The eye outside.

Yesterday morning found me (following a delightfully bracing commute wherein I was obliged to "salute" no less than three cornlivin' mothertouchers) hastening to avail myself of the succor of the basement floor men's room of Franklin Hall; a hastily consumed C2 cola was petitioning strongly for parole and, frankly, the idea of hearing a muffled squishing sound from my shoes after an accident made me wish to take my own sweet life. As I approached said succor-sanctum I became aware that the door had been propped open and the lights were not switched on, which meant that a) it had been sterilized by a man wearing elbow-length, sunflower-yellow latex gloves who smelled vaguely of Old Spice and unfiltered Camels and b) that I was the first person to broach this sanctity since approximately seven PM the night before. As I fumbled for the light switch so that I could find my way to the waste recepticles, the situation in Bladdertown went from "Howdy, sir, might you take measures to relieve me?" to "Here you go; you should have fecking brought a replacement pair of pants to the office, slapnuts." So, rather than allow myself to become soiled I echolocated to the urinal with a series of inaudible clicks and performed the necessary.

As I roused myself and echolocated towards the sink and the towel dispenser - and, uh, the lightswitch - there came from the third, furthest-to-the-back stall a sound which can most accurately be transcribed as

[bwaaaaaaaamp]

This sound indicated to me that a) I was not alone in this, the Franklin Hall basement floor men's restroom and b) whatever was sharing this special moment was calving. In the hellish moment between when I anticipated hearing the dull thud of four spongy hooves against the tile and the accompanying deluge of birthing fluids and when I scuttled out of there like a hermit crab on crystal, I was taken by a single thought:

{that man was alone, in the dark, WITH THE DOOR COMPLETELY OPEN, defecating in a public restroom}

It wasn't the first time that week that I'd had an unsavory experience in the Franklin Hall men's lavatory. Having eliminated the Satellite Office from my list of acceptable restrooms means that I must find refuge elsewhere. By "elsewhere" I mean "the second floor men's room which actually has a ventilation system." So there I am, a peaceful, law-abiding citizen in a compromising natural state in the second floor lavatory when another man walks in and begins to also attend to his needs which meant that I, out of politeness, a) muffled any *ahem* sounds I would have made and b) stopped talking to myself in that really high-pitched "redrum" voice to amuse myself. He completed his aforementioned task and walked over to the sink/mirror and cleansed himself of his misdeed. Now, at this point I was expecting him to maybe check his hair, perhaps poke at some acne and then I would hear his loafers clop towards the door. I waited. Then I waited. Then, after that, I waited some more. Three minutes easily elapsed. Then, as I moved forward to commence my experience I happened to glance through the chink in the door.

There he was, at the mirror, staring at me (in reflection) through the crack in the door.

I did what anyone in that situation would have done; namely, I shrieked and covered myself in a toilet tissue burkha. In actuality, once he saw that I'd seen him, he walked (and rather briskly, I might add) out and into Franklin Hall, lair unknown.

But not before I got a good look at the bastard.

So if you are reading this, Man Who May Work in the Registrar's Office and Who is Possessed of the Bad, Bad Platinum Blonde Dye Job with Black Roots Showing and Who Happens to be Taking a Cigarette Break, Like, Every Time I Walk Out of Franklin Hall to My Class, your peeping days are numbered! While I am currently unable to come up with any sort of resolution at this time, when that day comes I will level a pointy finger of reckoning that shall verily shudder you!

Or, more likely, I will just call you on it (whilst stammering something nearly incomprehensible) and flip you off with both hands. Freak.

***

On the "frozen lunch entrees that will help, perhaps, to slim me down while saving me money but, ultimately, making me want to eat a container of vegetable dip with a spoon" front, I've discovered that a unique bonding moment I'd never anticipated exists while queueing for the one good microwave in the office: Comparing Your Ghastly Entree With Your Coworkers! It's simple: whilst unwrapping the little container, you comment on the composition, color and size of the meal and, if a coworker has previously consumed that particular assortment of slurry, s/he will provide details of how it smelled/tasted/moved. For example: *

Gwyneth: So, where is the Flavor Adventure going to be taking you today?
Me: To Beef Stroganofftown, with a brief stop in Succotashville and ending with a sojourn to Wee "Froot" Cobblerburg. You?
Gwyneth: Today I will be whisked away to the pleasure of Creamy Dill Salmon City.
Me: I've never had the salmony pleasure: I anticipate a full report!
Gwyneth: Aye! I have had the stroganoff: it tastes and looks like a helping of hot bat guano!
Me: I eagerly await!

