The Ladies' Room

Since I promised this would be random, I’m deviating from my plan (to continue talking about Europe) and am broaching this topic. It came in a flash (flush?) of inspiration, so, hey, why not?

I first thought about this when I recalled how my last office at work shared a wall with a brand-new handicap-accessible ladies’ room.

Fully tiled, the room was an echo chamber. I could hear just about everything (fortunately, not EVERYTHING)… The door slamming and locking. The flushing. Most of all, the squeaky toilet paper dispenser.

Co-workers would come into my office and start laughing. Here's the scenario: [noises], [co-worker puts hand over his or her mouth and eyes pop open wide]. “Oh my gosh, that IS loud!” Even the most conservative, “bathroom humor is not funny” types, would at least smile or suppress a laugh.

I had to be careful with conference calls and kept myself on mute as much as possible. However, some of my colleagues on the east coast had heard about the situation and teased me during meetings… “Hey, did I just hear a flush?” or “Sounds like it’s time to replace the toilet paper!”

Now that we’ve covered a microcosm of ladies’ room experiences, let’s move on to the macro.

In terms of the average work restroom, I’ve noticed that women you don’t know either smile, say hello and get to know you over time, or don’t make eye contact, don’t speak to you and remain strangers for the many years you encounter one another on a near daily basis.

They’re polarized in other ways, too. There are those who obsessively pull towels to dab up any water that splashes outside the sink, and those who would never think to do this in a public restroom. The ones that champion the cause of keeping the counter surface spot free give those who don’t dirty looks. In case you’re wondering, yes, I have been the recipient of a dirty look.

Now if you’re a guy, you’re probably thinking, “This is fascinating information, but I want to know why women go to the ladies’ room in pairs.”

Great question and I have some good news.

We’re not talking about you.

Well, sometimes we are. BUT, there are completely separate, compelling reasons for this phenomenon:

1.) Long lines. Most lines for women’s restrooms are long. I have personally stood in a line that lasted more than 30 minutes. Since some of the women are the type who neither make eye contact nor talk (and this percentage is higher in public places where you are a complete unknown), the likelihood of boredom is high. Do the math: line length x average number of daily visits = significant waiting = significant boredom.

2.) Nowhere to put your purse and other possessions. Most restroom stalls were originally outfitted with a hook to hold purses, coats, umbrellas, etc. Over time, the hook falls off or otherwise disappears and is NEVER, EVER replaced. If there’s nowhere to put your stuff, what do you do with it? The floor is rarely an option. Many women spend several minutes trying to figure out this dilemma. Can I shove the purse handle between the door and the frame? What if I put the purse around my neck? Hey, I’ll hand it to my friend! Good thing she’s here! Can I get an “AMEN!” from those of you who have had the entire contents of your purse spill on a public restroom floor? (Is there anyone this has not happened to?)

Similarly, if you’re at a busy place like at a concert or sporting event, the counter will be so wet that you couldn’t think of putting your purse there to wash your hands or touch up your makeup. Of course, there aren’t any uptight ladies who maintain restroom counters at such fun, “let loose” events. They’re home dusting and cleaning ovens. Hand your stuff to your friend!

3.) Poor lighting. Last, and most important, most restrooms have such poor lighting that a majority of women have a mini nervous breakdown when they look in the mirror. Typical inner voice dialog: “Oh my gosh, I look terrible!” “Look at those dark circles.” “When did I age 10 years?” “No amount of makeup is going to fix this!” The trusted friend reassures you that you’re just as awesome as when you came in or, at least, drags you out of there and helps you forget about it.

Now that I’ve addressed the basics and what men want to know about the ladies’ room, I’ll focus on the #1 issue for women: Why the hell are men’s and women’s restrooms the same size when the women’s are 10x busier?

Well, ladies, I don’t have the answer, but I do have something to tell you that will make you very happy. When I was at the Hollywood Bowl recently, the restrooms by the back stage entrance were packed. Very long lines for both men and women. Interestingly, the women’s line moved faster! So much faster that everyone was talking about it. The men were shaking their heads in confusion while the women celebrated like we’d just got the right to vote.

It was monumental, and while I think there must have been some practical reason for this anomaly in the space/time continuum, it gave me hope that we, as a people, could conquer other seemingly unanswerable things… conflict in the Middle East, global warming… maybe even the proliferation of reality TV.

How to Fly First Class When You're Unemployed

Some of you noticed in the first blog that I mentioned flying first class to Amsterdam AND that I’m unemployed.

It’s true and actually easier than you’d think.

All you have to do is go back in time about 20 years and sign up for a major airline’s frequent flier program. Pick a leader (one that terrorists believe important enough to mess with). Pay the annual fee (just a small $60 hit to the gut once every 365 days) then charge like the wind!

Put everything you can think of on that card. If the ink has long been etched off the raised numbers and the thing routinely fails to scan due to extensive use by the time they send you your new one, you’ve done your job.

One advantage I have is that I’m a live music freak. I love to go to concerts and usually arrange for friends to come along. This necessitates hundreds of dollars in purchases from Ticketmaster every year. By the way, I fully expect to win some sort of lifetime achievement award from Ticketmaster or Live Nation or whatever the single behemoth ticket provider will be at that time.

After a while you’ll notice your frequent flier balance climbing, which is great. However, if you’re like me, you’ll realize that you’re way too busy to take that nice vacation.

This is where getting laid off comes in!

