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This doesn’t seem well planned…

8 Apr

In the O’Hare airport bathroom this week I encountered this sign:

Does anything about this strike you as odd?

How about the fact that it’s written in braille? Now, I might not be visually impaired, but I think it’s safe to assume that a blind person isn’t going to walk into a public restroom stall and start running her hands over every surface, looking for a plaque that tells her how the toilet works.

Once I processed that image, I thought about the alternative: imagine the poor person who comes in and blindly sits on this toilet without knowing the odd mechanics involved with this toilet seat.

First, it feels like it’s lined with plastic baggies.

Second, it’s quite likely that it will start moving while the person is sitting on it, since it’s triggered by a motion sensor.

I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of experience psychologists are talking about when they use phrases like “emotionally scarred.”

Now that’ve had a chance to think through it, I hope that the braille on that sign isn’t simply repeating the printed instructions that people can see. Instead, when the toilet seat rotates a seated blind person around it and she sticks out her hands for balance and finds this sign, I hope it says:  You might be disoriented, but at least you’re not sitting in someone else’s pee.

Or maybe even: Carnival ride is over. Please dismount and deposit a nickel in the bin on your right.

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Observation: Now I know where this comes from.

24 Jan

This afternoon, assessing the mug options in our office kitchen and noting that almost all of them had lipstick marks around their rims, I found myself reaching into the dishwasher to retrieve my dirty mug from earlier in the day.

About that time, a phrase flashed through my brain that had never been so true:

“The devil you know is better
than the devil you don’t.”

And I also realized an even greater truth: Satan lives in the office kitchen.

Just take one look at the communal microwave.

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I didn’t expect to leave part of myself in that room.

9 Nov

This year I set-up a healthcare Flex Spending Account. I didn’t put much in it, but still, it was a pretty healthy year for me so I have a balance of $300 that threatens to disappear come January if I don’t use it.

I tell you that by way of explaining why I was at a dermatologist’s office this afternoon for the first time in my adult life. Apparently it’s on the list of annual inspections that adults over 35 should do, and since I am just sitting on a pile of money I can’t touch, I figured a bit of preventative care would be a good start.

As I sat in the waiting room (for a full hour, which is a different story), I noticed something: every patient walking out of the treatment area had at least one (and as many as six) circular bandaids affixed to his/her face. The first one I saw, I thought, “Wonder what she had done?” The second one, I was like, “Mole, mole mole…” a la Austin Powers. But by the third one, I was thinking we had a scalpel-happy doctor waiting on the other side of the door.

Turns out I was right. After a head-to-toe inspection (including a glance at my bikini  line – REALLY? – do people even GET moles there?) the doctor uttered the words, “I just want to do a biopsy on this one…” and the next thing I knew, I was on my stomach having a small and flat (but apparently dark) mole completely sliced off my back.

Say what?! The doctor left and her assistant came in to dress the wound. He looked to be an African American guy in his early 40s and was very friendly. “All right! You’re not even bleeding. Good stuff!” he informed me, rubbing his hands together.

“Apparently I’m awesome,” I told him, eyeing the mole formerly known as “mine,” which was now suspended in a sealed container of liquid.

He stopped and looked at me. “Women ARE awesome. Seriously. It’s the men that are a pain, always wanting to know how much something is gonna hurt or passing out when they see the needle. Big babies.”

Right on. I should’ve asked for his name so I could quote him on that.

When I walked out through the waiting room, I could feel all eyes on me. I wasn’t sure if I should run around and high-five everyone since I didn’t sport a bandaid on my face, or if I should turn around and lift my shirt to show everyone the bandage on my back so they’d know I wasn’t a pharmaceutical rep.

I wish I had been more prepared. Next week my friend Margaret is going. I’m going to send some fancy kids’ bandaids with her and recommend that she stop in the bathroom and put at least ten on her face before walking through the waiting room. Because the only thing more terrifying than a doctor who’s a cutter, it’s a cutter who loves Hello Kitty.

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Sure, you’ve heard of a Dutch Oven.

20 Oct

Wait. This *doesn't* scream "yoga" to you?

Remember that tubby kid in in sixth grade gym class who accidentally farted when the class did sit-ups?

Yep. Well, I’m here to tell you: he’s now 45-years-old and occupied the mat next to me at yoga tonight.

We started the class by warming up with some toe touches – and I heard him fart. I wish I was more mature, but instead, I snuck a peek around the room, trying to make eye contact so I could lift my eyebrows with a “did-you-hear-that-shit?” kind of look on my face. Alas, the other women were more mature.

Miraculously, I held it together. (Perhaps because no one was encouraging me to behave like I was ten.)

Continue reading →

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Suggestion: Please eat off a plate. Not off your baby.

28 Jul

At Whole Foods tonight, I was about to help myself to a chunk of gruyere, until I saw a toddler break free of his dad, run to the cheese station, stick his hands above his head and wildly jam them in the opening of the cheese stand feeling for any pieces of cheese he could grab.

At that point, I kind of threw up in my mouth. Needless to say, I passed on the gruyere.

Something about babies’ and toddlers’ hands and mouths disgust me. Maybe it’s because I’m completely lacking a maternal instinct, or maybe it’s because – as often as not – these parts of kids are coated with some unidentifiable greenish-yellow mucus. Call me crazy, but I would rather eat a grape off my toilet seat than let a child hold it before putting it in my mouth.

Perhaps one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever witnessed is this move: Mother is spoon-feeding her child… Food misses kid’s mouth and ends up all around it… Mother cleans up face by collecting the puree in a spoon – then eats it herself… ACK!

And that’s why I don’t have babies: I would be a non-stop puking machine. Then again, I might actually stand a chance of losing the baby weight.

No. Don’t worry: I will not reproduce.

You’re welcome.

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