The Unenchanted Tiki Restroom

Recently I ate at the Harbor Crab Co in Long Island and was pleasantly surprised by the great tiki bar vibe.  This theming was carried all the way to the restroom where the walls were covered with bamboo and raffia.  It was what I would imagine the bathrooms looked like on Gilligan's Island.  Normally I would have thought this was pretty cool until I tried to close the bamboo door on the stall and realized that the stall was designed for Lieutenant Dan.  There was no leg room.  The door, when shut, was flush (pardon the pun) with the rim of the toilet.  This meant that anyone not truncated at the waist, would have to straddle the bowl to shut the door and then sit spread eagle.  Perhaps this is "the Polynesian Way."  Surely it works muscles not generally exercised in a normal restroom visit.

One situated, you find yourself uncomfortably close to a wall of bamboo and start to understand the POW experience in Southeast Asia.  Slowly, it dawns on you that you are completely trapped, indeed, you will never get out.  I pondered spending the rest of my life in this bamboo coffin.  Realizing that I had to get back to civilization, I started to plan my escape.  After ruling out opening the door to get some room to maneuver, I realized that my limbo training had come in handy after all and I was able to slowly extricated myself from the cage.  Now I am convinced that there are hidden cameras all over the place and that this bathroom will someday be a reality show.  The goal will be to find the best way to get out of the stall...with the least rim contact possible (it's not possible).

And that is my experience as a prisoner in the South Pacific.

Why?

A few weeks ago, I went to an antique show with friends in Lambertville, NJ.  As with most antique shows, there aren't permanent restrooms, but banks of port-a-potties.  When I got to the front of the line, I noticed that one of the booths had the green, "vacant" indicator.  So I thrust open the door and to my horror, there was a female senior citizen with her pants down to her knees, standing and facing the open door with the most horrified, startled look anyone could ever muster.  She said "Oh!" as she looked up and saw me as well as the entire audience of people in line behind me.

Now how women use the port-a-potty is and hopefully will remain a mystery to me.  That said, I cannot conceive of any reason that one would be standing up facing the outside with her pants around her knees AND FAIL TO LOCK THE FRIKKIN' DOOR!  I mean...it's not rocket science.  As I mentally regrouped from the trauma, I came to the conclusion that this was entirely her fault and that it represented a "teachable moment" with the lesson hopefully driven home by the look of sheer terror on my face.  If you're out there, lady, lock the door.

The Guggenheim bathroom

If you've ever been to the Guggenheim Museum in New York, you know that it's a fascinating work by renown architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, famous for Fallingwater and other unique buildings and the Prairie school of architecture.  He is also someone whose work flies in the face of "form follows function," as evidenced by the Guggenheim restrooms.

The building itself is composed of a coiled walkway where you start at the top and wind your way back down to the bottom with exhibits both on the walls of the "corkscrew" and also in side galleries.  Because of the intersecting circles of this design, the only available space for the restroom is between the intersection of 2 of these circles, essentially a narrow football shape.  The unfortunate result of this is that the toilet is wedged into the far corner of this football and, for anyone older than 4, that you have to sit "side saddled" on the toilet because there isn't enough room for your legs to be out in front of you.  For most folks, this would be "incondusive" to accomplishing the task at hand because your spine is torqued into the unnatural position that you've only experienced once or twice before at your high school yearbook photo session or the Sears Portrait Studio or if you've ever had seats in the mezzanine at the New Amsterdam Theater in NYC.  The only fortunate difference is that you don't have to smile or applaud on the Guggenheim toilet...unless...well, never mind. 

It's also problematic for anyone who is claustrophobic because the wall is literally a foot and a half from your face which gives the impression that you are "evacuating" in a coffin which, let's face it, falls under "things we never thought we'd have to do."  Unless...well...never mind.

The New York Restaurant Bathroom

I don't know how many of you are in the NY area, or have vacationed here enough to know this but, because of the space situation in NYC, the area of most restaurants devoted the restroom is minimal.  While it's adequate for smaller restaurant, it is second only to the joy of using an airline restroom with the added thrill that there is a lighted scented candle in there which runs the risk of setting you ablaze as you go about your routine.  At the very least, you will leave there smelling like sandwood.

