A Loo With a View

We were heading to a project opening near Debre Zeit, about an hour’s drive from Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia. John, then the Canadian ambassador, was going to examine the spanking new water pump Canada had donated, meet the local dignitaries, and demonstrate that Canadians were, in fact, their brothers’ keepers. I was going as loyal consort. And because it was an official trip, we had a driver and a four-wheel drive vehicle to get us over the almost non-existent roads.

It was Sunday and I had had two cups of coffee after church that morning at the Meet & Greet. This was a mistake, and I knew it ten minutes out of town, because the Ethiopian countryside, unlike some more highly developed countries, offers nothing in the way of public amenities. There are no service stations with locked bathrooms, no McDonald’s to sneak into, no roadside cafes, no port-a-poos. And worst of all, on this particular stretch of road, and in the middle of the dry season, no foliage. Not a tree, not a bush, not a shrub, no cactus or even long grass.

But I am accustomed to managing. Indeed, over the years I have lost a good deal of my middle-class bashfulness and am willing to make do under almost any circumstances. Generally on road trips I carry along a large golf umbrella that I take with me when I leave the car and head for a bush. It’s useful for mashing down twigs and spearing the occasional unsightly bits of …. well …. debris. Furthermore, trial and many errors have proven that with some dexterous manoeuvring and a bit of practice, I can artfully twirl this tool in almost any direction to get some privacy. Umbrellas have worked for me on many occasions: in the north of Ghana when, out of nowhere, two trucks loaded with standing, staring workmen suddenly bore down on me; and once, in Nigeria, when a camel train from north Africa suddenly hove into view.

But on this particular afternoon, on the road to Debre Zeit, there was nothing even remotely camouflaging to hide the bits the umbrella wouldn’t cover. I was in trouble. Desperate. Eventually, as I knew we would, we hit one pothole too many and I could stand it no longer.

“STOP!” I shrieked.

Now John’s official driver, Abraha, always knew what this cry meant: that within the next half minute he was to find me a congenial spot, in the shade, near a running stream, where no puff adders or cobras were likely to be lurking. But this was not Abraha, this was Gedamu the office driver, and he did as asked. He simply pulled over and stopped.

Grabbing my umbrella I scrambled frantically out of the car, prepared to make my Ethiopian debut if I had to. But to my utter amazement, there right in front of me were four gigantic and quite uncharacteristic boulders. Delighted, I tore off into a gap between the rocks and there found myself in a magnificent meadow. No tall foliage to protect me, but no livestock and best of all, no people either. Quickly, and out of habit, I snapped my umbrella into place, and made myself comfortable.

Not thirty seconds into my performance I was aware of a somewhat familiar but distant rumble. The sound quickly increased and from my vulnerable vantage point I could suddenly see the train from the small neighbouring country, Djibouti, moving quickly over my horizon. Faster and faster it came, with people and animals pouring out of the windows. I was in no position to move. My red and white striped umbrella was like a flashing beacon, and with the ambassadorial flag waving from the front of our parked car we were virtually advertising ownership of the bare bottom.

Feeling utterly disgraced, I eventually slunk back to the vehicle. The driver, who must surely have known I was heading onto the railway right-of-way and that the Addis-bound Djibouti train would be passing through momentarily, tried hard to stifle any visible emotion. John didn’t dare look even mildly amused, not while I had my umbrella up.

The following day, at lunch with European Union colleagues, I told them my shocking story. By evening, everyone in the diplomatic corps had heard it, along with various embellishments (“…. and the train actually slowed down when they saw her!”, “…. Imagine -- she was in trousers and not a skirt!”, “John tried to drag her back!” “…. Apparently she could hear the laughing for miles!”).

Three days later at a large reception with most of the diplomatic corps in attendance, Father Donald, the young American Catholic priest attached to the Vatican embassy, approached me looking distressed.

“Can I have a private word with you, Alena?” he asked.

“Sure, Donald,” I immediately replied, thinking he needed advice with a moral dilemma, “is something worrying you?”

“Well,” he drawled, lips trembling in a barely suppressed giggle, “I was on the train from Djibouti last Sunday.” Pause. “And I think I may have seen you.”

© Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com
alenaschram@gmail.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);  
OTHERWISE ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM.
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

TTFN (or Ta-Ta for Now)

Dear Readers

The opinionated old cow is moving on. No, not to the slaughterhouse, but to the greener pastures she’s been eyeing recently.

The cow has already had quite a run, circling the globe each week and – according to the blogspot tracker – winding up with a readership of over 17,000 in 58 countries (though neither she nor I knows a soul in 31 of them!). Such is the remarkable power of the internet.

She’s also appeared in the print version of the International Herald Tribune and the web version of the New York Times and the International Herald Tribune.

We’ve thoroughly enjoyed having a weekly platform for our rants, and been delighted with the hundreds of messages we’ve received in return.

Now new adventures beckon. Watch this space for less frequent – and shorter – moos.

Alena S.

P.S. Since nothing in cyberspace ever dies or disappears, you can still always click on www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com to re-read back columns.

Alena Schram

www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com

alenaschram@gmail.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX)
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Staying on My Good Side

When my provocative cousin, Ron, boorishly blurted out at a family Labour Day reunion, “I’d like to re-open the issue of Grandma’s pearl earrings”, he had no way of knowing he’d just kissed several thousand dollars goodbye.

That was the amount of money I’d notionally set aside for him from my future lottery winnings.

“But you’ve never won a thing in your life!” protested John, quite tactlessly, as I was hiding the disputed earrings in the dresser drawer, later that evening.

John was not, strictly speaking, right. In July 1983, at a village fete in England, I won a cake of dubious provenance: It was made entirely of industrial margarine, manufactured from the spittle off a North Sea oil rig. Its glistening icing – rigidly bonded overtop – had the viscosity of latex and the scent of Vaseline.

I looked for a tag with a list of its more practical applications, like: “Useful for greasing door hinges and car springs. Also a moderately-effective spermicidal agent and hair-straightening pomade”.

But the only slip of paper I could find with this so-called Citron Gateau, read: “Prepared in Olive T’s spotless kitchen.”

I’ve never won anything else.

Every week John asks me, rhetorically and exasperatingly, when I hand over $5 for a try at the Lotto Max jackpot, “Do you have any idea how small your chances of winning are when you buy a ticket?”

And every week, with equally tiresome monotony, I lob back, “And do you have any idea how much smaller my chances would be if I DIDN’T buy one?”

I don’t get it: whenever I’m in the queue at the local lottery kiosk, I seem to be behind some cardiganed gentleman who scuffles up to the counter with his walker, hands over a wad of tickets, listens as each one merits a winner’s bell, and then with pleasure crinkled on his face and money crumpled in his hand, scuffles off again.

So far that’s never happened to me. My ticket always elicits a mechanical voice, filled with joyful Schadenfreude, that blasts out “NO PRIZE, YOU NAÏVE MORON” in both of Canada’s official languages.

Nevertheless, on sleepless nights, when gambolling sheep fail to relax me, I count imaginary lottery jackpot wins instead, and mentally dole out the proceeds.

Moving 40 million virtual dollars around in the dark when you flunked Grade 10 Maths and still can’t reconcile a bank account, is harder than it sounds.

Yesterday morning around 3 a.m. after several gruelling hours spent dividing the fictional winnings equitably among offspring, charities, and other assorted worthies, I suddenly began to fret about the broader tax and legal implications.

I needed to get this right, and to do that I needed a calculator.

Leaning over noiselessly, I slid the iPad towards me and peeled back its flexi-cover.

“What the devil are you doing?” John slurred groggily, as the iPad’s light hit him squarely in the eyes.

“Looking after one or two last bequests,” I whispered, hoping to soothe him back to sleep.

“Last bequests?” he cried, and sat bolt upright in bed. “You mean you’re dying, and not just playing Solitaire?”

At 8 a.m. when the alarm went off, I was predictably cranky.

“Make that radioactive,” said John.

Cousin Ron couldn’t have chosen a worse time to call.

John lunged for the phone.

“She was up much of the night,” I heard him tell Ron, “and I think it’s safe to say she’s not her best this morning. Why not leave a message?”

