skip to main |
skip to sidebar
As my colleague and I found ourselves walking in the same direction to the ladies room, I use my usual line “Are you following me?” It’s not as funny the 50th time around I discovered. So, we are talking, talking, standing oh so close to the toilets. At this point I should note that I am BUSTING to go. I am about 3 seconds away from doing that dance where you clench your legs together and start wobbling around like a spinning top. At that point, we decide that the conversation ends there and we continue with our business in private. Which brings me to the ultimate question. When does the chit chat end when you go to a public toilet?
In my effort to make sure that this blog is well researched and representative voice of the Joe Public (or Jane Public), I did a snap poll around the office about toilet etiquette. I had varied answers, not quite all consistent. There seems to be a few ‘types’ when it comes to the bathroom - that is the ‘no talkers’, the ‘low talkers’ and the ‘loud and proud talkers’.
First, the ‘no talkers’. This person will refuse to continue the chit chat beyond the cubicle door; however the conversation may well end at the entrance to the bathroom, you just never know. And that is what makes a ‘no talker’ hard to frequent the bathroom with. What if they leave you hanging? (well, your conversation that is!) Imagine the embarrassment of assuming that Jane Public and you are walking into the toilet at work. However, you don’t know that she is a ‘no talker’ and you, on the other hand, are a ‘loud and proud talker’. The conversation may fall to Jane Public with an innocent question, such as “What is on for the weekend?” Suddenly, all you hear is silence. Have you been snubbed? Have they not heard? Should you repeat yourself? (only to be snubbed again) Or, on the other hand, is the ‘no talker’ obliged to continue the chit chat, even if feeling uncomfortable?
Next, we have the ‘low talker’. The low talker has characteristics similar to the no talker, except that if you know you are venturing to the loo with a low talker, you choose the cubicle next to that person. But then, that brings up a whole other blog topic relating to personal space (another time peeps!)
Then finally, you have the ‘loud and proud talker’. This person has no boundaries when it comes to talking in the loos. The chit chat will continue whatever may be happening – even if you are busy concentrating on your business (so to speak!)
Who would have thought that the public toilet could raise so many social issues?
To the loo, ahoy!
If you haven’t ever heard me whinge about public transport, more specifically the trains, well you mustn’t listen in close enough. Because to tell you the truth I whinge about it a lot. Its not the trains per se, it’s the other passengers. Firstly, there is the Clockwork Missisa (funny dialect word I picked up – Daniel can’t supply a direct translation, but he tells me this lady on the train is definitely a Missisa!). So Clockwork Missisa, who catches the same train AM and PM and sits in the same seat, doesn’t like sharing that seat. It’s public transport love, the whole ‘public’ concept seems to be lost on her. So one day I dare to sit next to her on the empty seat. She looks at me – cranky eyebrows. Then as I settle in – she pinches me. Yes, pinches! She says “turn your earphones down’. Now, seeing that I could clearly hear her would suggest that my earphones weren’t actually that loud. So when I respond that I don’t think my podcast of First Tuesday Bookclub is what is offending her ears, she quickly stopped pinching me. So now Daniel and I sit near her and talk quite loudly when we see her on the train, just to annoy her. It’s a sick hobby of ours!
So, Missisa aside, we are on the train last Friday, running late for a dinner with close friends. It was Friday night, and like some of the other people on the train, we were also thinking about what we would wear and how we would look (that’s more for the ladies regarding make up). But then, I turn my head to the side, mostly to increase the volume of our conversation towards the Missisa and I spot another lady with a compact mirror in her hands, held up to look at her face. So I start thinking, hmm, good idea, maybe my make up will need a touch up prior to us racing off to dinner. So as she raises the black item to her face, I’m thinking, yep, more eyeliner. Then the black item continues past her eye and moves toward her eyebrows. Hmm, an eyebrow pencil, good luck with that on the train. Um no, it wasn’t an eyebrow pencil either. It was tweezers and she was plucking her eyebrows!! Is this is beyond the acceptability of social niceties?!!
