All posts by Janet Coburn

Cats, etc.: Stupid Cat Tricks

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All cats do stupid things from time to time. Some cats perform tricks.(1) But the Truly Stupid Cat Trick is a thing of awe and wonder. (You wonder how – or why – they do them.)

Let’s examine some cat tricks, of various varieties.(2) First there are…

Animal Imitations

Dan’s first cat, Matches, would fetch little wadded up pieces of paper, which soon became spitballs, or sometimes bat them back with his paws. It was eerily dog-like, except for the ping-pong.(3)

Matches would also ride in a car like a human or a dog, without going into hysterics and trying to attach himself to the driver’s face.

And he could imitate a bird. In that Dan could put him in a bird cage and hang him from the ceiling. Just like in the car, Matches would quietly and calmly look around, zen-like in his contemplation of the view. But I guess that was really more of a Stupid Human Trick.

Useful Tricks

Matches knew how to use door knobs. This was useful only to him, since Dan was trying to keep him out of certain rooms.

In addition to paper wads, Matches would fetch other cats. Dan would have Matches and Maggie out in the garden. When it was time to go in, he would say, “Go find Maggie.” Matches, naturally, would pretend he hadn’t heard and was just wandering around. But within a couple of minutes, he would stroll casually to whatever plant Maggie was lounging behind.

Stupid Tricks

Bijou crashed one of my parties by sauntering in, holding a tampon applicator in her mouth, looking for all the world like a tortie Groucho Marx. That was a conversation stopper.

Projectile drooling. ‘Nuff said? Thought so.

Truly Stupid Tricks

It takes a special sort of cat to perform a truly stupid trick. We have known such a cat.

Her name was Shaker, and she was a tuxedo cat of vast and lofty dignity. If you found a shed whisker, put it on her head and went “boop, boop, boop,” she was mortally offended.(4)

One day Dan and I were sitting on the sofa, doing something with toothpicks.(5) I had a small bundle of them in my hand. Shaker jumped on the couch and delicately plucked a single toothpick from the cluster with her teeth, then whipped her head around and flung it across the room. Then she did it again. And again. We never did figure out why.

Dignified cats are inscrutable. But she had us trained. Every now and then we’d get out the box, just to see her fling toothpicks again. And she’d always perform.

(1) Only when they want to, of course.
(2) Yes, I know that’s redundant. So sue me.
(3) When he was done playing, he would drop the repellent spitwad at Dan’s feet and dare him to pick it up and toss it again.
(4) We could actually see her disapproving of us. It only works for dignified cats.
(5) What were we doing with the toothpicks? Making canapės? Probably not. Building a model of the Eiffel Tower? Definitely not. Picking our teeth? Oh – you mean you don’t use a separate pick for every tooth?

Books, Etc.: But Where’s the Wonder?

books, language, literature, Uncategorized, , , , ,

It Hurts When I Poop!(1) That is the actual title of an actual children’s book, though not, I’m sorry to say, the sequel to the classic Everyone Poops.(2)

No, it is an instructive children’s book meant to help youngsters through the trauma of – I don’t know – toilet training? Constipation? Hemorrhoids? At any rate, some kind of fundamental difficulty.

This seems to be the way of children’s books these days. Take a look at your local bookstore (if you still have one) or the wares at Amazon. Book after book in the children’s section are of a genre “How to Get Through the Difficulty of X.” X can be nearly anything.

In particular, The Berenstain Bears seem to have a lot of difficulties. Their books include The Berenstain Bears…
…and the Bully
…Visit the Dentist
…Learn About Strangers
…and Too Much TV
…and Too Much Junk Food
…and Too Much Teasing
…and The Bad Dream
…and the Bad Habit
…to name but a few.

And while the Bears have a bad habit of eating too much junk food and then dread visiting the dentist, other children and anthropomorphized animals cope with still other plights:
Maggie Goes on a Diet
Wilma Jean the Worry Machine
Hooway for Wodney Wat (3)
Mean Jean Recess Queen
Lacey Walker, Non Stop Talker
Olivia Acts Out (4)
The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark

Still other books seem problematic. I haven’t read Don’t Squeal Unless it’s a Big Deal, but I wonder how they expect children to differentiate. What’s a “big deal” to a kid and to a grown-up can be quite far apart on the scale of secrets.