Another hurdle is that the it has "the baby sink."  This is a sink so small that it looks more like a water fountain.  It is side-mounted and so narrow that your hand, the faucet, and the basin never quite align, so you find yourself cupping your hands in the hope that some of the water will run down your arm rinsing off the soap that is outside of the reach of the faucet flow, all the while trying to avoid touching the basin at all.  You end up washing your hands sideways doing this kind of Watusi dance while conscious that if you move too broadly in the wrong direction, your could ignite.

In many cases, this "room" is located literally feet away from someone's table and you exit feeling vulnerable knowing that they are privy to details about your most personal behavior, for example, if you flushed twice or if you stayed "too long," or, God forbid, if you're having "Number 2" issues.  You avoid making eye contact with them as you exit, but with your peripheral vision, you can see that they're looking up ever so discretely to judge you.  No one likes getting the "toilet table", but if it means the difference between waiting forever for the next available or getting seating right away, many New Yorkers will opt for the latter.

I'm always amazed by the restaurant bathrooms in Paris.  They are equally small, but they're always down a tiny spiral staircase with mirrored walls, too narrow for anyone but supermodels, and down a corridor so far removed from the restaurant dining area that you almost feel as though you've entered Belgium by the time you finally reach the bathroom.  They're equally unglamourous, but at least you never have to deal with the ringside toilet judges watching your every move.

The XLerator

Can I just say what a fan of the XLerator hand dryer I am?  I first encountered it in a public restroom in Canterbury, UK where, get this, you would  put your hand into this orifice (definitely an act of trust in a public restroom) and the device would automatically dispense the soap into your hands, trigger the water with which to rinse, AND automatically start the XLerator!  I felt as though I was witness to the technology of an advanced civilization and, let's face it, the British haven't been revolutionary since...well, they've never really been revolutionary.

So, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the XLerator, it is a hand dryer that literally does to your hands what those astronaut training centrifuges do to astronaut faces...it blows with such force that your skin buckles, making it look like a flag in a gale force wind.  I'm sure that if you put your face under it, it would surpass the effectiveness of a chemical peel, stripping off at least 2 layers of dead skin.  The beauty of this is, of course, that your hands are dry in seconds. 

What they haven't quite worked out is that it blows all the water from your hands onto the floor.  So there is usually a puddle within a 3 foot radius of the XLerator and, I don't know about you but, I always find the restroom puddle a bit off-putting. 

I have no doubt that in the future, the Japanese will solve this problem.

Commodalicious

I'm a bad blogger...but in the interests of posting SOMETHING...please enjoy this Japanese delicacy. 

Peek a Boo

This past December, my dad went into the hospital for an operation and was there for a week.  During the endless waiting, you find yourself getting well-versed in the various waiting room bathrooms and their assets and disadvantages.  One, in particular, struck me as strange because the stalls were staggered, with the one closest to the door furthest back in the room and the back wall of the next one about 2 feet forward from there and so on.  The unfortunate result of this was that the inch and a half gap where the side wall mounted to the back wall was a vector perfect view of your neighbor's ass.  While you can expect to see many strange things in public restrooms, this is one view that you DON'T generally expect to see...ever...anywhere.  I don't know who the architect was, but they should revoke credentials for something like that.

Another MAJOR restroom design fail is the IHOP in Huntington, Long Island.  When you walk in, there is a urinal immediately to your right and a sink in front of you.  Further to your right is the stall.  Now...with a LOCKING stall...you would think this is a multi-person bathroom.  Not so...as I found out when I was standing at the urinal when the door opened.  What you don't really realize when you start using the urinal is that there is no wall between the urinal and the door.  So...anyone entering...and the 3 tables of pancake munching folk behind him...can watch you pee...FROM THE URINAL'S POINT OF VIEW.  You would think that in this day of computer aided design...someone might have been able to head that one off at the pass.

To contrast that, you MUST go use the restrooms in "The Mall at Short Hills" aka "Short Hills Mall".  To call it a "stall" would be demeaning to this structure which, from all appearances, seems to be a hermetically sealed mausoleum.  The plastered walls go all the way to the ceiling and the doors are solid room entry doors so there is no peeking under the door to see if the stall is occupied.  Once inside, the outside world is completely shut out and you are free to go about your business blissfully unaware of everything going on around you.  I'm pretty sure a family of 4 could survive a nuclear attack in there.

Filled to the Brim

Today I am in the throes of a weeklong babysitting stint for 3 kids whom I love more than anything.  The youngest...who is 5...has yet to master the complete art of the bathroom ritual.  He doesn't quite have the "paperwork" aspect down.

