Public washroom use as a woman

A somewhat definitive list of things I worry about, as a woman, while using a public washroom.

  • Am I going to pee myself before I get to the front of the line? Just breathe. Just keep breathing.
  • Wait, when was the last time this thing was cleaned?
  • I think I saw a silverfish.
  • While I salute your tenacity, you freak me out silverfish. You move like centipedes.
  • OK, now I feel creeped out because I remembered how centipedes move and that triggers the fear in my lizard brain.
  • When was the last time this toilet was cleaned?
  • I hope that’s just splashed up clean water on the toilet seat, not urine.
  • Is that a stranger’s pubic hair?
  • Yes. Yes it is.
  • How do I remove this stranger’s pubic hair without touching it?
  • Let’s try blowing at it, so it will float away.
  • Great, I just inhaled a bunch of bathroom poop air.
  • Whoever was in here before me really should have flushed twice.
  • Oh lord, what did that person have to eat? I think I’m going to pass out.
  • Try not to vomit.
  • Wait, is that drunk girl vomit on the seat?
  • Did this stall’s lock actually lock? I can’t tell, it’s so fidgety. Better do the rest of my business with one hand pushed up against the door so it won’t swing open at the most inopportune time.
  • How cold is the seat?
  • Way too cold. It’s like the arctic is cradling my behind.
  • I am now fully awake.
  • OK, but apparently after all this I don’t have to pee anymore?
  • I should probably be doing more kegel exercises as I grow older.
  • How much is too much when it comes to kegel exercises? Can you over kegel?
  • Welp. That was louder than I had hoped for.
  • How many people heard that? Is that my boss in the next stall?
  • From how things are going so far, I may have to finally admit that my body is getting too old to handle certain foods. Tragic moment. Shed a tear.
  • Crap, did my period start? Time to check for leaks on to clothing.
  • Remember that episode of Oprah where if you leave your purse or bag on the hook on the door, some thief will reach over and grab it?
  • Or is that if it’s sitting on the ground? I can’t remember. Now I’m having anxiety. Thanks Oprah.
  • Have we run out of milk and bread? Do I need to make a grocery store run later?
  • OK, but if you bring your bag into the washroom stall with you, that means you have to pick it up and bring it out before you wash your hands, so doesn’t that make your bag now gross and tainted? Doesn’t that also make your pants tainted too, since you had to pull them up before washing your hands? EVERYTHING IS TAINTED AND GROSS AND IT’S ALL SO GROSS AND WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE OF THE PLAGUE.
  • Wait. Is there toilet paper? What if there isn’t? Oh sure, there was the line-up and everyone was around for the extreme noises I made earlier, but now when I might actually need someone, they’re all gone.
  • I’m so alone.
  • So alone in this world.
  • Why have I wasted my life?
  • Oh thank God. There’s an extra roll tucked away in the corner.
  • Is the toilet paper any good, or will it be like sandpaper against my delicate behind?
  • Definitely sandpaper.
  • Really thin sandpaper that keeps breaking apart at the slightest of touch.
  • I have to keep using more and more of this one-ply travesty of a toilet paper to get things cleaned up, but at what point will it clog up the toilet? If that happens do I fess up or slink away in shame?
  • How do I flush this thing? Oh. It’s an automatic flusher, and I wasn’t ready yet and it flushed. There’s water everywhere. It sprayed everywhere. It went places. Places it had no business going.
  • OK, but now I want it to flush, and it isn’t automatically flushing?
  • What about the germs on the button and handle?
  • Let’s see if I can flush it with my foot.
  • This is how I trip and fall and break my head open on a toilet, isn’t it? This is where I’m going to be found dead, bleeding out on to the floor, with that #%*@ing silverfish bathing triumphantly in my blood.
  • I hope I managed to erase all traces of me being in that stall, so whoever comes next isn’t disgusted.
  • How does this soap dispenser work? There doesn’t seem to be any soap. We are out of soap. OH GOD THERE’S SOAP EVERYWHERE IT JUST KEEPS COMING AND WON’T STOP.
  • I hope I’m washing my hands long enough so that other people don’t think I’m a horrible human being.
  • I keep pulling on the paper towels but they aren’t detaching from each other and it’s just like one never-ending paper towel equivalent of the Human Centipede. This is so wasteful and I’m the cause of all deforestation, climate change and the end of humanity.
  • Wait, did Susan leave without washing her hands? DAMN YOU SUSAN I HATE YOU SUSAN YOU ARE SO GROSS.

Notably absent from the list: Transgender people.