Then there are the really problematic books. Awful Library Books (5) has singled these out for their questionable topics and premises, unpleasant underlying assumptions, and creepy illustrations:

Don’t Make Me Go Back, Mommy: A child’s book about satanic ritual abuse (6)
For Your Own Good (foster care)
I Know The World’s Worst Secret (alcoholic mother)
Please Come Home: A child’s book about divorce (7)

These are not issues that can be made “all better” with a quick “real-life” scenario and a flimsy moral.

Granted, issue-oriented children’s books have important uses, but they’re not kid lit. Parents choose them because they think the lessons will be helpful. But such books lack the essential qualities of literature: engaging, complex characters; adventurous or truly touching plot lines; satisfying stories. In a word – imagination. Good children’s literature is fun.

Think about the Harry Potter books, for example. They contain underlying messages about friendship, loyalty, and bravery, as well as standing up to bullies, dealing with disappointment and grief, and defying prejudice. All without titles like Harry Potter and the Dead Godfather.

Children clamored for these books, obsessed about them, mentally dwelt in them. When was the last time you heard a child say, “Oh, Mommy, please, please, please buy me Olivia Acts Out“? How long a waiting list does the library have for Don’t Make Me Go Back, Mommy?

Think about Green Eggs and Ham – a simple book with a simple story that does not explicitly say, “Kids, try new foods. You might like them.” It does not portray an ordinary kid-just-like-you dealing with a problem. It captures the imagination with silliness, propels the minimalist plot along with kid-friendly repetition and rhyme, and reaches a satisfying conclusion. No wonder I checked it out at the bookmobile every single time I went.(8)

There is plenty of good children’s literature for all ages, from the classics (Treasure Island, Charlotte’s Web, Where the Wild Things Are) to more modern tales (Harold and the Purple Crayon, Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, Gregor the Overlander).

Michael Longcor said it in his song “Imagination”:

“Imagination is a friend to help you through a friendless land.
Imagination can take you to the stars and back again.
Imagination can make you more than what you thought you’d be.
It can raise a world from ashes. It can set the spirit free.” (9)

Children’s literature crafted with imagination can free the spirit in adults as well as children. It’s something we all need.

(1) No, it doesn’t, I’m glad to say.
(2) A book I always give to new parents of my acquaintance, along with Shel Silverstein’s Uncle Shelby’s ABZ Book.
(3) A book about rhotacism. Think Bawwy Kwipke. Or Rodney Rat. Now you’ve learned a new word. You’re welcome.
(4) Is it just me, or do a lot of these problem children seem to be girls?
(5) awfullibrarybooks.net
(6) No, really. awfullibrarybooks.net/satan-for-kids/
(7) Described by Awful Library Books as “Daddy left because you were bad.”
(8) It’s still my all-time favorite book. Ever.
(9) Michael Longcor http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Longcor, “Imagination,” Kitchen Junk Drawer. Available at http://www.firebirdarts.com/product_info.php?products_id=147

The Already Lost Generation

education, etc., government, social policy, , , , , , ,

We talk about banks that are too big to fail, and car companies, and such. We say that schools are failing, but really we think that schools are too big to fail – that if we take reform seriously and rebuild schools from the ground up – we’ll “lose a generation.” But we’ve already lost them.

When students drop out, we’ve lost them.

When students graduate and can barely read, we’ve lost them.

When students are still segregated by race, we’ve lost them.

When students must choose home learning over being bullied…

When female students routinely lose self-esteem and interest in math and science…

When students are valued more for athletics than academics…

When students learn to take tests instead of to think and question…

When students are denied accurate science and health lessons…

When young artists can’t learn to develop their talent…

When students with disabilities must have advocates and lawyers to make progress…

When students who do graduate can’t afford higher education…

When classes are so big that struggling students disappear in the crowd…

When technology is plentiful only in the wealthiest districts…

When school funding is dependent on location…

When school curriculum is dependent on location…

When school buildings are unfit to house students…

When new teachers are sent to the worst schools…

When teachers must use their own money for classroom supplies…

When teachers and students both cheat on tests…

When school boards and government ride their personal hobbyhorses…

When three states determine the whole nation’s textbook content…

We’ve already lost them.

