Away from Home

I walk down crowded streets slowly -
weave my way between tourists and vendors and performance artists,
winding down avenue after street after block after
'what?' What am I after?
I am trapped in a 12 mile cage!
lonely like aching heart,
afraid like beating pulse,
homesick like 'why do I keep crying?'

I step onto the curb,
lunging over a litter-filled puddle,
and walk in the shadow of the faceless man in front of me.
He is in a hurry.
They are all in a hurry.
They are always in a big ol' hurry.

I maneuver my way through the throng to the side of a building.
Leaning against it's cold granite frame,
I close my eyes,
pop a Milk-Dud in my mouth,
and hear crickets chirping between the taxi horns.
I stand there until I see the leaves turning red and gold and brown
on the farm that rasied me,
tucked into the greenest rolling fields I've ever seen.
I let everyone pass by me,
peddling and dealing and hustling,
and I shut out the naked cowboy and the new york times and the m.t.a.,
close them down with a blink of an eye to re-focus my heart on home...
a beautiful Kentucky nook that waits for me -
waits for me to remember a slow-paced, easy-does-it,
'you will always be loved, come home',
Lifestyle.

Toilets - History and Usage - Then til Now

My younger sister is afraid of toilets. This, I find, is a very strange fear. Ever since she was a little girl, she's labeled her first experience with automatic flushers as a "traumatic" one (fearing that she would get sucked down into the great waste beyond).

Personally, I am a fan of these porcelain catch-alls. An automatic flusher is a great luxury! Look how far bathroom technology has come!

I've heard too many stories about my mom and dad not having in-door plumbing... I can't even fathom using the restroom outside! Imagine those wintry, wind whipping February nights! Imagine the cold, hard wood and the splinters! (I mean, who would you trust to pull a splinter from your rump?) I know that if I didn't have indoor plumbing, I would avoid fruit and fiber and when I felt the urge, I would probably hold it as long as possible til I got all cramped up or til I was sure that my bladder was about to explode.

My dad almost died in an outhouse so he, rather than my sister, has a reason to be afraid...

He was around seven years old. It was a nice summer day, after dinner, and Uncle Pete was about to start a little shooting practice. He had tacked his bulls-eye target on the wood before going inside to fetch his gun; meanwhile, my dad had to go. He settled in, his little feet not even reaching the floor. Uncle Pete came back outside, gun in hand, not thinking to check the john again. He cocked his weapon, took careful aim, and fired! (a high shot, luckily)

Dad said the bullet just whizzed right past him, scaring him off the bench seat and onto the floor, scurrying hands and knees and rear in the air, screaming for his young life!

Well, Dad has recovered. And as far as I know, he has embraced the invention of an indoor commode, although we don't talk about matters such as these. (It's not ladylike, lemme tell ya.) But Bobbie Jo? She's a little more dramatic than Dad. So, (and I hate to admit that there's one in my family) her fear has led her to become a Squatter.

Now me, I don't really like the restroom politics of Squatters - mainly referring to them in the realm of public restrooms. Typically, Squatters are a quite selfish sort in the stalls. Since they don't sit, they assume no one sits. Either that, or they think they have special urine - urine that we Sitters are lucky to land on or wipe off. I really really really get annoyed with sloppy Squatters.

Not saying that all Squatters are sloppy, but most. It is rare that a Squatter will:
a.) Lift the seat (Hey! They aren't using it!)
b.) Wipe off the seat (on which they always drip or spray)
No, they leave it for the imaginary toilet fairy - which eventually ends up being a Sitter or a janitor - NEITHER OF WHICH ARE PLEASED!

When I was in college, I saw a wonderful sign that I'd like to share with the Squatters of the world:

If you sprinkle,
when you tinkle,
be a sweetie,
wipe the seatie.

I'd also like to make all aware that the exterior of the gluteus maximus is made of the same skin as the arm, forehead, nape, etc. The... uh... undesirable areas do not touch the seat. Also, many stalls have paper seat covers and for those that don't, the same results can be reached with a couple of long pieces of toilet paper. If you're worried about your rear sitting where my rear sits, there are options besides spraying your urine everywhere - just wanted to clear that up.

Now, I understand that we all have our preferences. Some Squatters may simply just enjoy the sensation of working out those quads as they empty those bladders. Others may worry that at the end of a tough day, if they choose to Sit, they may never get back up. And Squatters of great esteem may not wish for their derriere to share the same porcelain as the more common rumps.

This is what's great about America! Squat if you want! Sit if you want! I just ask to walk into a stall with a urine free seat. Let's keep it in the bowl, ladies. We ask the same of our men, don't we?