Let’s see… time on my hands and enough frequent flier miles for two first class tickets… Bingo!

Before you get too excited, keep in mind that these programs have changed quite a bit since the 1980s or 90s or whenever it was you signed up. Back in those days, all you had to do was avoid a few “black out” travel days.

Today it’s much more complicated. Rather than designating restricted days, they now assign only a certain ambiguous number of seats per flight, and there are formulas for how many miles you need to get what you want. Add to this the fact that most flights from LA to cities in Europe are not non-stop and you have to deal with availability on multiple flights.

So what did that mean for me?

I spent an hour and 20 minutes on the phone with a ticket agent. Despite the fact that I was extremely flexible on departure dates and destination (Amsterdam or Brussels), we had to try a seemingly endless array of options before agreeing on the final itinerary. I also had to endure the agent complaining several times that booking calls should, according to her management, take less than 15 minutes. I’m like, “In what alternative universe?!”

We ended the call, and when I got the sound of her complaining voice out of my head, I sat back and smiled. Europe, here we come!

And there you have it. Simple, huh?

If you have any questions, let me know. But wait a little bit. I need to book some concert tickets first.

Hopefully I’ll see you on my next first class flight. I’m thinking around 2028. Bon voyage!

The "Discount" Massage Experience

After much deliberation about what to blog and when, I decided I’d start on my flight to Amsterdam last month. After all, leaving for Europe on holiday (first class, no less), offers one a great topic – new people and places, adventure, mystery and in this case, delectable chocolate.

And it was great. I just didn’t write about it.

The challenges of travel – starting with the fact that I barely slept for two nights prior to leaving due to packing and associated preparation (never my strong suit) – proved too great, and my laptop remained untouched except for checking email and the weather. At least I didn’t blow it up like my $130 flat iron. But more on that later.

So what prompts my grand entry into the blogsphere?

In short, the craziness of life… the stupid stuff that happens that’s usually not so great but we manage to laugh or learn something… or have an excuse to go to directly to a bar and say, “I’ll have the strongest margarita you make.”

Today it was the discount massage experience.

Since I’m currently unemployed, I’m trying to be good. I clip the coupons for the places with the poorly worded ads. You know… the ones where pretty much the only English spoken among the massage staff is “OK!” Oh, and they call me “lady” a lot.

As usual, I tell the receptionist a few preferences, since he or she is my only hope for any form of information exchange between me and the therapist.

I entered the front door. The room was vacant except for the receptionist du jour, a teenage boy with a large Band-Aid on his cheek, who was sound asleep. Although the chair he was sitting on was tiny, he was slumped back like it was a Lazy Boy recliner.

Once awake, he sprang to his feet and led me to a small room toward the back. As he went to get the massage therapist, I asked him to communicate three preferences starting with “water not too hot.”

A moment later the therapist, a young, stocky woman in pink scrubs with a high-pitched voice, entered with a steamy bucket you could have made soup in. My expressions of “too hot” drew puzzled looks, but she eventually got the idea.

Trying not to let these events foreshadow what I had hoped would be a very pleasant experience, I leaned back, shut my eyes and tried to empty my mind.

She started by rubbing my temples, which was OK, then quickly proceeded to scratch my head with such vigor that it actually seemed like a technique to remove hair.

From there, she worked the muscles on the sides of my neck. I don’t know about you, but this always makes me nervous. Hello, jugular vein!!!!

Fortunately, that was quick and we were on to the feet.

As she positioned herself and took my left foot in her hand, I felt relieved. The foot portion was most of why I was there. I was looking forward to it. Besides, I’ve had a deep-tissue foot massage before. How bad could it be?

Wow.

What she lacked in finesse, she made up for in brute force compounded by rapid rhythmic precision. In my mind I visualized busy pioneer women scrubbing filthy clothing on river stones. Yeah, kinda like that.

This continued for the remainder of the massage except for a moment when I think she was attempting a few chiropractic adjustments. I seriously kept thinking how easy it would be for her to kill me.

Despite, the occasional “ouch,” I didn’t say anything. It would produce only more confused looks and take away time for the potential of a soothing massage moment. (Hey, maybe she’ll tire out!)

Like getting off a rollercoaster ride that was much more than you bargained for, I gratefully stumbled out into the waiting room when it was over.

The boy was asleep, again, but now on the waiting room sofa and covered by his jacket. I paid the bill and offered a decent tip based on sheer labor but silently vowed not to have her again.

I looked for her nametag so I could avoid her the next time. Of course, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen there without one.

However, I did notice a dragon tattoo on her arm. Guess that says it all.

When I got home I climbed the stairs in the subterranean parking lot of my apartment building and noticed an abandoned boba drink that’s been there in plain sight for at least three days. It’s become a major science project. Maybe it will blow if we have a hot spell. The maintenance around here is pretty bad despite the crew of women in gray uniforms that scrub the barbeque and more or less hang out at the pool all day. Ironically, the building owner is cracking down on the “unauthorized” placement of home décor and other personal items… like putting a tasteful doormat outside your apartment door, hanging a wind chime on your patio or locking your bike on the pole next to your car.

Whatever. C’est la vie.

I need a massage.


END NOTE: Many thanks to fellow blogger Sarah (age 12) who has been blogging on behalf of her dog Miles for some time and offered invaluable support in overcoming the technical challenges of launching this thing. Big shoes to fill in the days to come.