We have failed the students more thoroughly than a grade on a report card ever can.

Dancing and Sex

etc., fun and games, funny things, humor, language, music, NSFW, , , , , , , ,

Everyone’s heard the joke about the fundamentalist who won’t have sex standing up because it looks too much like dancing. In fact sex and dancing have long been linked.

Remember Elvis on the Ed Sullivan Show? Well, neither do I,(1) but his appearance was famously broadcast with a picture showing him only from the waist up. His dancing and pelvic gyrations, along with the lustful rhythms of pop music, were sure, it was thought, to lead directly and immediately to teenage pregnancy.(2)

But there’s another connection between shaking your booty and doing the horizontal mambo. In popular songs, the word “dance” is often a code word for sex.(3) Or rather, the sex act.

That’s right. You can take almost any pop song that talks about dancing and substitute your favorite word for coitus.(4) I have here a modest list.

screw, boink, boff, shag, bonk, bang, fornicate with, do it, eff, copulate, hook up, get laid, get it on, bed, sleep with,(5) score, bone, nail, and the good old f-bomb (6)

Let’s try it, shall we?

“I Wanna Dance With Somebody Who Loves Me”(7) becomes “I Want to Screw With Somebody Who Loves Me.” “Dancing in the Dark” translates to “Fornicating in the Dark.”(8)

Some translations seem perfectly natural. for example, “Come Dancing” shifts easily and appropriately to “Come Boinking.” “All She Wants to Do Is Dance” becomes, quite understandably, “All She Wants to Do is Shag.”

Other combinations get a little weirder. “Boffing on the Ceiling” sounds strange and difficult, yet somehow tantalizing.(9) And “Save the Last Copulation for Me” is neither romantic nor sexy.

Of course the theory breaks down after a while. I’m pretty sure that “Dancing in the Streets” is surely not code for “Getting Laid in the Streets.” And “Land of 1000 Hookups” can’t possibly be right.

On the other hand, “Flashfuck: What a Feeling!” adds a whole new dimension to the song.

Here are a few more choice specimens:(10)

“Scoring With Myself”
“Safety Bonk”(11)
“I Can’t Stop Screwing”
“Private Boinker”
“Your Mama Don’t Fuck”(12)

On the other hand, I suppose the Beatles song would become “Why Don’t We Dance in the Road?” and Jimmy Buffett’s, “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Dance?” I doubt if either would have been a big hit, but I could be wrong. At least they could be played on Top 40 radio.

(1) Oh, come on. I’m not that old.
(2) Ah, the good ol’ days, when a set of earplugs was considered a prophylactic.
(3) A little code word game: thug = _______, Hitler = _______, gun = _______, haggis = _______.
(4) A shout-out to The Big Bang Theory. Nobody else says “coitus” anymore, not even sex researchers.
(5) Which shouldn’t even be on the list. If you’re sleeping, you’re doing it wrong. (See “do it,” above.)
(6) For those of cleanly mind, just replace all these words with “freak.” There is an app that “cleans up” sexy novels. One problem: Every reference to the sex act becomes “freak.” Men’s genitals are “groin” and women’s, “bottom.” This leads to some fascinating dialogue:
“Where shall I [freak] you, Victoria? Where do you want my [groin]?”
“I want it in . . . my [bottom].”
You can read more about it here: http://www.romancenovelnews.com/joomla/index.php?option=com_k2&view=item&id=1167:my-clean-reader-app-experience&Itemid=53,
(7) This was an early hit for Whitney Houston, back when she’d sing things like, “No matter what they take from me/they can’t take away my dignity.” Boy, was she ever wrong on that one.
(8) Please. “This gun’s for hire”? See #3, above.
(9) “Banging on the Ceiling” could go either way, as it were.
(10) Feel free to play along at home. Send me any really good ones. Or really bad ones.
(11) Should be the theme song for Planned Parenthood.
(12) Realistically, she had to have, at least once. Unless you’re adopted. Or cloned.