“…………..No, no, she’s fine. Just busy sorting out $40 million in lottery winnings, and arguing about it with lawyers, accountants, money managers.”

Ron’s sudden piercing squawk bounced off the kitchen walls.

I snatched the receiver out of John’s hand.

Ron couldn’t have been sweeter. The earrings were, of course, mine. In fact, he added in a voice oozing slime, that was precisely what he’d meant when he’d raised the subject at the Labour Day event.

I was dubious.

“No, really,” he assured me, “Diana insists they stay with you. That’s what Grandma wanted.” Diana is Ron’s cello-shaped avaricious wife.

“You and I really need to talk, Ron,” I told him, suggestively.

“Oh yes,” he burbled, “and you’ll have to tell me about your fabulous good fortune!”

As I put down the phone, I couldn’t resist looking pointedly at John.

“So who says I never win anything?" I asked.


© Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);

OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM. 

ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

The Medium Really Is the Message

My neighbour, Dinah, doesn’t like to waste a centimetre of critical brain space on such banal details as names. She’s so busy solving the great mysteries of life – even when she’s rolling out pie pastry – that a poorly-timed and inconsiderate phone call can totally derail the profound thought she was having, thus robbing the world of something…..well…..just something, I guess.

Last week, boldly ignoring the potential loss to mankind, I phoned her, and began slowly and crisply with, “It’s Alena Schram.”

And she answered insufferably as always, “Oh……Eileen Schubert?” (or Eleanor Southam or even Ellen Swine).

This was one befuddlement too many for me. “For goodness’ sake!” I snapped, “You know perfectly well who I am!”

And guess what? She did.

Should have communicated by email, I thought belatedly. So much less contentious and annoying.

Emails are the best invention since the tampon, and they don’t clog up the septic system.

Right now I have 1014 resting in my Inbox and 3839 sweetly nestled in my Sent file. And before you ask, the answer is: yes, I do delete. Great gobs of messages every month. But the little fiends just keep re-colonizing.

I’m addicted to the medium: I love to crank up my computer in the morning and find 10 or 15 delicious emails waiting for me. And I love to pull the blanket up at night, perch the iPad on my knees, and send electronic hugs to friends that have been on my mind all day.

“Did you manage to get the chocolate finger painting out of the velvet chair?” I write. “Today’s grandchildren are so much more creative than their parents ever were.”

Or, “Remember the afternoon we found your parents’ sex manual behind the liquor cabinet and vowed never to marry if it meant having to deal with a man’s you-know-what?”

Or even, “I’m thinking about you and your problem with Janette. Dump her! No one needs a friend that’s gone toxic!”

These emails are my way of staying connected without actually having to hear every detail of a home renovation or a hip replacement or even a catastrophic holiday in Sardinia.

But there are some people that believe the email is a modern communications upstart that has lamentably replaced the handwritten letter. They write long, carefully constructed messages beginning with “My dear” and ending with “Yours affectionately” which they expect to be savoured and digested slowly and sacredly. They certainly don’t want an answer back in less time than it takes to power down their computers.

Yesterday I got the following email from a friend who adheres to the Jane Austen School of Letter Writing: “I just managed to get a long letter off to you,” it groused, “and there’s a reply already back in my Inbox. Why can’t you do the decent thing and wait six months before answering?”

As I lay in bed last night, iPad resting on my knees again, I pondered her retort. And I came up with a short protocol to deal with this sort of message. I call it Alena’s Short Protocol for Dealing with Such Messages:

1. Resist the temptation to write back and call her a bad name (examples of which I can’t actually spell out here in case this falls into the hands of minors). Do not enquire about her recent hysterectomy either. Leave the question of hormone deficiencies to her husband, whom she describes – in her email, at least – in very unflattering terms, bordering on the profane (examples likewise omitted: see above).

2. Do not, under any circumstances, point out that she has too much time on her hands, and that playing Bridge five times a week does not constitute living a full life. Do not indicate that Full Life Status also requires a few hands of Canasta, an evening of Euchre, and – and if she's a Canadian – two rounds of Crokinole, and one of Rummoli (non-Canadians please consult Google) added to her repertoire.

