Autoflush: When Innovation Isn't Good

So what is the deal with automatic toilets?

Welcome to the world of the Thinking Blogger, y'all.

You all know my department has temporarily relocated during the sprinkler installation so as to avoid death by asbestos 10 or 20 years from now. The new building has autoflush toilets. You know, with the little infrared beam that decides when you're sitting and when you're done.

(Side note: why isn't infrared spelled "infra-red"?)

Autoflush in my building needs to be recalibrated. That shit's just not working. Either that or autoflush is fucking with me.

At first, I was cool with the new water closet digs. Check out how the seat curves up at the rear, cradling your ass like an old recliner. Nice. So nice, in fact, that I was testing it out, leaning forward and back a little, appreciating the secure feel of the seat, when

FLLUUUSH!

The toilet autosprayed my ass. Literally. Damn it!

Fine. Lesson learned: no leaning around, no testing out the seating arrangements.  (Oh please. Like you've never done that.)  As long as I kept reasonably still on the porcelain throne, things would be fine.

Wrong.

Next trip, I go in, grab one of those paper seat covers -- or as my dad calls them, ass gaskets -- because this is a public toilet, after all. Punch out the center and lay said ass gasket down on the seat. Unbuckle belt, unhook pants, pull down, turn around to sit dow--------

FLLUUUSH!

Shit. Now I'm doing the bare-assed crouch maneuver over this power-flushing, porcelain vessel, the ol' bladder thinks it's time to let loose the stream, and I can't sit down because the toilet has autosucked my seat cover into its watery depths.

Shit. Practice some kegels, straighten up, awkwardly turn back around whilst keeping my knees apart so as to keep my pants up off the tiled germfest under my feet, grab another ass gasket, and repeat. This time, I back way up, so the autoflusher won't read me as "sitting" already.

It worked! I'm sitting, ass separated from the petri dish of a toilet seat by my properly placed prophylactic paper. Relief.  Except ... oh, no. This is turning out to be a Number Two occasion. Fine. Not the most convenient time and place, but whatever.  Like it's never happened to you.

So, I'm done. As the Airborne Rangers say, "Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door ..." I try to leave (on the count of four), but the autoflush has not kicked in.

I wait.  I wave my hands around. Do a couple of squats.

Nothing.

Some autoflushers have a manual override. In other words, a good old, regular flushing handle. Not these. Auto all the way, baby.

I back way up. I wave my hands in front of the reader, and wait again. Nada. The toilet sits, silently automocking my ass with its feculent cargo. I resort to duck-walking toward the rear of the stall, straddling the toilet, facing the wall, so my pelvis is blocking the reader.

At this point, two women enter the bathroom, laughing and chatting. Great. There is a knock on my door. "Oh!" The woman suddenly stops chatting with her pal, quickly moving on to the next stall. Great. There is nothing to do but the backward duck-walk. My new neighbor can't help but see my rear-facing shoes retreat, unless she's counting ceiling tiles. I'm sure this confirmed her initial suspicion that I am either 1) experimenting with pissing like the boys, or 2) I am packing.  Great.

About this time, autoflush kicks in with a vengeance.

Too little, too late, you porcelain bastard.

Bonfire of the Vanities

So, Male Offspring got back from football camp last night. Teen Demon had to pick him up, as I am still ensconced in my new cubicle with my colleagues, dealing with our recent relocation. Whole'nuther meaning to "close quarters". I thought one colleague was readying to give me a lap dance, but she just wanted to use the printer.

I put my dollar away.

Anyway, my daughter picks up her brother from school. Now, he'd told me he had a surprise for us once he got back. I was curious, as he could not be persuaded to spill the beanage. My phone rings:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Perky Female Friend of Male Offspring: Hi! Is ____ there!?

Me: No, I'm still at work, he's not with me.

Perky Friend: Oh. Wait! Okay! Can you please tell him that Perky Friend said, "Ohmygod, I sooo can't believe you got a mohawk!"

