Ok, so public toilets. There were, like, 15,000 other things I completely forgot to write about in my previous entry.
Bah, blame it on the full moon - I don't know about you, but that big sky-y thing of white brightness was certainly responsible for one shit of a week for me.
So here goes, and it really is shameful that I forgot to write about this first as it is probably my number one toilet turn-off: what the hell is with that little liquid present the “lady” before you leaves on the seat?
Who, what, why, when, where is that ever appropriate? I don't want to see drops of anything spoiling my seat. They have no business being there and it is your responsibility, your hygienic duty TO CHECK THE GOD DAMN SURFACE BEFORE YOU LEAVE.
First of all, it's revolting. Second of all, it's unnecessary and third of all, it should be fricking impossible.
Because here is the thing: this is a female toilet, presumably used by people sporting female anatomy.
So I want to know what the hell kind of position you are in to physically, as a woman, be able to leave behind something like that? Were you standing on the toilet seat, did you have your back up against the cubicle wall just trying to aim in that general direction, were you hopping from one leg to the other, what?
Physically it should be IMPOSSIBLE - for all sorts of reasons relating to the sciences of engineering, genetics and biology - for that to happen at all. Impossible! Do you hear me?! And yet happen it does.
Do you do it? Please, please school me in the ways of liquid toilet seat gifting and comment down below, um I mean at the end of this post - I want to understand, I really do!
Please note: no standing, squatting, leaning and most definitely no callisthenics or fishing.
Another pubtoil favourite, although thankfully one that happens to T more than I, are the people who choose the stall RIGHT NEXT to you in a bathroom featuring no less than 476 other cubicles.
You managed to find a cubicle on its own, up the back, where the light globe has blown...nice and private. You are the only one in there, in fact, and it's quiet, peaceful.
Then those dreaded footsteps barge in on your concentration. Hang on a minute? Those footsteps are getting closer! What? They are right next door?? Nooooooooo. You can hear them breathing, clearing their throat...and worse. Lady, there were 476 other spots to park your ass that you could have chosen RATHER THAN go beside me. Why are you here? Why? I don't know you, I'm not your friend and I certainly don't want to be your friend now. Why?
Frankly, you may be separated by flimsy MDF door panel, but it's a disgraceful invasion of personal space.
I have had countless potential random musing topics slam forehead-first into my conscience this week; surrounded as I was by a kind of full moon load of chaos and randomness.
Here is a sprinkling of what I came up with: people who wear high-waisted pants and are definitely not making a fashion statement. Equally nasty for either gender for a variety of reasons involving camels and dressing to a certain direction. Honey, your own spouse wouldn't want to know that kind of information, what makes you think I would?
How when you reverse your car, you just about give yourself whiplash checking as many directions as possible, and yet you still seem to see 100 new and different things ALL THE TIME. I do it all the time when I am backing out of my driveway - and that reversing scenery doesn't change! But I totally freak myself out and trick myself into believing that some truck that is travelling at faster than the speed of sound and is shaped like a tall pillar, to fit neatly into my blind spot, is zooming past me RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT. So I look left, right, three-quarters right, two-thirds left, one-fifth right, in my mirrors - and yet I still almost hit the tree on the other side of the road.
Humans need more eyes, it's that simple.
That makes me think of kids hearing a loud noise and then looking in that direction. Every single time, they look in the wrong direction first. Every time. Try it yourself, it is downright hilarious. Jay was sitting in his high chair the other day when a loud motorbike roared past the house, to his right. Instantly, he shit himself, whipped his head around to the left and then snapped it back to the right just a split second later. Haha! It's like the most violent, ridiculous double take - kid-style! Who are you? Ace Ventura?
Then there's an affliction I call karminsurancephobia. That's the gut-wrenching feeling you get when you make a purchase, any purchase seemingly these days, and there is an insurance policy up-sell attached. You know the one. For just 30extra bucks you can cover yourself against repairs or damage or whatever (supposedly).
And you just know that if you don't take out that policy, precisely that sort of damage will happen and those vicious AAMI karma gods will sink their teeth into your vulnerable white ass and sting your tail for eternity. So you are compelled by fear, karma and some stupidity to fork out your hard-earned...for an eventuality that is highly unlikely to happen.
And finally, do you ever have those days when you go shopping and you are browsing through the women's clothes, enjoying yourself, when all of a sudden you realise you are standing smack bang in the middle of the Size 26 - Size 34 racks. And you just slink out of there as fast as your-hopefully trim and hopefully-little legs will take you? It happened to me today. I had actually got to the point where I was flicking my fingers up and down the racks, in and out of the jumpers, lifting one or two off the rack and holding it up...wondering if "enormously oversize" was going to be a trend this winter. Uh...again? Then I realised. And I am sure everyone was looking at me, staring. Oh.
Problem was, I slinked and skirted and skated right on out of there and straight into petites.
All the Size 4s and 6s tried to chase me away, but they were way too weak.