3. Wait three weeks and then write back. Instead of text, insert brief comments into the body of her letter, in red. Where she has described her surgery, write OH DEAR! And after the paragraph on her horrible husband, type WHAT A CAD! Add YOU MUST BE EXHAUSTED! NO WONDER YOU CAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT OF MORE INCOMING MESSAGES! following the section on the stresses of Bridge.

4. Send an email immediately with a subject line that reads: IGNORE PREVIOUS EMAIL WITH IMPORTANT NEWS just to upset her.

5. Then click on Address Book and delete her details. Empty the trash.


Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Public Displays of Affection: How much is too much?

I’ve told John that the next time we exit a plane, I want him to be clutching my hand.

I’ve watched American presidents, British prime ministers, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, and I know how inspiring it is to be seen leaving an aircraft hand in hand, grinning, and exchanging meaningful glances.

John reminded me that the staircases they put up for ordinary folk aren’t wide enough for such manoeuvres, and that to do it properly, we’d need to practice.

“You’d have to have your arm way above your head,” he warned, ever-willing, “and I’d have to bend over. And we’d need to be in perfect step.”

“By the way”, he asked just for clarification, “how did you plan to manage your wheelie, your blazer, and your bag from the Duty Free? And how would I catch your eye and wink?”

“Besides,” he added perceptively, “don’t they use ramps nowadays?”

Darn. He’s right. We’d look much more impressive and tender with our arms free, descending the Stairway of the Stars. Brad and Angelina would never emerge in front of their adoring fans through a ramp, like cattle at a rodeo.

I love some things about public intimacy. And lucky for me, thanks to the media, all intimacy is public these days.

Movie stars seem to thrive on it: I bet the minute Brad ruffles his little Fu Manchu goateeny, and puffs himself up to speak, Angelina calls Hello magazine and alerts them.

“Come quickly and bring a cameraman. Brad has put on his deep and impenetrable look. I think he may be about to say something that will shake the world!”

It’s all so different now. When we were young, you didn’t tell anyone a thing.

“Shhhhh!” was the watchword in homes where children could be listening. Some parents even spoke in a foreign language at such times (“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh!” with inflection), much to their children’s astonishment.

Now People magazine, Facebook, Oprah, reality TV, have led us to believe we live in tell-all times: repeat everything you hear, and if there’s something you don’t know, make it up. This is the message. And with any luck, you’ll go viral.

Much of it is innocuous and irrelevant. But the one area that’s now blatantly – and gobsmackingly – in the public domain, is sex.

It used to all be so subtle: a soft-focus moment, a sunset, a light turned off, curtains blowing in a gentle breeze, an orchestral sound. And right there you knew: sex was taking place.

Ozzie and Harriet, of course, never had sex – any more than the Queen or your parents did. Ozzie slept in a chaste bed next to Harriet’s, with a table between them to protect Harriet from any untoward advances he – her husband of at least 20 years – might make.

And she had a dressing gown lying across the foot of her bed, so she could nip to the loo in the middle of the night without her nightie exposing anything and embarrassing Ozzie.

Well, that’s all changed of course and sex has become purely recreational.

I know, I know, I sound mediaeval. I’m trying hard to adjust.

But why is it that every movie you see now has an obligatory copulation scene, full of huffing and heaving and gasping and general acrobatics, followed by a bum shot of the man getting up?

Usually the couple has just met in a bar or some other public place, said hello, and headed straight for a bed that’s curiously just around the corner.

Then, if neither of them has done anything too disgraceful or bizarre, and if upon sizing each other up, there’s still a bit of casual interest left, they might go to dinner together and exchange telephone numbers.

I recently asked my much younger friend, Kim, “Is all this stuff I’m seeing in the movies accurate?”

“Yup, pretty much so,” she replied unabashedly.

Which brings me back to my airplane ta-da moment. When you consider the alternatives, stepping out of a plane and grabbing your husband’s hand has several advantages: your hair stays tidy, you can’t get pregnant or pick up an STD, and you don’t need to see the chiropractor the next day.

I’d say for public intimacy, it can’t be beat.

Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com 

 

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX); 
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Carry on Doctor: But first......

We’re having our annual medicals next week and I’m trying to meditate away my anxiety.