Me: ... (a mohawk?!) ... Sure. I certainly will. Thanks for calling, Perky Friend.

Perky Friend: OK!! Byeee!!

Oh, this was going to be fun. I live for these times. Doesn't quite make up for the stretch marks, but hey, what can, really?

I pick up the phone:

Male Offspring: Hello?

Me: You got a mohawk?

MO: ...

Me: Mmm-hmm. That's right. You can run, but you can't hide.

MO:  How do you ...

Me: Those eyes in the back of my head? Yeah. Maybe think about that next time. When were you going to tell me about this little styling adventure?

MO:  That was the surprise! That's what I was going to show you! Who told you? Did TeenDemon call you? Man! I can't believe she to--

Me: She didn't tell me.

MO: But ... you're still at work! How do you kn--

Me: How I know doesn't concern you.

MO:  Did Coach call you!? Crap! Coach didn't call you did h--

Me:  I can't believe you did this. You're grounded.

MO:  What?!? But, why -- grounded?! Are you serious?! But ... it's my hair! What about the beach bonfire tonight? You said I could go! It's my own hai--

Me: Gotta go, things are crazy here.

MO: What? No! Wait, I need to --

Me: *click*

Of course, later he claimed he knew I'd been joking all along. Hey, whatever you have to tell yourself.  The mohawk is pretty cool.  He calls it his 'frohawk.

So I end up chaperoning the beach bonfire. The idea is to burn the last vestiges of middle school in a blaze of glory before moving on to the vaunted halls of high school.

Kind of an adolescent cleansing ritual involving fire, marshmallows, and illegal fireworks.

All week I'd tried to get the lowdown on this bonfire business. I thought he called from camp because he missed me. Or at least because he knew I'd miss him. He called to ask permission to go the bonfire. I, of course, had questions about an event involving darkness, fire, hormones, high tide and a bunch of boys fresh from football camp, pumped up on adrenaline and testosterone. (This was before I even knew about the fireworks.) I had questions like,

• Who's sponsoring the bonfire? (I don't know)
• Is it a school event? (I don't think so)
• Well, is it a city event, or just a private party? (I don't know)
• What time does it end? (Um, probably after dark?)
• Who will be there? (My friends)
• Do your friends have names? (You know. Just my friends!)
• Who is supervising? Are parents going? (Probably. I don't know)

Finally, half an hour before the big event, I am put on the phone with someone named Rachel's Mom. (None of us have names. We are all ______'s Mom.) We parents decide to pull together and start this high school thing off with a strong united front. In short, we're chaperoning.

I saw one firework go off a few inches from someone's hand. I saw a kid throw a firework into the fire, and then (get this) reach into the fire pit with his bare hand to retrieve it when it didn't go off. I saw another kid balance on the edge of the fire pit on one foot, while he kicked some logs around with his other foot to "rearrange things". I saw kids pushing each other while precariously bent over to roast marshmallows with what looked like a toothpick.

One kid shot a firework through a buddy's legs. Hello! I mean, seriously, I'm all for fun, but do they not know they could lose a hand? Or an equally useful appendage?  Yeah, Junior, you might want to hang onto that for later.  Just sayin'.

At least they weren't spraying Silly String into the fire, which can ignite the string and blow up the can, just like the warning on the side of the can says. (That, apparently, once happened when another parent foolishly left the room during a birthday party. Amazing what tidbits of information surface when parents compare notes.)

The fact that there aren't more grown men walking around with eye patches and bionic parts amazes me. I didn't see a single girl doing these things. A little testosterone is a dangerous thing, people.

Male Offspring missed all these pyromaniacal goings on, as he and New Girlfriend were sitting on a piece of driftwood, the 'frohawk silhouetted against the sky, watching the sunset. Well, they would've been, had the sun been visible. They were actually sitting on a piece of driftwood watching the various and sundry shades of grey swirl around. Pacific Northwest, people. I was actually proud -- okay, fine, smug -- that he didn't get sucked into the frenzied drama.

Next up, high school.