In an ill-fated attempt to rectify that this evening, he used an entire roll, filling the toilet with so much paper that it peaked above the rim of the toilet.  It looked like a giant snow-cone in a big porcelain dish.  Now I realize that parents encounter this sort of thing every day.  But I'm not a parent and the only time I would ever see anything REMOTELY like this would be at the Whitney Biennial.

So the next time you get bent out of shape because facebook has a new facelift...just realize that in the blink of an eye, you could find yourself emptying a toilet bowl filled with paper mache using only two Chinese takeout chopsticks.  And that you'd be doing it for love.

Roller Rink Restroom Blues

Today...I am babysitting...and despite not having rollerskated in the past 25 years...I said "yes."  So we hauled my aging carcass down to Holiday Skating Center and I donned probably the same skates I wore when I was in high school and every song was either from "Xanadu" or Funkytown.

While I managed myself well in the rink, managing not to fall in front of my nephews or niece, I was terrified to skate into the restroom even though I had needed to go before we even left the house.  First off...skating on tile is a different game.  One slip up, and you've face-planted in a room that CHILDREN USE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM...and, between you and me, they're not known for their expert aiming.  I also had visions of actually making it to the urinal only the find myself rolling backwards propelled by a stream of pee.

I was hoping there would be rails flanking the urinals so that I could hold on for dear life, but entering to find out, scanning the boy's room and leaving, struck me as a possible fast track to Sex Offenderville.  No adult male wants to emerge from the boy's room looking like a teetering zombie on skates to a chorus of "Stranger Danger!!"

Finally they announced "Boy's skate" and I grabbed my window of opportunity for an empty boy's room.  It turns out that peeing on rollerskates (well, not 'ON'...rather 'WHILE on'), is just like riding a bike.  Mission accomplished, I turned around as this little kid zipped in, looked up at me as though he was wondering why Frankenstein was on rollerskates and wondering if he was going to get attacked.  Who knew that a restroom in a roller rink could strike fear in the heart of a 45 year old?

Poo Teabag at Walt Disney World

When I went to Disney World on a family trip a number of years ago, we decided to take a day off from the parks and go swimming at the Wilderness Lodge pool.  My partner, Bill, and I agreed to babysit while the parents went sailing.  I had an easy enough time with the 5 year old who only wanted to use the slide.  Bill was in the baby pool with the two year old.  Occasionally I would look over and see him dunking her in the pool and hear her giggle.  At a designated time, we agreed to switch off and I took the 2 year old from him, continuing the swinging motion as I carried her back to our spot.  I swung her high in the air from left to right and she giggled...back and forth, over people's head and reclining bodies as I walked backwards to our chairs, giggling all the way.

It was then that I noticed the rain.  Well...what FELT like rain.  I chalked it up to her wet bathing suit and continued swinging her back and forth between the two rows of occupied lounge chairs.  Suddenly, I happened to notice a brown spot on my arm...then another....and another...and another.  It was at that point that everything turned into slow motion and I fully comprehended what was happening AND that I had swung her over the heads and bodies of at least 60 people.  I looked up at her and she looked down at me and said, very matter of factly, "Poopy."   I'm sure I had a facial expression you only see in Lifetime Original Movies, as I screamed, "Biiiiiiiiiiillllllllllllll!"

Bill came and took the tyke into the men's room while I ran for the complementary guest towels (Sorry Wilderness Lodge!).  When I came back in, she was sitting in the sink of the men's room happy as a clam getting a bath and splashing about in the suds.  Finally she emerged in swaddling terrycloth, all sweetness and light.

I was sure that the Disney police were going to eject us and that I would emerge from the men's room to face an angry poo-covered mob.  But none of that happened.  I guess they just shrugged it off.  Maybe they figured that it just rains brown in Florida.  Or that someone was overzealously eating chocolate mousse.

I did learn two important things about parenting that day...never dunk a toddler in a kiddie pool like a teabag and while "Swimmies" might be WATER proof...they evidently aren't POO proof.

