This week and next are insanely busy for me, so you’ll have to forgive my sparse posting.

As you probably know, last week we went camping. It was a great week, but one of the things you notice more when you’re away is how often you go to the restroom. I’m actually on a blood pressure medicine that causes me to be quite the tinkle fairy. I go at least once every 90 minutes. It’s pathetic. I’m also one of the few men in the planet that washes their hands when they use the toilet, and the tired old electric hand dryer made for a lengthy potty time. (That thing took FOREVER to dry hands, half the time I just wiped my hands on my pants after washing them…)

This post is not about the hand dryer though. That irritation is nothing compared to one old man in the urinal next to me.

First of all, all men understand the basic public restroom etiquette. It’s instilled into us genetically. There should never have been an old man in the urinal next to me.

The problem started while I was doing my business. The offending old person clearly knew I was there. I’m a 6 foot tall 190 pound man. I was wearing a bright orange SpongeBob t-shirt. I’m hard to miss. Well, I thought I was hard to miss…

This man rushes to the urinal right next to me, and begins making “I have to pee really bad” noises. This violates several men’s room rules by itself, but the old man begins to haphazardly urinate wildly about his urinal space, and actually begins to SPLASH MY LEGS with his own piddle!!!

I had no idea what to do. I scooched over as far as possible, and hurried as best I could. When splashy splasherton was finally finished, I just stood there in shock. In retrospect, I still don’t know how I could have made the situation any better. I mean, I couldn’t even kill the man, because that would have brought attention to my motive: Wet leg.

The only good news is that campground restrooms have showers built into them. I walked directly from the urinal to the shower (grabbing some hand soap from the dispenser along the way), and proceeded to shower my legs.

Eiw.

One of the joys of camping in a state park, is that everyone uses community showers. (No, not like that…) The park we stayed at only had 3 showers for the entire park. There are well over 100 campsites, and camping creates lots of reasons to bathe.

Every morning, as I walked to the restrooms, I’d see people waiting outside the showers for their turn. Many were like me, pondering the shower to camper ratio, but a few were mortified at the presence of others. Most noticeable were the ladies in their 20s. No, I wasn’t cruising the campground bathrooms for chicks, they were noticeable because they so desperately didn’t want to be seen before they showered and “prepped.” The irony is that the utter horror on their faces made them stick out like a sore thumb!

I considered taking a photo, just to post it here — but I thought I might actually cause some young woman to implode out of mortified embarrassment. It seemed a bit cruel for vacation, so I refrained. Plus, I didn’t want to be the guy taking photos of women at the community showers. I mean, I don’t want to be that guy. Eiw.

We don’t have a junk drawer in our house. That saddens me immensely. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a big fan of clutter, but it’s very strange to live without a junk drawer. At work, it’s not really been a problem, historically, because I’ve had at least one place for junk. For example:

• If you don’t have a junk drawer, where do you put your super glue, scotch tape, spare batteries, dried up ink pens, scissors, playing cards, poster sticky-tack, coupons, eyeglass screwdrivers, and old wine corks?
• Are junk drawers an American thing, or is the phenomenon international?
• What room does your junk drawer live in?
• What’s in your junk drawer?

So do tell! Inquiring minds want to know.
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