Cats, etc.: Love to Eat Them Mousies

cats, etc., family, funny things, humor, pets, , , , , , , ,

Kliban cat singing "Love to eat them mousies"
Copyright B. Kliban, 1975

Yes, they do. It’s nature’s way.

Apparently, it’s also nature’s way to give half a mouse to the one you love.(1) The cats, however, seem unable to decide which half is the good half.

Our cats have always been in favor of eating the back half and proudly presenting the front half. A neighbor’s cat did just the opposite, leaving a regimented little line of mouse butts in front of the garage door, a veritable mouse-ass buffet for . . . well, someone.

Many people’s reaction to this love offering is to scream, which must be mightily confusing to the cats. My husband tries to interrupt the process while it’s still at the gee-this-is-fun-to-play-with stage (2) and escort the erstwhile victim outside.(3)

The usual drill, though, (after the semi-obligatory scream) is to praise kitty as a mighty hunter, then quietly clean up the carcass (4) while the cat isn’t looking. She may expect you to eat the proffered half-mouse. Whether you do depends on how devoted you are to your cat and how much you like rodent tartare.

Justine Alford has a different theory on why you receive half-mice from your cat: “Given that female cats are most likely to bring back animal presents, the most likely explanation for this behavior is that they are trying to teach you the hunting skills that you clearly lack.”

This means that the cat is your mama and you are her baby. And she is thinking, “Come on, dimwit. Give it a try. I can catch these and I don’t even have opposable thumbs. How about you catch mice and give them to me for a change? Honestly, I don’t know how you manage to feed yourself!”

We may need the training after all, when we retire and live under the Third Street Bridge. But don’t tell the cats that. They’re smug enough already.

(1) Remember this tip when Sweetest Day rolls around. And isn’t Mother’s Day coming up?
(2) As opposed to the “aw-this-is-no-fun-since-it-quit-moving” stage.
(3) My husband also gets to escort spiders, snakes, moles, bats, birds, and other still-living catfood outside. He has definite Buddhist tendencies when it comes to home invaders of the non-human sort. Wasps that make it inside I insist that he kill. Stink bugs get trapped in pill bottles, batted under furniture by the cats, and forgotten.
(4) Our cat Django used to take his intended victims into the bathtub, where they had less room to maneuver. The crime scenes were also easier to clean up.

A Field Guide to Jerk Boys

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A gentleman is a man who, when he pees in the sink, takes the dishes out first.

A Jerk Boy, on the other hand, not only pees in the sink whether there are dishes there or not, but is proud of it, especially if the kitchen is nearer to the bed than the bathroom is.

A Jerk Boy will cheerfully fix your dishwasher or even offer to buy you a new one. Don’t let him do it. A lady accepts only countertop appliances. Then he leaves for two weeks in Chicago without telling you and expect you to welcome him back with hot-n-juicy sex.

If you do have a wonderful romp in bed, he made turn to you afterwards and say tenderly, “How did your butt get so big?” Or he will fart in bed and 30 seconds later ask you to marry him. (Don’t. Just don’t.)

Many JBs are unreconstructed sexists. Personally, I don’t mind that, despite my rabid commitment to feminism. At least with a Jerk Boy, you know where you stand. He won’t open doors, of course, but he also won’t tell you he supports your every ambition and then undercut you with a smile. If he does sandbag you, it will come with a pat on the ass. Also, he will not allow you to pay for the meal or the motel room. If he can’t afford a motel room, he will offer sex in the front seat of his truck. Go for it if you want to – and if you don’t mind getting Doritos crumbs in your underwear.

How can you spot a Jerk Boy? There are definite signs. One JB I know was dating two different women and, to be fair, invited one of them to a wedding and the other one to the reception. Only a Jerk Boy would think this is a good solution, one that won’t cause problems or be appreciated. He will look wide-eyed and innocent and say, “What? Why are you mad at me? At least I’m not playing favorites.” That perplexed look and the phrases “What did I do?” and “What did I say?” are dead giveaways of a Jerk Boy. So is “Sor-REE!” in the tone that says, “No, I’m not.” Also if you ask a question and they repeat it back to you.

