The Bathroom Follies

It’s been a while since a blog update was necessary. Not that it’s necessary now, but my 1.5 fans (we have lost half of Mr. Fluffer's support due to apnia related illness) *, have waited long enough. And they will probably have to wait longer for something that’s actually any good.

*To decode this, see previous blog posts

The Bathroom Follies:
Remember in elementary school when, inevitably there was the story of the kid who pooped on the floor, or peed his pants? In my case it was the Tale of the Vomit Chain in first grade, when we were all lined up for bathroom use in the hallway and one of my friends threw up in the line. This, of course, turned into three other kids all throwing up, one after the other, in sequence, down the hallway. Poor Mrs. G, had a lot of work to do that day.

The point is (if there is one) that stories of bathroom horror are generally relegated to elementary school, when seeing a surprise poopie on the floor is still socially acceptable.

Not so! My bathroom at work is one of the largest chamber of horrors in the city of Chicago. While it isn’t clear exactly who the culprit is, for there might be multiple, there is always some kind of surprise when you slip in the key and enter the 19th floor potty.

Horror #1: The floor around the urinal. Don’t ask me how it’s possible, but the floor around the one urinal in our floor’s bathroom is inevitably covered with… The stuff that should go in the urinal. Every. Single. Day. No matter what time – 8 am or 5 pm – there is some size of puddle under the porcelain receptacle. True, sometimes it is tiny and almost unnoticeable, but sometimes – this is disgusting, I apologize if the one and one-half of you reading this are squeamish – there is standing liquid under the urinal. Standing. Like measurable with a centimeter ruler. 

The most horrifying instance of this was one day about a month ago when my coworker came back into the office. 

“Just got done cleaning the bathroom! No puddle!” (Yes, the puddle is that famous among male coworkers.)

Seeing this as a golden (no pun intended) opportunity to relieve myself without getting my shoes wet, I rushed into the bathroom, when OH! To my horror… Somehow… In three minutes, a standing puddle of liquid had formed. WHY?! How?! The man we think is responsible for this is maybe 4’10” tall, 100 years old, and shuffles so slowly his bathroom breaks have to take 40 minutes a piece. How did he beat me?

Some hypotheses going around the office suggest it is the work of some sort of ghost, ala Moaning Myrtle from Harry Potter. Pissing Pete is not looked upon fondly.

Horror #2: I don’t bathe at work. I don’t take care of any personal hygiene efforts, except going to the restroom, and washing my hands afterward. Why then, great bearded man down the hall, do you feel the need to shave and trim your GIANT UGLY beard in the public restroom.

Yes, this man hacks and slashes at his face bush in the restroom. This is gross.

Even grosser is that he doesn’t. clean. It. Up. 

Some mornings I’ll go into the bathroom and the entire counter and sink will be littered with hair – as if some tiny piñata full of baby gremlins has been smashed and all their hair blasted all over the bathroom. 

You’re busy, bearded guy. Fine. But why can’t you clean up after yourself? Why must you make the rest of us wade through a hirsute forest when we wash our hands in the morning?

Horror #3: I think of myself as a good citizen of earth. When it doesn’t require any additional effort. 

This means that when I leave the bathroom, I turn off the lights. It saves energy, and it doesn’t make sense to have them on all the time.

One of the people on my floor took this to another level. I entered the bathroom the other day and it was in complete darkness. Thinking no one was in there…obviously… I flipped on the light. This illuminated the fact that there were a pair of orthopedic shoes under the stall.

“You ruined the mood!” an old voice cackled from behind the stall door.

“Ha.ha.ha.” Tedd awkwardly laughs as he backs out the door.

Although creepy, this scene also explains some of Horror #1. If everyone is peeing in the dark… No wonder we can’t hit the bulls eye.

Another Story about Hair (Or Lackthereof):
I have face warts. Yup, like warts on my face. At this point, I’m hoping that they have all gone away, but one can never be sure. The dermatologist suggested that my habit of making out with frogs cease, however, I don’t think this is a possibility. 

My dermatologist also suggested I stop shaving until they cleared up. I don’t know if you know this about me, but somehow I am a man with almost no secondary sex characteristics. My voice is a tenor trapped between 14-year old boy and Olympic female shot putter, and I can’t grow facial hair. My chest hair looks like gnats landed on my chest in a weird crop circle pattern. It’s not cool, or sexy, and doesn’t even offer the possibility of growing an ironic moustache. But all this is secondary to the fact that I have WARTS ON MY FACE.

(Side note: Once they had cleared up I brought this up with my mother. “Oh,” she said, “they really were warts. I thought they…were….you know…from other things.” … No Mom, I don’t have the Herp.)