(In other words take your transphobic fear-mongering and stuff it)

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Inspirational Astronomy Fails

I have a feeling that the people who put together these supposedly inspirational word-picture-things-for-all-to-bask-in-on-the-internet don’t know anything about astronomy. Or physics. Or science. Or how life works at all.


Nope. Pretty sure they’re just stars. Lots of gassy gassy stars. Farting and combusting into the universe. 02

Actually, the stars ARE pretty damn far away, not just seemingly so. The closest star being the Sun is some 150 million kilometers away from the earth, but this varies since the whole “going around the sun in an orbit” thing. Also, stars aren’t alive. They have no feelings. They couldn’t give a rat’s derriere concerning their proximity to other objects.


What? No. There’s a sky full of stars because of the big bang and such. Long before humanity existed and projected their ignorance upwards.  It has nothing to do with wishes.

Heck, even if I believed in God, even God wouldn’t be all “Hey, let’s put tons of stars up in the sky so people can wish on them.” Because God wants you to be praying to God to make stuff happen, not stars. That’s what makes the whole “God” thing a God thing.


Stars don’t come and go. Stars have been here long before you came around, and will be here long after you are gone. That’s why a thousand plus years after the ancient Greeks did their whole mythology-stuff, we’re still looking at constellations like Orion and Pegasus. I guess it would be an apt analogy if one of your friends had fuel in them to create nuclear fission and existed for millions of years. Wait … is one of your friends the Highlander? That would be badass.


Aside from the whole “stars don’t actually make dreams come true” issue, here’s an idea: Don’t count on a guy to make all your dreams come true. Don’t especially count on one guy. Make your own goddamn dreams come true. That’s not a guy nor star’s burden to bear.

06What? How does this even begin to make sense? Let’s go back to the whole “stars aren’t sentient beings” thing and reapply it to that huge rocky crater that is the moon. No feelings. Also, even if the moon were alive and could have feelings who the smurf are you to say it would be lonely? Maybe the moon is a loner, and is all like “Thank the FSM those stupid humans have finally left me alone after I was contaminated by those astronauts.” Or maybe it’d just be all “Hah. Humans are funny. Sup Jupiter?”


Gas. Mainly helium and hydrogen. How about instead of wondering you pick up a book or do a quick search online.

09Actually, they can and do. Because when there isn’t darkness? That’s a star shining. Our big star, known as the sun. Shining. On us all. Until it goes bye-bye in a few billion years or so.

08 The moon is approximately 380,490 km from earth. As previously mentioned, the closet star is the sun and is approximately 150 million km away. You won’t be floating amongst the stars at all if you miss the moon. You’ll just be frozen and dead, probably orbiting around the earth. How’s that for inspirational?

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My mom really likes polysporin

My mom really likes polysporin.

For those who aren’t in the know, polysporin is a brand of antibiotic ointment in Canada that’s put on wounds to help healing and prevent infection. For those in the U.S., it is the equivalent of Neosporin. Which sounds like Neo from the Matrix is some sort of fungus spore contaminating everything.


This is the best pun. Ever.

So to reiterate, my mom really likes polysporin.
Anytime we got a cut or scratch growing up, she’d tell us to go wash it out, put on polysporin and then put a bandaid on it.

Cat scratch? Polysporin. Scrape? Polysporin. Blister? Polysporin. Didn’t matter. By the time we were five, the polysporin was probably useless from overuse and the bacteria evolved into super-polysporin resistant monsters. I’m sure my brother and my immune system adapted in sync with it though, so we’re pretty both super powered mutants or something.


The five second rule is for wimps afraid of poisoning themselves because they haven’t become strong from polysporin.

Professor Xavier hasn’t been in contact with us yet, which is cool, we’ll just bide our time. He knows where to find us.

For the record, I hate polysporin.

Only because its cap doesn’t make sense due to the way my brain has been wired form decades of brushing my teeth way more times than I’ve ever needed polysporin. My brain is used to this sort of cap:


But no, that’s not how the polysporin cap works. It’s shape is backwards.


I have never successfully on the first attempt put the polysporin cap back on the tube the correct way. Instead the wrong end gets gooped and slimed. The cap is my sworn enemy.

But once again, despite my hatred of the gooey stuff that has given me super powers which means I have to hide my secret identity in fear of my enemies hurting the ones I love … my mom really likes polysporin.

It’s probably a good thing that she’s a librarian and not in the medical field. No matter how much training she’d have as a nurse or doctor, all I can think of in the worst case scenarios is her saying only one thing:


Put some polysporin on it.

