The Real Poop

What is it about defecation that makes men think it’s an appropriate office reference?

Yes, we’re all biological beings, and I’m not particularly squeamish, but come on. They trumpet it around, virtually wearing a sandwich board that says “I’m on my way to take a dump.” Bruce, an affiliate whose sweat glands seem to work overtime, consistently walks by with his People magazine crammed into his armpit, winks and says “I’ll be in the library if anyone needs me.”

Nasty. I don’t want to know that.

You’d think, though, that the fairer sex would have a little more restraint. Don’t get me wrong – better out than in, I say. But somehow, at least twice a week, I walk into the bathroom on my floor and the same member of the janitorial staff is pooping in it. I know this because I am a creature of habit and I have a stall preference. Also, she can’t be any taller than 4’9”, and her feet don’t touch the floor when she’s on the throne. Now, this isn’t a class issue where I characterize hardworking people as the lumpen proletariat. However, as a custodial employee she has her pick of any bathroom on any floor, yet she consistently chooses my bathroom, my stall.

Why mine?

Our bathroom is nice, ‘tis true, but I used to work on the 25th floor, and that bathroom is nice, too. Good smelling soap, fluffy tissues, perfumed lotion, not to mention clean stalls, self-flushing toilets and lots of room for makeup application. 25 is nice, for sure. Not nice enough for her, I guess.

Yesterday, upon entering, I immediately hear a flush, then eerie silence after that. Turning the corner, I see My Door closed. Rats. I can tell it’s her because of the cart parked out front with the yellow cartoon sign depicting stick men slipping on freshly mopped floors. In the split second I decide to leave and come back once she's gone, I hear the stall lock slide open. Instead of enduring the indignity of getting caught slinking out of the ladies' room, I turn on the water and fiddle with the soap dispenser in a misguided attempt to appear casual.

What does she do? She comes out of the stall and totally mad dogs me.

She slams two rolls of toilet paper down on the counter and, glaring, unlocks the paper towel dispenser, banging the metal door against the wall to refill it. Sighing heavily as if I'd just stolen her parking space, she clangs the door shut again. I’m just washing my hands. I imagine the whistle of an airborne cardboard wrapped tampon careening toward my head and, rethinking my needs, get out while the getting’s good.

Escaping out from under the oppressive gaze of StinkEye, I see two men across the hallway, newspapers in hand, enter the men’s room. Envious, I suddenly understand the fixation. They get a little break, and can network or chat about sports or Republicans or tasseled cordovan loafers while catching up on a little lite reading and working up an appetite.

Huh. Sure beats working.