Every man is a Jerk Boy at times. Even the most sensitive have their JB moments. One day I heard my husband say, out of the blue, “No, Mom, of course Janet doesn’t mind if you come to stay for two weeks at Christmas. Here, Janet, tell her you don’t mind” [hands me the phone].

By now you may have some questions.

Is Jerk-Boydom composed entirely of rednecks? The simple answer is no. My husband, for example, is from the Philly area. JB-hood is an equal opportunity state of mind, not a state of state. Some notably famous Jerk Boys include Bill Clinton, Hugh Grant, and, most likely, Henry VIII.

Are there equivalent Jerk-Girls? Probably. In fact, writing this may prove that I myself am one. But I leave that question for future sociologists to explore, after they’ve figured out the effects of poverty and violence, and the behavior of Furries.

Most women have, or have had, a Jerk Boy in their lives. Why do we keep them around? That’s a good question.

Jerk boys can be fun and sexy, when they’re not peeing in the sink, that is. They are decidedly uninhibited, positively boisterous, and maddeningly self-agenda-ed. You can enjoy them or ignore them. But whatever you do, don’t try to change them. That only increases the Jerkitude.

Proceed at your own risk.

 

What’s a Family? Not This.

etc., family, social policy, , , , , , ,

blood family

I believe this is true, but it’s not what I want to rant about today.

There are several types of families, depending on whom you ask. There are blood family, extended family, chosen family, and the family-that-dare-not-speak-its-name (at least in some circles). You can have quite a jolly time debating which exist and which are better than the others. I say family is as family does and leave it at that.

The one kind of family that I believe does not exist is the corporate family. It is a big, fat, self-serving, pants-on-fire lie. But it’s still very popular and swallowed whole by many.

It’s when a company or business tries to convince employees that it is really like a family.

They do this to create warm, fuzzy feelings and make the workers think that management has their back. While that may be true of some (mostly smaller) businesses, the majority of businesses simply want to make money for the minority; that is, for the owners, upper management, and shareholders.

Is that the way families work? Mom and Dad cutting the kids’ allowances and assigning more chores so that the parents can get a bonus or a vacation?

I didn’t think so.

And speaking of family types, the business-as-family model is almost invariably paternal and authoritarian. Papa knows best and issues the orders. Everyone else carries them out. Do real families like that exist? Of course. But it’s hardly a model that promotes self-esteem in anyone but the father. Imagine whst it does to minimum-wage workers.

We all know by now that, legally, officially, corporations are people, so it almost makes sense to say that a business can be a family. But think about it. Do you really want Father Wal-Mart or, God help us, Mother Koch, or even Cousin Trojan?

I have a very good family, thank you, made up of relatives, friends, loved ones, animals, and people who care for me and each other, with reciprocal having of each other’s back.

I don’t need another one.

Especially not a corporation that pretends to be a family.

Books, etc.: Quitter

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Don’t get me wrong. I can’t stop reading, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’ve read while walking down halls. I’ve read while getting blood drawn.(1) I’ve read under the blankets while sleeping on a sofa and nearly melted the Naugahyde. I’ve read when there was nothing to read but the label on a ketchup bottle.

I have always read books straight through to the end, too, no matter what. It seems wrong somehow not to finish a book that I’ve started.

Then came The Horror Novel.(2) The set-up started okay – it didn’t jump right into gore and heads in the microwave. It introduced the characters, like a good novel should. They were a couple, an architect and a stockbroker. They were extremely good-looking, seriously wealthy, and lived in a fine house with all the amenities. You were supposed to feel good about them and – well, horrified – when creepy things started happening to them.(3) Instead, I was rooting for the monster, whatever it was, to slaughter this ridiculous Ken and Barbie. And prevent them from reproducing, if at all possible. And tear down their marvelous house and set the rubble on fire.

I stopped reading, knowing that, in the end, the monster would be vanquished and I would be disappointed – nay, angry.