Wet and Wild

While most adults find public restrooms disgusting and a necessary evil, it is not a view shared by many children who are fearless in the face bacteria.  Perhaps the funniest instance of this I can remember was at a Turnpike rest stop bathroom.  A harried father was trying to juggle 2 toddler twins at a urinal that was mounted for an adult.  No sooner would he lift one up to pee and the other would run around splashing the water around in the neighboring urinals with his hands.  When the dad realized what was happening, he would yell "NO!....NO!" but the boy kept splashing around in the urinal water.  Realizing that his hands were full lifting a peeing toddler, he could do nothing but continue to shout, "NO!.....NO!".  Finally, toddler #1 finished peeing and was put down as the father grabbed toddler #2 and ran him to the sink to wash his hands.  At this point, toddler #1, obviously ignited by the excitement his brother displayed playing in the "fountain" starts to play in the urinal.  Dad comes back with toddler #2 in his arms and see what toddler #1 is doing and starts shouting "NO!...NO!" again.  He puts down toddler #2 and repeats the routine, grabbing toddler #1 and putting down toddler #2 who starts right in where he left off. 


A more mature individual would have offered to help. 

Stop, Drop and Roll

Another misadventure from the bookstore arrived when the warehouse manager called me and said "You've got to see this."  Now, this wasn't a rare request.  Often we'd find a cache of erotica sitting somewhere among the thousands of remainders because the reader was simply too shy to read it in the erotica section.  This time, however, he invited me to come back and see where someone had decided to change their baby. 

Now I know that parents' lives are busy.  And I can imagine how walking 2 aisles to the restroom with a defecating toddler might not always be a possibility.  But why would you change your baby and then leave the OPEN, USED diaper sitting atop a pile of books?  (I believe it was in "performing arts") 

Of course, on the heels of that discovery were the burning questions: "How long had it been sitting there?" and "How many people had browsed that section without calling attention to it?" and "Could they have possibly not noticed that sitting on top of 'A Rogers and Hammerstein Celebration' was a diaper chock full of baby poo?" 

Lastly...I have to think what lesson this taught the toddler and I shudder to think that this baby is now in his 20s...Barnes and Noble, beware.

The Walk In

An anonymous reader has mentioned his deep-rooted fear of "the walk in" aka "the unwelcome guest."  I'm sure everyone can identify with this as either or both the "walker" or the "walkee."  And yet, there are degrees.  I've discussed this with H, and we both agree that you're better off being walked in on while going about your business as opposed to attending to the paperwork.  If you walk in during the paperwork, you might as well be Norman Bates in a wig with a butcher knife because the "walkee" is going to be wishing for death just the same. 

I remember walking in on a guy in the bathroom on the Cape May/Lewes Ferry.  I was very young at the time and must have stood there frozen with shock because I distinctly remember him saying "Could you close the door, please?!"  I hid out for the rest of the crossing.  I'm sure my parents wondered about my sudden personality change.  To this day, I KNOW my face is emblazoned on his retinas and if he should ever find me, I'm a dead man.

My brother and sister-in-law's house is particularly susceptible to "the walk in."  The bathroom on the first floor doesn't have a lock and for some reason, no one takes the 3 minute trip to Schwering's Hardware to buy one.  Everyone has walked in on everyone else in a tormenting game of mutual humiliation.  No one is safe.  If you visit their house, you will have to play Restroom Roulette.  To make matters worse, the bathroom is VERY small and so it has a diagonally situated toilet...for optimal viewing.  Once, my nephew, who was probably 3 at the time, walked in on me and left the door open giving me a great view of the dining room...and vice versa.

A Drop in the Bucket

When I was fresh out of college, I moved to Japan for two years and taught in a rural school in the backwater city of Morioka.  I lived in a modern apartment which even had a card key entry and a computer-controlled bath/shower.  This was in direct contrast to the very humble facilities at the school.  These days, the school is completely unrecognizable with modern buildings and facilities and it has changed so much that I can't really orient myself to the structures I knew and inhabited.  Perhaps the biggest change was the conversion to modern bathrooms.  When I taught at the school, there were bathrooms, and they had western toilets...but they were essentially indoor outhouses...no plumbing...no flushing...just a straight drop to the murky depths. 

One day, I remember using the facilities and hearing a sound (when there should not have been one).  I didn't think much of it and went back to work, finishing the teaching day.  As usual, I rode my bike home and went to remove my card key from my wallet when I suddenly realized there WAS no wallet.  My brain did the reverse scan of my day and paused at the mysterious "plop."  Suddenly everything came into rich focus...money...credit cards...identification...all sitting in a deep pile of...

