Stall tactics

I was at a urinal the other day when I discovered something I never noticed before. And it didn't happen while I was looking down.

This bathroom had three stalls next to one urinal. While I was at said urinal, two friends walked in a few seconds apart. Let's call them Nick and Bob, because those are their names. As I was washing my hands, I noticed Nick was in the stall closest to the urinal. Bob, meanwhile, took the stall farthest away from Nick.

It hit me like a ton of stuff you don't want to get hit with in a bathroom. Every guy knows proper urinal etiquette is to take the one farthest away from an occupied one, an instinct documented in the landmark 1981 paper published by Harvard researchers,"Mine's Bigger." But it never dawned on me the same rules apply for stalls as well.

(For the record, Nick and Bob were both standing in the stalls, if you catch my drift. Every guy knows the proper stall to use when someone is sitting is one on an entirely different floor.)

I've asked many male friends and family members in the past few days what they would've done if they were in Bob's position. The answer is unanimous - they would've done what Bob did. Many were surprised I even had to ask the question in the first place.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I usually subconsciously go to the farthest stall. The only time I hesitate is when the farthest stall is the wheelchair-accessible one. I always worry that someone who really needs to use that stall - and really needs to use the bathroom - will be waiting outside. And can you imagine how much revenue police could generate if they started charging people for peeing in a handicapped zone?

Anyways, with my suspicions about male behavior confirmed, I decided to present the same scenario to some women I know, seeing as they have much more experience with stalls. I think I solved one of mankind's longstanding questions about the female species in the process, but more on that in a bit.

I was surprised that many women said they would do just like a man and take the unoccupied stall farthest away from the occupied stall. One said it's a matter of respecting another's personal space and similar principles should be followed when deciding what treadmill to use at the gym, a parallel I had not previously not thought about.

Yet other women told me they didn't pay attention to what stall they used, instead focusing on getting in and out of the bathroom as quick as possible. This strategy has its drawbacks, though; one friend told me that when she is in the first stall, more women than she can count try to get in "without checking to see feet."

The most revealing response I got from women, however, was when I slightly altered the scenario to walking into the bathroom with a friend. Why women travel in packs to public restrooms is a question that has vexed men for generations. My theory is the same theory I have about what women do wherever they gather without men: tickle fight.

Turns out friends apparently will go into adjacent stalls to finish conversations started on the way to the bathroom. But they also sit side-by-side "just in case someone needs to pass the tp or what have you," as one friend put it. So there you have it. Women visit public restrooms together in case there is a toilet paper emergency.

Please don't forget to wash your hands before leaving this column.

Awww nuts

I absolutely despise chunky peanut butter. But I probably wouldn't have started this blog without it.

The story begins in late 1999, when the world was preparing for, as everyone remembers, Sweden's declaring the Church of Sweden no longer the state religion. I had applied for and was selected to be the columnist for my high school newspaper.

My first column examined public displays of affection. I heaped scorn on couples making out in the hallways, the people that "believe that 40 minutes of a period is equivalent to a lifetime before seeing their love again and must sanctify their love by locking lips tighter than spandex on a fat guy." (The sentence probably could have used some polishing, but that analogy remains pure comedic gold.)

I don't quite remember the reaction to the column, but then again most of my high school memories are hazy due to my BoKu addiction. The response must have been mostly positive, however, because I distinctly recall brimming with confidence as I turned in my next column.

The administration had prevented the drama department from putting on a production of "To Kill A Mockingbird" for content reasons. At the same time, the school made a pointed effort to observe World AIDS Day and had sex education classes. I thought the stances were at odds and planned to call out administrators on their hypocrisy. I'll never forget my first sentence:

What do a girl named Scout and gonorrhea have in common?

I almost bought earplugs fearing the loud buzz my column would call when it hit the school's hallways. So it was much to my surprise when I opened the paper the day it came out and saw the following first sentence:

The first thing I think when I see a Hershey's Bar with almonds is "what a waste of chocolate."

Turns out my editors killed my column and instead ran a piece I had submitted with my application, seen in the photo above. It was a creative writing assignment for my English class about why I hated nuts in general and chunky peanut butter in particular:

The biggest thing nuts spoil is peanut butter. ...Putting nuts in peanut butter is kind of like putting a mustache on the Mona Lisa - why ruin a masterpiece?

I also had a spirited riff about Mr. Peanut:

He is the only mascot I would slap if given the chance. ...The idea of a nut aristocracy is ludicrous to begin with. Does he think he's better than me just because he and his monocle are on a can of peanuts?

People really liked the column, even those "people" who liked chunky peanut butter. I learned a valuable lesson in the process: stick to writing about silly things, life's foibles. It's a philosophy that has fueled my creative writing since then, including this blog.

My column on nuts ended this way:

If I could turn just one person away from extra chunky Peter Pan, I would be content. And maybe, just maybe, I would not be as nuts as I am now.

It's a sentiment that sticks with me, like spandex on a... well, you know.

Bagel bit

I remember the day my life changed temporarily forever like it was yesterday. Actually, it was the day before yesterday.

I was in my kitchen, fixing myself a bagel with peanut butter and jelly. The bagel was toasted to a crisp but wasn't burnt. I like my bagels to come out of the toaster colored various shades of brown, so it looks like they have spots that should be checked out by a dermatologist.

(Also, it should be noted, I put my bagels in a toaster, not a toaster oven. One of the single best purchases I made for my home.)

I had my bagel halves on the plate and was beginning to spread on my smooth peanut butter. To all you chunky peanut butter advocates, I'll explain why you're wrong next week. Consider it my "rebutteral," if you will.

Anyways, my left hand was on the bagel as my right hand began to spread the peanut butter. I can't remember if my left hand was moving the bagel in a circular motion or I was repositioning my grip; frankly, my memory is kind of hazy.

Because what happened next is something that has never happened to me in 20-plus years of spreading stuff on bagels: I cut my finger. Specifically, I got a bad paper cut on the tip of my left, middle finger. It took at least a tenth of a paper towel to staunch the bleeding.

My cousin summed up my ordeal nicely when I told him about it: an act of betrayal. Stunned, I proceeded to eat the bagel almost out of spite.

Needless to say, I've been extra careful with bagels since. I've also learned to cope with my injury, and in the process gained a new appreciation for my injured finger. I'm right-handed and never realized how much I use my left hand. Grabbing things is very difficult, especially since the middle finger is usually the first to make contact with an object.

The toughest thing to do? Floss. When I'm exploring the crevasses along my bottom molars, I typically use the left, middle finger to drive the floss between the teeth. Now, I'm forced to use my index finger instead, and I can feel the gum disease developing.

The other difficulty is with typing. It hurts to push down on certain keys on the keyboard, particularly the letter "E." I'm glad I'm not writing about the collection of livestock a former former Buffalo Bills receiver keeps near a river. Because "Don Beebe's sheep by the creek" might have driven me to file a worker's compensation claim.

My point is, you should be thanking me for sucking it up and writing this. But as a token of my appreciation for you all being such loyal readers, I'm going to give a prize to the 1,000th person to view my blog.

I think I have some bagels in my fridge.