Now if a book makes me want to throw it against the wall, I abandon it.(4) I feel just a teensy bit guilty when I do, but I’m getting older and my time is limited. I can’t squander it on mediocre fiction or dry-as-dirt nonfiction.(5) There are so many books in the world that I’ll never get through all the ones I want to read.

Nowadays my to-read stack reaches the virtual ceiling and rivals my three floor-to-ceiling bookcases, plus the stacks in my closets, where most women keep shoes.

But at least now I can carry them around in my purse.

(1) I think they struck ink.
(2) Never my favorite genre anyway, unless it’s by Mira Grant.
(3) The first creepy thing was that they came home to an exquisite candlelight dinner that neither one of them had fixed. Oooh, yeah. Make me shudder.
(4) And not just because I use an e-reader and would be destroying my entire collection.
(5) Though I did keep around a biography of Prince Albert – the most boring book ever about the most boring man ever – in case I should run out of Ambien.

The Pajama Game (Without Doris Day)

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I’ve never been one for frilly lingerie. Lace itches. Rayon makes me break out. Satin spots if you drool. Cat claws make pulls in silk. And I don’t really see the point in nightwear that you put on with the intention of ripping off moments later.

Let me tell you about flannel.(1) Flannel is my friend. When I was in my late teens, my mother found a pattern for a nightgown that I just adored. Very simple. It covered everything, right down to the ground. It was perfect.

I asked her to make me one in every color of flannel she could find. Pale solid yellow. Blue and red paisley. Camouflage. My father wanted to know if I would like to buy some more fashionable pajamas before I went off to the college dorms. To his everlasting amusement, I replied, “I’ve got my flannel nightgowns.”(2)

I’ve gone through phases in nightwear – au naturel to undies and a t-shirt and now to real, authentic things one is supposed to sleep in.

In the winter this means I’m back to my old favorite flannel – not floor-length nightgowns this time, but “Sheldon pajamas.”(3) Two-piece pajama sets of plaid flannel. Although Sheldon would freak out. I don’t have the matching robe and slippers for each set and I sometimes mismatch tops and bottoms. Shopping tip: Men’s pjs usually cost less than women’s, so I guess technically you could say I cross-dress between the sheets. Not that anyone ever has.

But spring is here (though you wouldn’t know it to look out the windows), so away with the Sheldon flannels and back to the stores for nightshirts. I don’t want ones with risqué sayings(4) or Pokemon characters or ones that look like hospital johnnies, only with a backside(5). This limits my choices.

Once again I head to the men’s department to find XXXL Big & Tall men’s t-shirts. Now I have Captain America and Batman(6) nightshirts, and this new favorite:

Kittens...in...space!
Kittens…in…space!

I also have a CPAP mask, a neat accessory for this nightshirt at least, because it makes my breathing sound like Darth Vader. I am a veritable bedtime fashionista.

Except I sleep with my mouth open, which makes me drool. And one of my medications also makes me drool. A lot.

Good thing I’m not sleeping with anyone I’m trying to impress.

(1) Super bonus points if you get this reference.
(2) Whenever he told this story – and it was often – he delivered the final line in a drawn-out Beverly Hillbillies-style drawl. It peeved me, but I never said so. Until now.
(3) A TBBT reference, as my initial-happy friends would put it.
(4) I was permanently scarred as a young teen when my mother bought me Garfield underpants that said “I feel frisky.” I was mortally afraid I’d get hit by a bus and the ER personnel would have a field day.
(5) Unless it’s made of that soft, brushed cotton that feels like the spring version of flannel. Okay, I bought one. It even has a pocket, if very inconveniently placed.
(6) Why are comic book characters acceptable, but not Pokemon or, say, Care Bears? I actually like Batman and Captain America and am not embarrassed to be seen in them. By my husband, I mean. And anyone who looks in my study window, I guess. Yes, I spend 90 percent of my life in pajamas. That’s the joy of working at home. The pajamas, not the peepers.

What Were They Thinking? (Toilet Edition)

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I keep having these dreams. I understand they’re pretty common.(1) In them, I can never find a bathroom. If I do find one it’s unusable – disgustingly filthy, or with no doors or paper, or in the middle of a men’s locker room, or always in the next hall over, or a bucket, or just a circular pipe with no toilet on top of it.