(It’s okay though, doctors can’t give me mom hugs.)

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Cycle of suck – away from home extended edition


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Stuff that should be worn.

Hey dear people, it’s time for some real talk about fashion.

The following items are ones I wish were considered normal every day wear for adults.
And I mean all adults — male, female, whatever — Because I feel really really sad about how society is all “No dudes, you can’t wear that because manly manliness.”

tutuBecause they are light and fluffy and make me want to twirl and dance. And there’s nothing wrong with that, unless you live in a town like the one in Footloose. And Kevin Bacon sure did show that town. Tutus for ALL!

Superhero capes
capeWith your own logo. I don’t care what The Incredibles says, capes are always appropriate. Casual, comfy, but can also be dressed up for a special occasion. Also, in case of emergency I imagine that capes can be quite useful. Like for protecting oneself from bad weather, bandaging wounds, or impressing that cute person you’ve had an eye on with some mad cape twirling skills.

For those with Scottish blood in them to show off their heritage and pride. For those who aren’t, to allow for better air circulation and movement. Just, y’know, learn how to not sit with your legs wide open and we’ll all be good.

Because how awesome would it be to actually throw down the gauntlet when you need to fight? Not that I am advocating fisticuffs. Well, maybe a little.

Because they are fabulous. Don’t deny it. And when you get in a huff you can do that toss over the shoulder thing with a boa and stomp off in a way that just cannot be done when you don’t have one.

Jedi Robes, Star Trek Fleet uniforms, all various forms of cosplay, etc.
jediBecause badass. Obvs.

You’re probably wondering why, amongst all the things I’ve listed so far, colour is included. It doesn’t seem way out there like a few other items. But also consider how many people you know who just stick to black, white, navy, khaki, beige and more black. Pastels are pushing it when it comes to entering the realm of colour. And yes, a few brave folk will wear a hot pink dress, but not many.

I figure it’s some sort of both sociological and psychological thing, where people are told they shouldn’t stand out, and should minimize themselves, and feel ridiculously self conscious if they are in a colour that could attract attention. Especially women, especially women with plumpness to them because BLACK IS SLIMMING AND WE MUST HIDE HOW FAT AN ASS IS FROM THE WORLD. Or something.

Eff that noise. Life is too short to hide and not wear colour.


All the time. Everywhere. Snowstorms, black tie galas, weddings.

Extreme fascinators
Because who doesn’t want to wear a jaunty hat now and then? I consider it a travesty that fascinators don’t seem to appear on the scene except when us in North America decide something interesting is happening in England and then we’re all “dude, wtf is attached to their heads?

And hey, for you idiots who WANT to wear something interesting and unique, it’s a way better choice than being a racist and wearing what you think is some version of a First Nation headdress. Just sayin’.

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The Cycle of Suck


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Walls are super-ninjas

Look walls.
And door frames.
And cupboards.
And generally anything that has sharp pointy jabby corners.
Or … things that exist.


Look, I get that your time spent as an inanimate object is possibly dull and you’re probably just sick of all us “humans” flouncing and moving around freely. But does that mean you have to take it out on me?

I swear, walls, it’s like I’ve had a target painted on me from day one. Okay, maybe day 365 or whenever I started walking (I have no idea when this is. I would ask my parents by they can’t even seem to remember what my first word was, let alone when I started walking. Such is the second-born-child’s lot in life).

But ever since I gained mobility, you’ve played this awful little prank of just … jumping out in front of me.

I turn around and BAM! Face right in the wall. I try to walk through a door and the door frame decides to sneak a few inches sideways. Cupboard doors swing slightly left or right, depending on where they will connect with my head. Steps magically shift so I fall on my face while going up them.

Is this an Olympic-style game for all you random inanimate objects? Do you get extra points if you do it while I’m out in public? Or around snazzy people that I’m trying to impress?

It’s not like I don’t appreciate you walls. I do. You protect me from the awful elements of the Canadian winters, springs and all that. But so does the ceiling, and you don’t see the ceiling jumping down and attacking me. Most of the time. And let’s not get into that.

Yours truly,


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Caterpilling to success

imagesThere are three important lessons I have taken from the childhood literary classic, Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar:

ONE:  I just need to eat a lot and then have a nap and I will emerge a pretty butterfly

TWO: It doesn’t matter what sort of food I eat, or the nutritional value it holds, I will emerge a pretty butterfly.

