My boss, two other attorneys on his “team” and I have all moved to a different floor in our building. This move has brought with it pros and cons. One major pro is the change in bathroom accommodations. Regular readers will recall my angst at the crappy ass bathroom I had to use and the poor etiquette that seemingly came with the facility. Hoping not to sound too presumptive and discriminatory, I feel obligated to elaborate that on the previous floor we were near the file room and copy center. So, rather than many high profile clients and top dollar attorneys passing in and out, I often shared the bathroom with regular joe personnel. Maybe they were the cause of utter nastiness, I don’t know. Maybe that’s being judgmental, but if people can’t piss right in a toilet, then judge away I will. Nasty wenches, whomever they might be and no matter how much they charge per hour.
What I do know, however, is that I love my new bathroom and its cleanliness and the clientele. Please understand my utter disgust and disregard for public expulsion and displays of anything human. That includes kissing in public and relieving myself. Needless to say, I would not be a good candidate for Survivor, Big Brother or Joe Millionaire.
Going to the bathroom in a bar is different. There are other people, there’s a tune on the juke box to drown out noise, there’s bar noise. In my new office bathroom it’s so still and quiet, a pin drop weighs 7.3 on the Richter Scale. Lives are changed. I hate hearing co-workers or even thinking of them in any form other than around a conference room table or separated by a desk. Never mind that I’ve seen my boss with food stuck in his teeth, drunker than a skunk, with his pants unzipped, topless, his pants pulled up to his thighs, and giving himself insulin shots in various places. Not all at once, mind you. No, that would require a hefty payoff and I would be sailing the high seas demanding caviar and a cedar shoe closet as I typed this.
When I went in the bathroom today to change clothes for tonight’s fundraising dinner, I wanted privacy. I like privacy. Instead I was met with two women, one of whom informed me they were having a “conference”. In the bathroom? I’m not seeing a man about a horse or anything (if you think I’m capable of that, you must be high); I’m changing from day to night with a switch of hosiery and removal of a shirt, but I wanted those two women to die. I thought horrible, catastrophic thoughts of them and their unborn children as they yammered on.
“Oh, you can buy a flap for your door and the cat will just go in and out.”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
“I think discussing pussy cats in the restroom at work is multi-tasking.”