L is for Lavatory

There are some really funny 

photoshopped pictures at this website. 

You should check it out.

I couldn't stink up a public bathroom if my life depended on it.

I would rather sit at my desk all twisted up with cramps, dripping sweat, unable to say more than "Gah," than foul the bathroom at work. I would drive a hundred miles, prairie-dogging it the whole way, rather than stop at a McDonald's and give them my version of a Quarter Pounder.

My mother is like that, too. A talented musician, my mom was once honoured by being named organist for a prestigious provincial offshoot of The Eastern Star (a benevolent sister organization of the Masons). She spent a year travelling all over Ontario and, other than not being able to have a crap for an entire year, she had a nice time.

I dunno, it must be our proper upbringing or something that plugs our derrieres in public places. Or maybe we're like cats that would rather poop in a corner if the litter box is too crowded.

Other people aren't like me and my mom.

I know this because I've followed them into the bathroom, ostensibly to empty the four large coffees from my bulging bladder, only to be gob-smacked by a septic stench. 

So I go in and relieve my bladder (because that doesn't bother me at all, thank gawd), breathing through my mouth, when, bam, the door opens to the two-cubicle room and somebody else comes in.

"I didn't do that," I want to say.

But I don't, because I'm not 12. Still, I want to. I sit there, getting more red-faced by the moment, stressing about that person thinking I'm the one who stunk up the bathroom.

I pray they don't look down and see my shoes. I have identifiable shoes. They're boots, actually; I wear them all winter. All it would take would be one peek for them to know it was me in the next stall. So I lift my feet in the air so they can't see. Then I hold them that way for an eternity while the next person pees, gets dressed and washes. My legs tremble with the strain – where's the stirrups when you need them?

Finally they leave. I wash my hands at light-speed and rush out.

If I was at home I'd come out saying, "Who stunk up the washroom?" Or, "which one of you died in there?" Or, "Holy mother of God, don't go in there if you value your life." 

But I don't, because it's work and such phrases aren't proper office etiquette. Oh yah, it's OK to stink up the washroom but it's not OK to talk about it.