THREE: Sure, food waste, pollution and proper disposal of garbage is an issue. And people around the world are starving — but I can nibble just one small hole through a piece of food and move on to the next piece of food. Why? BECAUSE I WILL EMERGE A PRETTY BUTTERFLY.



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Permanent stupidity.

The most important thing to do on a holiday is to maim oneself for life. So that’s what I did.


Eppur si muove” — “And yet it moves” Words puportedly said by the great Galileo after being forced to recant his theory of heliocentrism by the inquisition. Okay, sure … there’s  no actual proof these words came out of his mouth, but it’s the sentiment that matters:

neil_degrasse_tyson_quoteThe truth is the truth. You can cover it up with bullshit religious ideas, dumbass textbooks touting ridiculous unproven crap like (un)intelligent design, you can order torture and inquisitions, force people to recant, you can turn a country into The Handmaid’s Tale. That doesn’t make your words the truth. The earth moves (and many other things also happen) whether you believe it or not.

And, well … as a person who writes, draws, makes music, beads, crafts, bakes, sews and so on — I don’t think the second tattoo really needs an explanation. It was either that or “REMEMBER TO BREATHE!”

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The magical dream story of the shit witch

sleepingpegOnce upon a time I had a dream. I’m not talking about a metaphorical dream, a la Martin Luther King’s speech. I mean an actual dream where I was asleep and dreaming of things that weirdos like myself dream of.

And in this dream, a  bunch of friends and I were wandering around a ginormous museum. There were dinosaurs, castles, knights, swords, cannons — all the awesome stuff that makes museums awesome in ways that only awesome geeks can appreciate because historical geekiness is awesome. And I don’t think I fit the word “awesome” enough into this paragraph, so: awesome awesome awesome awesome.

And then, as sometimes happens, it turned into an “I have to pee” dreams.

A number of you know what I’m talking about. The dream where you have to pee and therefore have to find a toilet.  Which turns into an epic quest that a therapist would have a field day with analyzing.

Because first of all, there’s the issue of even finding one. Every where you look, there’s no toilet. Even when you think you’ve found one, you’ll open the door and it’s a tiny pit where a toilet used to be.

If you’re lucky, you finally find a toilet.

pottyExcept, well … it’s out in the middle of a huge room populated by numerous people. So you’d have to pull down your pants and do your business in front of everyone. Or you find a stall, and as soon as you sit down, boom! Walls gone. People there. Your ass hanging out for all to see.

Fun fact: I have gotten over this version of the dream because at some point in time I was just all “OH TO HELL WITH IT, PEOPLE! THIS IS MY ASS! THIS IS MY ASS ON THE CAN!

Or you do find a washroom, but the toilets are about as clean as a post-last call washroom at a cheap dance club.

But, great luck! In this particular dream I did find a washroom in the museum. The stalls were even clean! I may have frolicked and skipped between the stalls I was so happy I found them.

blahblahblahThen I saw her. A girl from my past who is/was an absolutely awful person. To encapsulate the extent of awful would take far too long, but to summarize: she was one of those “popular” people who thrived on drama. Often drama she created, all while proclaiming victimhood to her followers.

Even when she wasn’t instigating drama, she thrived on it, playing friend, listening to everyone’s ills, gobbling it up like it was her fuel. And while she portrayed this as being full of compassion for fellow people of the world, it just … wasn’t. There was just something rotten under the surface.

And this girl was totally hanging in my washroom dream. The moment she saw me, she ran over oh so excited, and greeted me with joy, as if I were her newest bestest best friend in the world. She invited me back to her place to hang out and talk and catch up on the good old days.

poopHer place was a small cottage, complete with greenery. Situated within the washroom.  In the middle of her “yard” was a cauldron, bubbling away, providing power and fuel for her house.

And then I noticed the washroom’s plumbing.All the lines were hooked up and led to this cauldron.

She was — as my dream brain dubbed — a shit witch. A person who takes your shit and then brews it for their own energy and uses.

I’m actually quite impressed with my dream brain for coming up with such a term.

My dream-self left and found my friends and ran away from the shit witch, all while laughing and having fun. She wasn’t impressed, and followed me outside trying to be friendly and talk.

So I turned to her, and at the top of my lungs bellowed “LEAVE. ME. ALONE!” She was left whimpering in the background of my dream, all sad and angry that she could not get my shit.

And when you think about it, it’s a good moral for either dreams or reality: Stay away from shit witches. Do not engage with shit witches. Tell shit witches to leave you alone. And then walk away and get the hell along with living your life.

Posted in advice, Facts, Random adventures, Ranting | 1 Comment