The next day, after I'd made my peace with what had befallen me, I went to school and was greeted by another teacher who smiled at me and said "You're so lucky!"  Knowing that he knew of my situation, I couldn't imagine how he could say that...unless...unless the wallet HADN'T ended up where I'd supposed and was safe and sound in my desk!  It was then that he swung his other arm around revealing a ziplock bag...inside of which...was my wallet...looking all the worse for the wear.

Evidently, the school administrator had gone fishing.  How he retrieved it, I'll never know...and never CARE to know.  But I spent the morning scrubbing Yen and credit cards with an old toothbrush.

Through the Roof

A necessary part of this blog is the anecdotes, and there will be MANY.  This, however, is the first, and it's a mystery!  Oooh.

So, many years ago, I was an assistant manager in a huge bookstore.  Basically it was set up like a warehouse with the office and restrooms nestled in the back, sharing a common wall.  One day, I was straightening the bestseller overstock which was housed on huge shelves which went all the way up the shared wall.  When I got to the top, I noticed that the shelves were much higher than the drop ceilings in the restrooms, so you could look out over the wall and see the top of the acoustic tiles which made up the ceiling of the bathrooms.  On the heels of that observation was the realization that there was something sitting atop one of the tiles.  I climbed down the bookshelf and walked around into the men's room, climbed up on the sink and lifted one of the tiles up and to the side.  I popped my head up through the ceiling like a meerkat and found the object.  I called to the warehouse manager and asked him to take a look.  He did and then proceded to extract the object.  It took only seconds for us to realize that he was holding the largest pair of briefs on earth, and they were SEVERELY soiled.  Now...I GET IT...someone was embarrassed...OK.  I get that they wanted to get rid of the evidence...OK.  What I don't get is why they would climb up onto the toilet tank, remove a ceiling tile, and toss their CSI-traceable, soiled man panties into the rafters!  And WHY wasn't the lined trash can good enough?!  Beyond that...judging from the size of the briefs, I'm simply agog that the toilet tank was strong enough to him aloft long enough to fling his embarrassment into the heavens. 

At the top of my list of "Things I never expected to encounter while managing a bookstore", this is near the top.  Somewhere out there is an incontinent booklover who is going commando.  He was never caught.  No ceiling tile is safe.

Prep and Landing

My friend, H, and I frequently discuss how to prepare for landing during a variety of unpredictable conditions.  As there are no "right" answers, the breadth of them is the key.

In the first case, the seat is down and all APPEARS ok.  Do you put your faith in those who have gone before you (literally) and sit?  Do you grab some tissue and give it a "just in case" swipe?  Do you lay down a protective layer of toilet paper, THE MOST PENETRABLE MATERIAL ON EARTH, and sit comfortably knowing that you are shielded from harm like the boy in the plastic bubble?  Do you upholster the toilet seat with MOUNDS of tissue?  Do you hover Japanese style, never coming into contact with the offending seat?

In the second case, the slob before you has had a "number one misfire."  Do you mop it up and then revert to your case 1 scenario?  Do you leave that stall in search of dryer pastures?  Do you keep layering tissue until you've reached it's absorption threshold? 

Third case, your predecessor has left you a gift.  Do you leave and find another stall?  If you do, do you worry that anyone seeing you exit will assume that you are the "giver"?  Do you just flush and start fresh?  Do you ponder WHY someone would leave you such a personal gift?  Do you analyze their gift (ie "hmm...corn...")? 

Fourth case, there is no seat and this is the only bathroom for miles.  I think the only options really are to fashion a seat out of tissue or hover...am I right?

Fifth case, you get into the only stall and realize that there is a huge gap where the door closes.  Do you hang your things on the hook, hoping it will deter the curious?  Do you say "what the hell" and ignore it?  Do you position yourself so that you're "less visible?"

Sixth case, you get into the only stall and the lock is broken.  Do you McGyver-rig a lock out of anything in your pocket/purse?  Do you cast your fate to the wind?  Do you ask someone to "stand guard?"

Seventh case, the handicapped stall is all that's left.  Do you wait for the next standard stall?  Do you hop up there and let your feet dangle?  Are you self-conscious about all the extra space?  Do you worry that a differently-abled person will roll into the restroom while you're sitting there...in forbidden territory? 

I'm sure there are more scenarios, but it's getting late.  I'm curious to hear your thoughts if you care to share them.

