“The hygiene police are ruining my life!” I grumbled to my husband, John, this morning after a sleepless night.
“According to the article I read at bedtime yesterday, it now takes seven minutes to produce two slices of cantaloupe: one to cut, and six to wash – the rind, the knife, your hands, the cutting board, the counter around the cutting board, and every innocuous item within a three foot perimeter.”
“And,” I thundered, “next time I cook a turkey, I’ll probably need to apply for a certificate from the health inspector!”
John knows better than to get between me and my eruptions. Especially when they’re based on a pamphlet that’s more than 10 years old.
“Apparently it’s no longer safe to let the bird defrost on the kitchen counter overnight before you roast it. Now you’ve got to allow three days for the thing to sit in the fridge – occupying two complete shelves – and half a day to hose down the kitchen with bleach, to kill lurking bacteria.”
“Even our toothbrushes are contaminated!” I was now in full sail. “Did you know that a flushing toilet can shoot rogue water droplets 18 inches around the bathroom? This afternoon you’re going to have to study our toilet’s trajectory and then based on your calculations, we’ll have to move all our personal hygiene equipment beyond that radius. If we lived in a small apartment, we’d need to keep our stuff in the car or a locker somewhere.”
“No kidding,” murmured John affably. He went back to fishing prunes out of his cereal.
My fury was actually aimed at the over-diligent hygiene police that conspicuously disregard the greatest health hazard confronting us today: the mini toilet stall. This is the tiny cubicle designed by misanthropically-motivated engineers for 6 year old anorexic Lilliputians. They also devised doors that open inward, making it impossible for the average woman to enter without sliding some piece of clothing through the unspeakable detritus that clings to public toilet seats.
These stalls are so small you can’t get in without climbing over the bowl. Backing in is the best solution; bent knees are inadvisable.
For hygiene-conscious foot-flushers the pivot (on the non-flushing leg) is recommended. Beware balance: one false move and you’re likely to be standing, submerged to the ankle in everything you were trying to get rid of.
Annoyingly, toilet manufacturers have invented insidious alternative contraptions like recessed mid-wall or tank-top knobs, to subvert foot-flushers. Unnatural acrobatics are required for a triumphant flush.
The only recourse is the traditional unhygienic manual flush: wrap layers of toilet paper around your hand and press down, ignoring what’s on the flusher that was formerly on your shoe – or someone else’s – and before that on the floor beside the toilet.
Mini stalls generally come equipped with toilet paper holders the size of inner tubes that dispense just one sheet before recoiling. The trick is to winkle out more without touching the edge of the germ-infested holder. Dexterity, four inch fingernails, and the thigh muscles of a musk ox are required.
“Personally, I take no chances!” My voice had now moved up an octave and I was starting my cadenza. “I keep an aerosol disinfectant in my purse for squirting on paper dispensers, seats, doors, handles, sinks, taps, and occasionally myself! To hell with the environment! Where are the hygiene police when we really need them?”
John, now immersed in the International Herald Tribune, looked up momentarily.
“I almost forgot,” he said, suppressing a rueful grin, “there was a message for you yesterday. Good news and bad. The bad news is that all your spraying is in breach of the Kyoto Accord. The good news is that they’re naming a hole in the ozone layer after you. And Al Gore says hello.”
“According to the article I read at bedtime yesterday, it now takes seven minutes to produce two slices of cantaloupe: one to cut, and six to wash – the rind, the knife, your hands, the cutting board, the counter around the cutting board, and every innocuous item within a three foot perimeter.”
“And,” I thundered, “next time I cook a turkey, I’ll probably need to apply for a certificate from the health inspector!”
John knows better than to get between me and my eruptions. Especially when they’re based on a pamphlet that’s more than 10 years old.
“Apparently it’s no longer safe to let the bird defrost on the kitchen counter overnight before you roast it. Now you’ve got to allow three days for the thing to sit in the fridge – occupying two complete shelves – and half a day to hose down the kitchen with bleach, to kill lurking bacteria.”
“Even our toothbrushes are contaminated!” I was now in full sail. “Did you know that a flushing toilet can shoot rogue water droplets 18 inches around the bathroom? This afternoon you’re going to have to study our toilet’s trajectory and then based on your calculations, we’ll have to move all our personal hygiene equipment beyond that radius. If we lived in a small apartment, we’d need to keep our stuff in the car or a locker somewhere.”
“No kidding,” murmured John affably. He went back to fishing prunes out of his cereal.
My fury was actually aimed at the over-diligent hygiene police that conspicuously disregard the greatest health hazard confronting us today: the mini toilet stall. This is the tiny cubicle designed by misanthropically-motivated engineers for 6 year old anorexic Lilliputians. They also devised doors that open inward, making it impossible for the average woman to enter without sliding some piece of clothing through the unspeakable detritus that clings to public toilet seats.
These stalls are so small you can’t get in without climbing over the bowl. Backing in is the best solution; bent knees are inadvisable.
For hygiene-conscious foot-flushers the pivot (on the non-flushing leg) is recommended. Beware balance: one false move and you’re likely to be standing, submerged to the ankle in everything you were trying to get rid of.
Annoyingly, toilet manufacturers have invented insidious alternative contraptions like recessed mid-wall or tank-top knobs, to subvert foot-flushers. Unnatural acrobatics are required for a triumphant flush.
The only recourse is the traditional unhygienic manual flush: wrap layers of toilet paper around your hand and press down, ignoring what’s on the flusher that was formerly on your shoe – or someone else’s – and before that on the floor beside the toilet.
Mini stalls generally come equipped with toilet paper holders the size of inner tubes that dispense just one sheet before recoiling. The trick is to winkle out more without touching the edge of the germ-infested holder. Dexterity, four inch fingernails, and the thigh muscles of a musk ox are required.
“Personally, I take no chances!” My voice had now moved up an octave and I was starting my cadenza. “I keep an aerosol disinfectant in my purse for squirting on paper dispensers, seats, doors, handles, sinks, taps, and occasionally myself! To hell with the environment! Where are the hygiene police when we really need them?”
John, now immersed in the International Herald Tribune, looked up momentarily.
“I almost forgot,” he said, suppressing a rueful grin, “there was a message for you yesterday. Good news and bad. The bad news is that all your spraying is in breach of the Kyoto Accord. The good news is that they’re naming a hole in the ozone layer after you. And Al Gore says hello.”
AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE: FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING
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OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
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OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.
