Technology is in the Crapper

I like technology.

I’m an online shopper.

I am TiVo-dependent.

I text (therefore, I am).

I’ve heard tell that technology is good for business.  

I would argue that some business is best left behind,

and spared the upgrade of technological advancement.

Case in point: the automatic flushing toilet.  

 

I have to believe that I am not alone in my distaste for such an atrocity.

I take my bodily functions rather seriously.

I do not wish to eat before I’m hungry, nor do I

wish to wake before I am well rested.

In that same vain, I do not wish to have a toilet dictate appropriate time or conditions for personal waste removal.

 

Recently, I found myself held hostage in a workplace bathroom stall. So perplexed by proper use of “Rest Assured” paper toilet seat covers (as there are no visible instructions), I was flummoxed into a race against the clock between a prematurely flushing toilet and yours truly. Each attempt to secure the paper cover to the seat, with the (poorly perforated) flap safely detached and hanging from its center (a step you shouldn’t omit unless you are curious to know what it would feel like to piddle naked while sitting on a paper plate), resulted in untimely flushing and unwarranted theft and disposal of said seat cover before my fanny ever hit the seat.

This sequence of events was repeated until the white metal box was void of seat covers, and only after I noticed a sign that reads: “Please do not dispose of sanitary napkins or excessive amounts of paper in toilet.”

My understanding is that these newfangled flushers sense motion and thus respond accordingly.

Apparently, flipping the bird does not create enough motion to trigger waste removal.

And so, I resorted to my tried and true method of papering the seat with two minimalist torn sheets of toilet tissue, with one modification–I had to fool the toilet into believing its victim was safely seated in order to suspend flushing. Attempting to outwit a toilet seat is no easy task when my new wool trousers are dangling dangerously close to the bathroom floor. Keeping them suspended requires a spread-eagle-tippy-toe technique that might be a boon to calf muscles but hurts like a bitch after any length of time. I considered papering the seat after sitting, but that would have been counterproductive and hardly sanitary.

After one failed attempt, I developed the ‘hover-to-cover’ method of toilet seat paper protection. By squatting over the toilet seat as though I was about to sit, I was able to paper its surface with no unnecessary flushing. The only drawback to this method, is that you are essentially papering the seat backwards which lends itself to haphazard placement of toilet tissue.

At that point, if I wasn’t already so exhausted, I might have tried squatting over the seat facing the toilet, properly placing the paper, and then attempting a split-second-hopscotch-half-turn and landing seated, properly facing the door. I can only aspire to such calisthenics.

By the time I was safely seated, the urge to pee had passed, but I wasn’t about to give up what had now become ‘the safest seat in the house.’ As I waited, I pondered whether or not the men’s room was privy to the same folly in regards to flushing and papering. When I finally returned to my post (relieved and exhausted), I discreetly asked a male colleague about men’s room amenities. As it turns out, their facility is standing room only, save for one traditional commode equipped with an automatic flusher. However, there are no “Rest Assured” receptacles to speak of. In fact, he had no knowledge such a product exists; which begs the question, are we women the sole recipients of such complex toiletries simply because we are the smarter sex?

Perhaps that is fodder for another post, but I would argue that intelligence is hardly the issue where restroom amenities are concerned.

The bigger question to ask ourselves is this: Have we really become a culture too lazy, or too preoccupied to flush our own toilets? I dare suggest we have.

And if that’s the case, rest assured,

I’ll have the calf muscles to prove it.

 

This is my truth; Ingest.

–Michelle

My Truth; Ingest.

SOMETIMES THE TRUTH IS HARD TO SWALLOW. SOMETIMES OUR OWN TRUTHS AREN’T REALLY TRUTHS AT ALL. WHETHER FACT OR FICTION, THESE ARE MY TRUTHS. INGEST.

I Need a little Happy

As our entire community mourns the unexpected loss of our neighbor and friend, a forty-something, happily married, mom of four boys, I struggle to find some semblance of normalcy on my least favorite day of the week, Monday. 
Perhaps Monday (or any other day), should be my new favorite day, for the simple fact that I wake up. 
It beats the alternative, doesn’t it?
Grief is a funny thing.
Really, as funny as it ISN’T –it is.
It makes us reexamine our own shortcomings and forces us to appreciate, if only for a short while, those blessings we might well have misinterpreted as burdens just days before. 
The mundane chore, the seemingly dead-end job, and even that derailed friendship are seen in a new light of hopefulness.
And I have to ask myself, am I that naive?
Dare I believe that I might cheat death by simply loving more and living better?
I know the answer to that, just as you do, and so I hold strong to my faith and convince myself that even the smallest changes will point me in the right direction.
Self-renewal however, does little to quell the sadness of an untimely loss– precisely why I started my day today looking for a little happy. 

On any given day, I have a running mental list of all those tasks I should have completed, but didn’t.
Somehow, that list never seems to get any shorter.
Today, I completed one of those tasks.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my list.

I chose the happy task of sending my sister 
(newly relocated to Georgia) and her betrothed, 
a Best of Luck in Your New Home gift (though two weeks overdue).
I took the safe route and sent a gift any transplanted New Yorker would love–a box of bagels shipped overnight from an uber-popular Manhattan bakery. 
These are the real deal, complete with Manhattan price tag. What should have been an easy order however, turned into a phone-a-gift fiasco that I won’t soon forget.
Apparently, multi-grain bagels aren’t as popular as I expected where gift-giving is concerned. 
My request for “healthier” bagels (yes, I’m aware of the oxymoron) prompted redirection to management and a long enough hold time for me to compose a little ditty to be penned on the enclosed gift card.
At first, I questioned the political correctness of my sentiment, but my phone hostess, ‘Amaryllis,’ seemed unruffled as I recited my breakfast-napkin prose and so, for the sake of feel-good folly, I made no revisions.
Before I leave you with my jaunty rhyme, I need to explain that the happy part of this task wasn’t simply the joy of wishing my relocated sister a bright future, but also a celebration of the past; a past once dismissed as fond but hopeless memories.
Once high school sweethearts (followed by a twenty-two year hiatus), my sister and her betrothed have reconnected, recommitted, and seem more in love than they were in the days of tacky leisure suits and buffalo sandals. Their love story is the stuff great movies are made of. 
I would be hard pressed to find a more perfect couple, or one so deserving of a big dose of happy.

Perhaps their reunion might serve as a lesson for those of us who grieve.
Whether we grieve for a lost friend or a lost friendship, it is never too late to remain hopeful.
Though hopefulness cannot bring back our loved ones, or even mend fences, it is the catalyst for healing.

And I’m hopeful that hopefulness will put me on the fast track to happy.

This is My Truth;
Ingest.

–Michelle

*I know you’ve been waiting with bated breath-
Here’s the sentiment as it appeared on their gift card:

“To a shiksa and her goy
Who very soon will wed
We wish you decades of joy
And breakfasts in bed.”