|That mess on the floor? A rudely discarded paper seat cover! I can't explain the toilet paper roll. No, there aren't any bored cats roaming around the workplace. (Full disclosure: this was taken at my previous job. But still.)|
Oh, yeah? Well I am plenty hygenic, damnit, and I also am very mindful of waste. Not *that* kind: the paper kind. Those flimsy paper things seem to me like a big fat waste of resources, and I think I read somewhere once that they don't really accomplish anything in the way of protecting you from germs. The real gross stuff in bathrooms is lurking on the door handles and the toilet flusher, and I'll have you know I always flush with my foot. So THERE! I was all indignant in my stall, imagining what Ms. Paper-Rustler was thinking about me as she primly sat on her paper-covered toilet seat, making dainty little crinkling noises.
I hurried out of the stall and raced to the sink, trying to avoid that Awkard Moment where the two of us would meet at the sink at the same time. Even were it not for the awkwardness I'd conjured up surrounding the seat cover, there's always a little weirndess at the sink. Do you acknowlege each other? In our case, being on opposite sides of the Great Paper Seat-Cover divide, I thought not. She probably was thinking I was disgusting, and I was thinking I'd like to get myself out of the bathroom before I was forced to meet her withering expression in the mirror.
I noisily washed my hands (see: "I am plenty hygenic, damnit," above) and bolted, recycling the paper towel I'd dried my hands with to open the door (see: "gross stuff lurking on door handles" and "I am very mindful of waste," above).
A quick blog maintenance & responsiveness to others' blogs note: I've been out of commission for a couple of weeks, owing to a tremendous bout of fatigue. Not sure if it's the MS plus the horrific heat, or a terminal illess (or all three), but it's kept me largely inert -- like a dirty, scratchy sack of old potatoes with those white things sprouting out of them. Sometimes just the idea of getting on the computer makes me tired. So, really, it's not you, it's me! Hang in there with me, unless my old-sprouty potato description, plus the fact that I don't use paper toilet seat covers, means you don't want to be my friend anymore.