Discovery

Unbeknownst to me but knownst to probably everyone else in the comics-reading universe, comic books and IBD go together like peanut butter and chocolate fudge. The length? Perfect for a bathroom interlude: engrossing enough to occupy/distract you from the business at hand, yet short enough so you don't develop hemorrhoids. The format? Nice and light, no knee/lap marks from a heavy spine. I can't believe it took me so long to figure this out.

Note to everyone else: you probably don't want to borrow any of my comic books.

Unrelatedly:

9 Reasons Publishers Should Stop Acting Like Libraries are the Enemy and Start Thanking Them

In case you can't tell from this video...

...some people in this country are shy about bidets.



Sounds interesting, though. I'm always happy to see more water-saving in toilets. Although it does present a economic conundrum: what's better, more water and less toilet paper or less water and more paper? I need new things to think about.

Just gonna step into the backyard office.

Feeling sad about your constant need for the bathroom? Go check this out (saw it on BB, as usual) and feel your spirits lifting:

Show Us Your Long Drop

In the aftermath of Christchurch's earthquake, people are dealing with the lack of general plumbing by constructing their own drop toilets. I think my favorite so far is the Out Door Beach Special. Or maybe Rob's Roost, hahaha. Way to go, NZ.

The well of souls

At my work bathroom, one of the toilets is covered by a riser seat.



A lot of employees avoid the stall with this toilet, myself included. I figure if you need it, you use it, and since the riser was put in presumably by request, I don't want to use it when someone else might need it. (The disabled stall in our bathroom is not subjected to this kind of deference; I see a lot of staff members who prefer to use that one for reasons I can't speculate on, since they can't see my health problem. They might hear it if we happen to enter the bathroom together, but that's another story.) During my first week back with my flare up, I made one of my sprints to the bathroom to find all the stalls occupied, except - yes, bingo - the riser toilet one. So I settled in and tried to do my business.

Observation #1: when you're having a flare with messy, bloody movements, having to sit and shit on one of these is like trying to shoot a fly with a machine gun. It might get the job done, but there's a lot of sprayin' collateral damage. Also I felt bad about making a mess, because it's a public toilet.

Observation #2: the echo. It's like pooping down a well!

Observation #3: the plastic is remarkably rigid. I like to get comfy on the toilet, especially if I'm going to be there for a while. This thing turned my butt wooden in under twenty seconds. I need one of these bad boys.

Observation #4: I must confess, I worried about having this moment:



Incidentally and somewhat relatedly, I was on the second floor of the library last week and had to duck in to go to the bathroom. Like the bathrooms on other floors, it was arranged with four regular stalls and one large one. The large one had the typical wheelchair placard on the door. I did my business, washed my hands, and stepped out again - and realized suddenly that not only was there no automatic opener button for the bathroom door, but I had pushed the door to get out. What a weird, thoughtless construction. Why put such simple, easily-avoided obstacles in front of that obligatory large stall?

Sometimes I worry about making it in time, or, if that point becomes moot and I need to run, I worry about looking like a fool to coworkers or strangers as I streak for the bathroom. But at least I can generally count on being able to get the door open in time.

Test Drive

We've been looking for a new apartment as our current one still smells like rotten previous-tenant food. There are other problems as well, such as the squirrel infestation (Mama squirrel cleans her fur on our balcony, they hiss when they scrabble for supremacy of the ceiling crawlspace) or the mysterious drippy substance that adorns each door frame, like a sticky-syrup Passover joke.

A. talks man-to-man with the landlords, as they are usually men, and I look for things to nitpick, like the half-full bucket sitting under the crack in the bedroom ceiling, or the fact that we have to beat the porch windows, flat palmed, to make them open.

"How close are we to the busline?" I ask. Landlord Beaky stares at me.
"You're close enough to walk to ____ campus," he says. "Why - I don't get it - why would you need to ride the bus? You can just walk through the park."
"Um. At night? No." I doubt if he's ever heard of a certain memoir related to the area, but that doesn't really matter. This has just been an exercise to get my gut going with nerves.
"Do you mind if I use the toilet?"
Landlord Beaky chuckles and gestures to the bathroom.

I have tried out four toilets so far. It's easier if I actually have something to do, because largely people seem to hide their bathroom reading material from potential tenants (unless it's a Gaiman poster story, of course) and sometimes the landlord doesn't like to stray far from the door. So it's best to sound realistic. I acclimate myself. I practice reaching to the sink. I waste a lot of tp.

One guy was hesitant. "I don't know. You really have to go?"
A. shot me a look. He may know and understand, but he also knows and understands.
"I think it may be an emergency," I confessed. "Sorry."

Atop the tank, next to a purple candle, sat a rumpled paperback copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

We have an appointment to sign the lease tomorrow.