At the beginning of my facial hair adventure, I was actually kind of excited. I hadn’t even attempted to grow stuff on my mouth since college because…welll….it doesn’t work. But for some reason, I was sure that this time I would have awesome, sexy, stubble hair… I don’t know why. I really don’t know.

So for six months I had to deal with this awful mess on my face. At no point was it even remotely attractive. For evidence, simply see my previous Facebook profile picture. Yes, in thumbnail form I look like a normal, fun twentysomething, but click on it to get it full size, and you’ll see a sparse forest of red, black, and blond hair that looks like I attacked a package of fuzzy Oreos and came out the loser. 

I could tell my true friends during this period by their reactions to the mess. My favorite was when someone was like, “it looks good!” No, dirty liar. It doesn’t. In no definition ever written for the word “good” would my facial-hair disaster apply. True friends would simply ask, “When are you getting rid of that?”

Ironically, at a certain point during this period I did get hit on more at bars. My favorite instance was seeing an old coworker who said, “Tedd, you look good.”

“Thanks,’ I replied.

“No. Like really good. Really. Good.”

What? 

Some suggested the rush of attention was that I no longer looked like I was sneaking into bars with my brother’s ID. With a rat’s nest of facial hair even I, apparently, could pass off as someone in their mid-twenties.

This story does have a happy ending, however. After six grueling months, I returned to the dermatologist wart free. 

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“I blame you for all the insults I have had during the past six months. Have you seen this facial hair?”

“It looks good!” she cried.

My dermatologist is not a true friend.

Another Underage Story:
Two of my friends from Chicago recently got married. We all drove out to the Chicago suburbs to celebrate the happy occasion. If ya’ll remember I’m gross, and slowly approaching X-tra Gross January 14th of 2013 (if the Mayans and their calendar of destruction don’t ruin it all for us). Most of my friends at this wedding were younger than me by 1-2 years or so.

After the wedding I went to the bar with one of my friends, who graduated from college a year ago, she’s 23. She walked up, ordered a drink from the open bar, and waited to the side.

I walk up.

“Son, how old are you?”
“27!” I shriek.
“Yeah, sure,” the guy says getting my rum and Coke.
“No, seriously!” I pulled out my ID and showed it to him. 
The guy just laughed and shook his head. “Okay, have fun.”

I was actually kind of pissed off. It’s kind of flattering being asked how old you are, to be honest, but this was an open bar at a wedding. No one should have been getting carded, especially if they look college-ish. Maybe that’s just me, but the next time I went up to a second bartender.

He looked me up and down. 

“ID?” he says.

WHAT?! Both of you? 

This will be glorious in my 30s, but right now being carded with your 23 year-old friends is kind of embarrassing. I’m supposed to be old and mature! Wise! My nephew turned 12 this year and I’m terrified of his oncoming puberty. The day he grows a beard, Uncle Tedd will throw on sackcloth and weep. 

The Combo:
Cheesie’s is this restaurant in Chicago that serves grilled cheese sandwiches. They are pretty good.

The other day my coworkers and I went in there before a Cubs game to get some grub and were met by a disheveled (read: high) twentysomething behind the counter. I was the first one ready to order, so I step up to the counter. 

“Hey.” Guy says.
I’ve been overspending recently, so my plan was to get the cheapest sandwich (4.50) and make it a COMBO (+3). 

Tedd, why did you capitalize Combo? And how did you know such a deal was available at Cheesie’s? 

Well, interrogative friend, I knew because the word COMBO is written in all caps, three feet high, right behind the cash register. My eyes are getting bad and I could still see the GIANT writing on the wall (DC reference! “Say My Name”!).

“Hey, I’ll have the Regular with the COMBO.”
“Regular…what?”
“I want it with the COMBO.”
“Yeah, man. Cool.”

*We stare at each other.”

“The combo – the fries and the drink,” I say.
“Oh fries and drink! Awesome man!” *sound of waaaayyyy to many buttons being hit* “Cool. You’re total is 12.50.”

I know tax in Chicago is high, but 4.50+3+astrotax should NOT = 11.50

The thing is… I had no desire to talk to this guy anymore. His eyes were blazed up and I had a feeling a manager was going to have to come out – refunds issued – general chaos ensuing should I ask for the actual combo. So I spent the extra three bucks.

And it wasn’t that good. Will I go back to Cheesie’s? Probably not. I definitely will not be ordering anything written in three foot high lettering on the wall.

That wraps it up, I think. Disappointed, interrogative friend?

Good.