated passive men - except for one.
Because I need to feel like I am the strongest [and I can take you in a rumble]. Clearly, this is a remnant from an abusive childhood.
I just learned that one. Interesting. No?
I have also made the same female friend for years [just in different incarnations]
They all reminded me of traits my abusive mother had.
Until this journey, I never admitted to the abuse from my childhood so it kept following me around.
In the people I picked to be in my life.
But once I was honest. All of the pain just worked its way out – naturally.
[Yes, some of it was like a kidney stone for sure.]
But the rest was like taking a card from the bottom of a house of cards. The whole structure fell because it had to.
And all of those "friends" went with it.
When I first moved into my house – 6 years ago – I didn’t use heat until it was below 20 degrees. [I did this for two winters.] I mean I slept in 3 coats, under 3 comforters claiming to anyone who asked “I am just saving money.”
But I really had the money.
I was obsessed with losing my house
Because in the back of my head I was afraid…
I would rather chew off my leg than move in with any of my family members - if things didn’t work out.
Um... I use heat now.
Finally, I have the attention span gnat.
That means I learn things really fast, but I also get bored faster.
I have found
In the few lovers I’ve had – all of them bored me after the second date.
I stayed with them anyway because I didn’t think I could do better.
I didn’t like any of them – let alone love them.
Except for a British busker in London, England - named Alex.
My first love [after college.]
And then, there was a one night stand I had in Greece [right before I met him]
Technically, this was lust, not love.
But it was FA-BU-LOUS, y’all.
I feel that sex that doesn’t include Duracell is highly overrated - but if you’re gonna do it…
Make it with a sailor that you met on a boat ride in Greece whose silky, olive skin melts you. Then, he ravages you on a bed with white sheets, laughs and drinks wine with you afterward, and rides you back to your campsite on the back of a motorcycle [which you can’t believe all of your lusciousness can fit on] in the wee hours of the night while the sky is fading from orange to black.
Anyway, back to crazy.
This is a very serious response to the last blog.
“How could one soul be filled with so much bitterness?”
I knew that slice of bread would be controversial. Lots of folks are anti-bread. [Personally, I have never met a carb that I didn’t like].
I would like to treat this query with the gravity it deserves. But I need more info.
Is my soul filled to the brim with bitterness? I mean the tippy, tippy top. Or is there still room for some other stuff?
It is almost obscene how I like to lick that fake, powder-y cheese off of those tortilla snackgasms.
How did you get out of the straightjacket to type your response? That is impressive.
I do not like such inspection of my innards from someone who is obviously crazy [and by crazy, I mean crazy.]
I am over people who assess everyone else’s house when their own [insert lots of Pig Latin] amn-day house seems to be a it-shay hole.
Clean your own house.
And I will clean mine.
Three months before this journey started – such ridiculata would have crushed me.
I clearly remember retreating to the life-sized petri dish – the work bathroom – to cry because I wanted to be invited to something and I wasn’t.
I wanted so desperately to be liked and accepted by people I didn’t even like then.
So there among the porcelain gods, I did that thing where you try not to cry and it is like someone is gagging you – so you turn into a heaving, sobbing mess.
That seems like a lifetime ago…
And I used to do that thing where I thanked someone for merely expressing an opinion.
That is their right. No?
It is my right to poo all over my kitchen floor – instead of my toilet.
But I also do this crazy thing called – exercising judgment.
The day I thank someone for saying something stupid to me will be the same day my cats stop sleeping on my laundry. Never.
Now, I say – that’s interesting.
I find all absurdity interesting.
The work bathroom is fraught with interesting characters.
The Dental Floss Samurai.
She slices that floss through her teeth like a machete, conspicuously flinging the debris in the sink – and leaving it there. [Nice. Thanks for only cleaning your mouth.]
And the Prolific Pumper.
Don’t get me wrong, I am pro-pumping of all kinds. Gas. Iron. Breast. You name it, I will support it.
But I do not want to see any co-worker’s teets in a suction device.
Is that too much to ask?
I would like all teeth, gums, chewed up food and breasts to stay hidden – at all times – between the hours of 9 and 5.
And why do the Samurai and Pumper always look shocked when I walk in?
Are they confusing the words “public” and “pubic”? [It is so easy to drop an “L.”]
It is a public bathroom. Puuuuuuuuublic. That means people walk in at any time.
Maybe The Chatter could explain…
She seems to think the sound of someone whizzing is an invitation to converse.
Just for the record – running into someone in the bathroom does not mean they were actually there looking for you.
The bathroom is bizarre.
Bizarre and quirky and unexpected and zany and entertaining and slightly off-putting.
Like life - with toilets.
I guess the crap has to go somewhere.
I'm just sayin'.