I wake up thinking I’m going to wet the bed. (I haven’t. Yet.)

Unfortunately, I’ve encountered a fair number of potty nightmares in real life too.

Ohio’s Rest Stops
Ohio likes to think of itself as a northern sort of midwestern state – even fought for the Union in the Civil War.(2) But they were tragically far behind in embracing modern (non-outhouse) technology. They didn’t even require flush toilets and running water, not to mention cleanliness and sanitation until 1989. Literally. Legally.(3)

Think about it. From the time I was able to use the grown-up toilet until I was over 30, Ohio was not legally required to provide me with anything other than a latrine. Which often attract bees. Which I am phobic about.

Because of my superior bladder control, I was able to “hold it till we get to Grandma’s.”

Pay Toilets
Yes, children, you used to have to pay to piss.(4) At some point, someone realized this was a discriminatory practice and decided there must be a stall for those without pocket change. These were invariably the stuff of my nightmares.(5)

In fact, I include pay toilets in this stall-of-infamy recital so I can include a terrible joke. What is a synonym for a pay toilet? Johnny Cash.(6) I refuse to include the graffiti “poem,” because everyone knows it already. You don’t? Go ask your crazy aunt.

Kiddie Toilets for Grown-ups
A recent “innovation” I’ve noticed is for all public toilets to be the size of those in elementary schools. Is it a least-common-denominator thing?(7) A water-conserving measure? Purchases from all the schools that are closing? I don’t know.

What I do know is that for a person with aging knees (me), they are damnably hard to get up from. They make me think I am trapped in a verse of “Seven Old Ladies Were Locked in the Lavatory.”(8)

Which brings to the other toilet terror:

Squat Toilets
I was traveling in Croatia and stopped in Istria to see a Roman ruin. Feeling the call of nature, I asked for the facilities. When I found them, I found a stall with a hole in the ground. There was a helpful diagram of where to place your feet.

I used it of course. I had no choice by that point.(9)

And I realize that I’m being totally a first-world, ethnocentric, pampered, ugly-American tourist-type, and that millions of people every day (several times a day, really) use squat toilets and are grateful that they have them, as there are those who cannot avail themselves of even that luxury.

But what I want to know is:

Where do their grannies go?

When I was able to travel I was also able to stand up from a squatting position, but now it would take two healthy young lads to hoist me to the vertical. I’m fairly sure such restroom attendants are not available everywhere. I doubt even a handicapped-access bar would help me now. And I’m not even totally old and decrepit. If I make it to 90, I’ll be in real trouble.

Perhaps after years of practice, squatting grannies have exceptionally strong and supple knee joints. Or some secret knee-rejuvenating treatment that they are saving for themselves and their posterity.(10)

In the words of one of the most awful commercials for ass-wipe today, how in the hell can they “enjoy the go”? I can’t even enjoy dreaming anymore.

(1) I wish the hot-n-juicy variety of dreams were more common, but, sadly, they aren’t.
(2) The first one, I mean.
(3) Here’s the statute: The director of transportation shall develop and implement a program for improving the roadside rest area system along highways of the interstate system and the primary system. Each sanitary facility in the roadside rest area system on the interstate system and at selected locations on the primary system that is upgraded shall have potable water, water flush toilets, and wash basins equipped with running water for the use of the traveling public… Effective Date: 07-01-1989 (Emphasis added.)
(4) Or anything else.
(5) See above.
(6) My apologies to Mr. Cash and all his relatives and friends. I respect and admire him a lot. But that’s how the joke really goes.
(7) Which I don’t remember addressing until later in school.
(8) This was a favorite at Girl Scout camp. In addition to being scatological, it’s sexist and ageist, which would have probably been why we liked it, if any of those things other than scatology were a thing yet. Now there’s a stop-motion animated video. Not kidding. See for yourself. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQx1OcIlFqE
(9) Though I did have perhaps my only bout ever of penis envy.
(10) Sorry. Couldn’t help it.