Urinal: A Primer

The Urinal is a mystery to many women and, unfortunately, some men.  This will hopefully serve as Urinal 101 for the uninitiated. 

Urinal...pronounced not unlike "you're in hell" except by my friend, Margaret, who is British and calls them "you RYE nuls".  Often the urge to go flees while I think "What the hell is she saying?"  I digress.  So the urinal is, obviously, for "number one" and it is best suited to male evacuation though I have seen women attempt the feat and, trust me, it's unglamorous. 

Now most people would think that it's a simple matter of "pull it out and go."  However, there is a whole system of understood etiquette regarding their use which, if not followed, means that "there is something wrong with you."  This can be that you are too drunk to observe them...or to care.  It can mean that you were never taught the unwritten laws...which raises serious questions about your upbringing.  It can mean that you're "over-curious".  In short, it broadcasts that "there is something wrong with you."

So here are the unwritten rules...now writ:

1. If there is only one urinal and a toilet, the bathroom is for one person and you should lock the door.
2. If there is only one urinal and a stall and the urinal is being used, the stall should be Plan B, rather than standing behind the evacuee waiting for the last shake and flush.
3. If you absolutely MUST use the urinal, wait in an inconspicuous place bearing in mind that, in a mens' room, there is no inconspicuous place.
4. Wait outside until you hear the Xcellerator hand dryer and then enter.
5. If there are two urinals, first one in gets the adult one, second one has to use the kiddie urinal which is usually mounted 10 inches off the floor.  Using the kiddie urinal means that you're less of a man.
6. If there are three urinals, first person uses one on either end, second person uses the one on the opposite end.  The middle one should only be used by a third person and preferably when he is drunk or you are at a theme park.  Many men will opt for the stall to avoid using the middle urinal.  Using the middle urinal outside of these conditions might mean that you're gay.
7. In cases where there is a bank of urinals, "every other one" is the etiquette unless you're drunk or gay.
8. Look straight forward or down at the job at hand.  Looking elsewhere means you're gay.
9. No talking.  No moaning.
10. Spitting is ok.  Try not to spit on your junk.
11. When you are close to finishing, a few curt shakes is the norm.  Anything longer than this is an immediate "code red" and will brand you for life. 
12. Stow your cargo, zip, and flush.

I'm sure there are variations on these rules, but understanding, and following them, should get you by without notice and that, after all, is the goal.

Why?

Well...this has to be the first question, no?  Why not leave well enough alone?  Why do personal habits in private moments make for such good storytelling?  Why is this fascinating to me? 

When I worked at MTV, a friend and I used to share anecdotes about what we encountered in the public restroom at work.  (She will be referenced throughout this blog and so I'll refer to her as "H".)  One evening H mentioned to her husband, a psychiatrist, what we were discussing and he informally diagnosed me as having an abnormal obsession.  While the words stung at first, I started to think about the nature of it.  This behavior is rarely discussed and usually only taught (HOPEFULLY) in the first 5 years of life.  While folklore can be passed from generation to generation with its theme intact, bathroom behavior is taught like a bad game of "whisper down the lane" and runs the gamut from utilitarian to wacky...and what is "normal" to one family might not be "normal" for another...and who doesn't want to understand where they fit in the grand scheme of things?

Speaking of those first 5 years, it's not an easy thing to teach...like telling time.  Parents come up with an entire lexicon of baby euphemisms to conjure up every imaginable part and function.  (It was "tinkle" and "poo" in our family.)  This further complicates matters because the children have to learn, at some point, to translate these into adult euphemisms.  (HOPEFULLY)  With all these euphemisms floating around, is it any wonder that confusion arises? 

Add to this the difference between boys and girls and all of the logistical implications it invites.  It necessitates the differentiation of boys rooms and girls rooms and the plumbing housed within.  It dictates the evacuation style which is academic until you find yourself in Giants' Stadium in a line running all the way back to the Churros wagon.

Of course, there is the issue of hygiene.  Suddenly one's personal habits at home come colliding into a public space.  You may be a Lysol-spewing germ avenger at home...but sooner or later you will find yourself in your worst nightmare...a gas station bathroom: a Petri Dish with a 15 watt bulb and no paper.  How do you reconcile that?

What about privacy?  etiquette?  culpability?

These are the abnormal obsessions we'll be visiting in this blog.