Who’s the Missisa now?!!
OK, so you are all wondering, “What is snooty toilet paper?” Well, let me tell you there is a lot of snootiness associated with toilet paper these days. And I am not just referring to the extensive snobbiness of toilet paper varieties that stare at you in the supermarket aisle. “pick me, pick me” they call “I’m so special that your family will think you love them more because you bought my special toilet paper fanciness.” Does that make sense? Or have been hanging around the supermarket too long?
Not only is there toilet paper snobbery in the supermarket, there is such judgement in the most unbelievable places. Last week, whilst
enjoying a ladies afternoon tea at the Observatory Hotel with china teacups, silver teapots and pretentious sandwiches without the crust. Are crusts that offensive? I admit that I blame them for making my hair curly at age 12, I certainly don’t hold it against them.
So amongst the fine china and best manners, I note that the toilet paper in the bathroom has been folded to a point. Actually, on inspection, every stall had the toilet paper folded in this fashion. Is there a reason for this? Does it make it sturdier to tug at? Did the cleaners have nothing to do? Or is it just that ‘so exclusive’ thing to do at hotels? Well I am going to fold my toilet paper so that I, too, appear to be both of the fancy and the schmancy school of thought.
Now to the next debate. Scruncher or folder?
With all this social networking we all seem to be doing, I was feeling that my family wasn’t (with the exception of my sister-in-law, Michelle, who is far more technologically savvy than myself) using these mediums as much as they could. So, at the dinner table, I ask the question. (Reminiscent of my time as a four year old when I would make ‘family announcements’ at the dinner table, usually about something benign such as my imaginary friend and her 20 kids, or the newest Care Bear out on the market. So let us fast forward 25 years!) I ask the family, “by the way, people have been commenting on my blog. I’ve had good feedback. Who here is reading it regularly?”
Silence. Cicadas. More silence. “Anyone reading it, at all?”. Tumbleweed rolls through the dining room. Bruno clears his throat. I look around at everyone concentrating too hard on eating their pasta. I know that they can all eat pasta with their eyes closed and one hand behind their backs! I am mortified! No one of the flesh or the related blood is reading this blog (other than you Cet – I know). How upset I was! Not only did my sister refuse (until recently) to be my friend of facebook, but they had the indecency of not reading my blog! Huh! The excuses started to flow. “Oh we see you often, why do we need to read about it online?” Retort: I save my best material for the blog! “We don’t have time!” Retort (nose in air at this point) Huh!
Then Mum says “Eee, what’s a block?” I’ll leave it there...
Pre-emptive text is taking over our lives! There - statement made. I have put it out there. Not only is my mobile phone ganging up on my by deciding that my name is actually Smogma. How is Smogma actually a word? Is smogma an air-borne pollutant from an active volcano? If not, I beg to differ with my phone that Smogma should be a word before Romina.
So this brings me to my latest issue with my other
favourite piece of technology - the computer! So in one of the 1000 updates that my computer seems to download on a regular basis, it automatically updated my web browser and somehow I have this artificial intelligence Google browser which pre-empts my search questions. I admit, that up until now this alien intelligence has worked a treat. It all fell apart when I wanted to search a podcast which I download religiously and listen to on the train giggling and receiving strange looks from fellow travellers who think I am the strange one – um look in the mirror peeps! So I am searching the podcast ‘Is it just me?’ to see if they have an email address so I can email them and say how much I love the podcast. Unlike my latest plight with Channel 9 which has no such address for receiving ‘constructive criticism’ from their audience over their programming decisions! Huh! How dare they remove ‘Dance you ass off’ after one episode? I committed not just one hour to that show on the Tuesday night, but I was entranced enough to watch it again on the replay that following weekend. I can’t believe it didn’t rate ‘its ass off’!