John and I are both in great shape, with nothing to complain about. But the prospect of a check-up always makes us aware of Things That Could Go Wrong.

When we were younger, physicals took no time at all. You put an x beside all the items in the NO column – no serious illnesses; no operations; no palpitations or chest pain; no unusual bleeding – and the doctor examined your eyes, ears, throat, reflexes, and added a chest thump for good measure.

It’s different now. Our bodies have aged. Bits are shrivelling or falling off. And the doctor wants detailed information about bowels, bladders, breathing, sex life. Meanwhile, I want tips on memory retention.

Fortunately we have a wonderful GP. He’s the perfect age: halfway between adolescence and obsolescence (and, by the way, is it just my imagination or are medical schools now conferring degrees on 12 year olds?); and he’s prepared to sign an affidavit swearing he won’t retire until John and I are dead.

That’s because we’re the perfect medically-informed patients. John’s a doctor’s son – okay, full disclosure, his father was an obstetrician, but apart from a critical organ or two, what’s the difference? – and I like surfing the web, picking up nuggets of ailments, hoping to find a noteworthy but benign condition to call my own.

This on-line research also allows me to suggest diagnoses to the doctor, and to offer sage advice on prescriptions or tests he might like to send us for.

“What’s on your list today?” he usually asks as he enters the examining room. “And what have you decided we should do about it?”

He’s very appreciative of my para-medical knowledge, and is always prepared to make a good case for himself, should his professional opinion differ from mine.

Occasionally I’ll phone his assistant just to check on viruses and bacteria currently popular in our community. I like to be prepared.

“Hi, Katie. Anyone coming in complaining of headaches this week?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“How about upset tummies?”

“Nope.”

“Fever?”

“Nope.”

I move into more obscure territory: “Stiff necks? Breathing issues? Giddy spells? Tiny skin haemorrhages?”

“Nope,” says Katie, oath-bound to secrecy.

Nothing leaves me feeling healthier than these virtual visits to the clinic: it’s such a comfort to know I’m not exhibiting any symptoms of meningitis, malaria, or Ebola fever. Or even flu or food poisoning.

Sometimes I just radio ahead to be sure there’s nothing infectious lurking in the waiting room when I go to pick up the results of the tests I’ve asked for.

“Headaches? Upset tummies? Fever?”

“Nope, and before you ask, no stiff necks, breathing issues, giddy spells or tiny skin haemorrhages either. I think it’s safe to show up today,” sighs Katie with what I take to be empathy.

Let me quickly assure you: I’m not a hypochondriac. In fact, I radiate good health.

Not all my friends are so lucky. And what’s more, they want to tell you why. I used to allow five minutes of health-related conversation at our dinner parties. Now I’ve stretched it to ten. Anything more and there’s a chance we’ll all be subjected to the grisly details of entire procedures – sutures, drips, bedpans.

Some of us contract symptoms just from hearing about them. I need only get a whiff of a lump or lesion or bad back or sleeplessness and, by golly, the next day I feel a twinge.

That twinge inevitably leads to more energetic on-line investigation and before you know it, I’m facing the inescapable: death. Whether from sunstroke, a nosebleed, or haemorrhoids.

Yet somewhere between the Mayo Clinic website and YouAskedaQuack.com, I’ve also developed excellent diagnostic skills which I’m only too happy to share with medical professionals.

So wish me luck for my medical next week. And pray for my doctor.

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDY.HOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.

Size Matters

“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.”

 AN EPHRONESQUE OBSERVATION OF LIFE:  FROM THE PERILS OF FACEBOOK, THE ANNOYING TENDENCIES OF HUSBANDS WHO CO-SHOP, AND THE DEFECTIVE REARING OF GRANDCHILDREN, TO SPORTS CARS FOR THE MENOPAUSAL, BRAS THAT WINCH, AND CHIN HAIRS WITH MINDS OF THEIR OWN.

TO PURCHASE A PAPERBACK IN KINGSTON, VISIT NOVEL IDEA;

AND IN OTTAWA, TRY BOOKS ON BEECHWOOD ($20 + TAX);
OTHERWISE, ORDER FROM WWW.COWDYHOUSE.COM
ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK FROM THE USUAL SOURCES.