How goddamned hard is it to flush a toilet? Conventional wisdom has it that the girls are generally cleaner than the boys, but I’m calling bullshit. It isn’t even as if our work toilets have a choice: there’s one button to press, not some half-and-half wavy looking thing that is confusing. I hate those. Every second one in a public place seems to have the half- and full-flush reversed. Mostly, big whoop, but if there’s a bit more in the bowl standing there flushing repeatedly like a moron is a tad off-putting. Because of the assumptions of those waiting in line, okay?
And while I’m about it, how hard is it to throw hand towels in the bin? IT ISN’T. IN THE BIN PEOPLE. Is it some kind of leaving-the-scene-of-the-crime kind of thing? Flush it and flee? Or rather, not flush it and flee?
Our loo isn’t helped by the mood lighting over the sinks (because clearly us girls will spend too much time in there touching up our makeup otherwise), which is nice after the glaring fluorescents elsewhere but not much use if you want to check out the pound of gunge in the corner of one eye. The toilet part is well lit, making the mess look even worse. About a year ago we changed over from the hideous scratchy toilet paper to individual tissue things from a dispenser. While they’re much nicer on the bum end, they fall out of the dispenser and litter the floor. At least I hope they fall out. The other is a bit ick to contemplate. Ick. I’m saying nothing about wrappers for certain other things you find in girl’s bathrooms.
If I were doing a review of toilets, ours would get one star. I’m less bothered by those toilet blocks you find in parks, and that’s a scary thought. At least there you know you’re (probably) in for a treat of epic nasal proportions if nothing else. I suppose it’s better than the “worst toilet in Scotland” from Trainspotting, and now I’ve thought about that (both the book and the film versions), I may stop.
It’s better than those holes in the ground on the way to Canberra. The hilarious part about those is they’re part of the Remembrance drive, so each one has a little plaque about the truly spectacular derring-do of a fallen soldier, is (the last time I was near one) beautifully landscaped, and a latrine. Mmmm. NOW I’ll stop.
Since this entry has been fairly disgusting, I may as well go on about the nits. We are slowly clubbing them into submission, with tea-tree oil, eucalyptus oil and conditioner in a convenient spray bottle, brought to you by my unfailing search for something that will bloody work. That silicone crap doesn’t kill nits, or we have a radioactively hardy breed. Ooh, perhaps we do. The reactor isn’t that far away as the crow flies. Probably not mutants though. They'd have more legs and more freakish heads. Bummer.
I doubt it’s operator error with the silicone stuff. If I’ve had it on my head for hours and when I comb out the nits are still alive, it isn’t much use. They’re still alive with the oils and conditioner, but the point is attrition by removal rather than murder. Of course it amounts to the same thing, since they don’t live long off everyone’s heads, but what my eye doesn’t see, my heart isn’t grieving over. Indeed, I’d dance on their little nitty graves with red tap shoes if they had them. Graves, that is, not red tap shoes.
The tea tree oil smell everywhere is a bit of an experience. Imagine a particularly noisome apothecary, with frogs in delightfully heavy-looking glassware and small roots that may possibly be mummified animals (or even people!) and you get the idea. Everything tastes and smells weird. We took a couple of days off the war of attrition, and I think I’m going to be on the hunt for a new perfume, because mine smells too nice. Yes, too nice. Which annoys me. I was first given my perfume by an ex-boyfriend, who hated it. I’ve been wearing it ever since. Mwahahahaha.
Back to the nits, yes, too bad, small lad will be going off to camp shortly for three glorious days of wandering around the snowfields and Canberra. As you do. So no doubt we’re in for another two weeks or so of combing small insects out of each other’s hair.
And the thought has just occurred that we’re stuck with this until high school at least. I may shave my head after all.
Love and peace. Except for nits. They can just DIE.