Ok, sidetracked, back to my Google searching. So I 
type, in my frenetic typing which usually misspells everything, what I think is ‘Is it just me’ and with the fast pace of my fingers I just press enter and somehow my search from the pre-emptive text gods at Google is ‘is Lady Gaga a man?’ Hmmm???? Where did this go wrong? Look I am the first one to say that I think Lady Gaga needs to wear pants more often, but really? A man? I just didn’t pick it! But then I thought Courtney Act was a good looking woman!
So in my excessive amount of spare time, I feel that I over analyse things even more now. You know, why do we need to buy a fragrance for the water in our irons – who is in there that the stench (may I remind you it’s not a sewer) is totally unbearable. And what was Channel 10 thinking when it created the phrase ‘event bigness’ – bigness?? Maybe the next word can be bignessest??
This brings me to my newest issue with the consumer goods and that is, my friends, new ‘flavours’. Take cherry blossom body wash. When we were in Japan for cherry blossom season, I swear I thrust my nostrils into many a cherry blossom to determine how something so pretty doesn’t actually smell at all. And you know when I think back, I was the only lunatic trying to smell the cherry blossom! Everyone else was posed ridiculously with the cherry blossom trees. Spot the tourist! But if I purchase the cherry blossom body wash at the supermarket now, it smells so lovely - I feel a conspiracy!
So now my life has been turned upside down literally by my CUCUMBER deodorant. How did it take so many years for the R&D departments of these mogul deodorant companies to realise that this was a great idea?! However, somewhere between the ‘let’s turn the bottle upside down’ discussion and the finished product on the shelf, someone entertained the notion that a deodorant which smells like salad is a good idea. So I purchase this new (and improved – so the packaging tells me) fresh scented bottle of reassuring goodness. I try it out the next day, and at first whiff it is quite pleasant. Then throughout the day, I kept thinking I could smell this slightly wrong salad bar following me like the plague. As the day worn on I was beginning to feel a little paranoid that I had salad dressing, or worse still, pieces of salad stuck in my teeth/hair/shoes – who knows – I was irrational with the smell of salad. Only when I got on the train did that gorgeous other half say “Hey Rom – that salad you had for lunch is really lingering...”
I rest my case.
Today on my expeditions around Sydney I encountered a disproportionate number of stupid numberplates on cars on front of me. Usually these cars, with their driver’s elbow hanging out the window and wearing a black chesty bonds singlet (pardon me mate, it’s winter!), were ones which made a disproportionate amount of noise with respect to the lawn mower engine under the bonnet. Don’t deny it, we all know the types of cars we are talking about!
So I am happily travelling down Parramatta Road toward home, resisting the urge to detour via the Pho place (see earlier post about Pho – its all good now. No signs of insects in about 2 months!), when this little car scoots in front of me, swerving like he is test driving for The Fast and The Furious. Don’t delude yourself buddy, you look like a loser and your loud car is attracting attention to that fact. So not long after he swerves in front of me I catch a glimpse of his number plate. URUGLY. No mate, you’re ugly. What’s that about? Is the number plate a message for me? Am I the ugly one? Or is it supposed to be ironic, where the phrase is said back to him? Can someone who clearly demonstrates how the evolution theory works be that smart? It begs the question.
So the next numberplate I saw on my travels not three minutes later (What, do they travel in packs? Safety in numbers?) was GR8BAB. Is that supposed to be ‘Great Babe’? Or a tribute to Barbara Streisand (the original Bab’s – it’s far-fetched I know – especially as it was attached to a hotted up ride-on mower) or something to do with a kebab (as Daniel has suggested??). Whatever it may be, I guess I should now confess that I also have a personalised numberplate, but not the one I wanted. JINXME wasn’t available. He he he...
As my colleague and I found ourselves walking in the same direction to the ladies room, I use my usual line “Are you following me?” It’s not as funny the 50th time around I discovered. So, we are talking, talking, standing oh so close to the toilets. At this point I should note that I am BUSTING to go. I am about 3 seconds away from doing that dance where you clench your legs together and start wobbling around like a spinning top. At that point, we decide that the conversation ends there and we continue with our business in private. Which brings me to the ultimate question. When does the chit chat end when you go to a public toilet?