But, as we two are sharing in the horror, jabs regarding the integrity of ingredients and remarks as to the savory nature of the dish are meant as friendly warning; however, a certain unnamed staff member fished the box to my lunch while I was tending to it early last week, shook his/her head and and then began to tell me in great detail how s/he "didn't eat these dinky things" and how they are "full of chemicals" and so forth. What I wanted to say but was prohibited by my mental filter was how I was going to put that in my "I couldn't care less about your silly opinion, asshole" bucket, but alas, I did not. While I acknowledge that these are truths, have some social responsibility and shet the feck ep about my lunch, OK? I don't shit on your lunch. And if you do keep your trap slosed, maybe I won't tell anyone about how I saw you fishing some discarded food out of the break room garbage can like a hobo when you thought nobody was looking.

{secret?}

***

Spring is here, and Indiana celebrated by joining the rest of the goddamn world by aligning with Eastern Daylight Savings time. From now on, Indianapolis joins New York, Washinton, Boston and Miami as sort of a simple, corn-infested cousin who visits from time to time. Ultimately, because Indiana is the westernmost of the Eastern Time Zone states, what this will mean is that by the time of the summer solstice the sun probably won't be setting until about ten PM. Good times.

Spring is a time that is heralded for most people by the arrival of robins and the crop of daffodils, tulips and crocuses that nudge their way out of the winter-weary soil. For me, spring is signaled by noticing that the roadkill on my way to work is starting to bloat. Worse still, I've chosen to eke out my existence in Downtown Tornado Alley, which presents a unique set of problems for a man who spent his formative years in a state that gets a tornado about once a century. For the born-and-raised - kids who had tornado drills in grade school - this is nothing new, but when I hear a tornado siren my first instinct is to run to the window. This can be problematic given that, um, that's the last thing you should do ever. And, most precious of all, my home in Greenwood is basementless, which means that I am going to have to offer compromising favors to the neighbors in more secure homes for lodging us and our feral pets.
And there are only so many times one can do that and be able to look them in the eyes again while fetching the morning paper. **

***

I took Balthazar Anatole Romulus Potorti to the veterinarian today for his (slightly early) one-year checkup and vaccinations and to secure a vat of Frontline flea and tick medicine; had I known that it is EIGHTY FOUR DOLLARS for a six month supply I would have probably not shrieked when the woman working at the reception desk gave me my bill. But if it means that the wee one isn't troubled by marauding vermin, it is worth it. Well, that, and I have him pulling me around the house in a little rickshaw to work it off. He needs to earn his keep, no?

As the young vet-lady pulled a hissing-like-a-freshly-incarcerated-crackwhore Balthazar from imprisonment in the carrier, I began to look at the marquee in the front office, where it lists the names of the vets and the technicians. Under "special consultants", they had a listing for a radiologist, cardiologist and several other people with "-ist" job titles. Then, under "Healer" - there, with white push-letters on a black background, was

Jesus Christ.

Oh my lands, was I taking my cat to a CCB [creepy Christian business]? I'd noticed that, on the intake application where it asked how you came to know about the establishment, it listed the Christian Business Weekly publication. I hadn't thought much about it before, but now it all made sense. And, even though I found the marquee disturbing, since they took good care of Batty, had a sparkling clean and fresh-scented establishment and didn't require a prayer before his examination, I will probably continue to use them. That is, until Christian Kitty Magazine shows up on my doorstep. ***

***

Lastly, for the "I know I must be a professional now because I didn't even crack a smile when my student said this" file, I was talking to a student the other day when I realized she attended a high school in California called "Rim of the World High School" - {go, Fighting Scots!} - and I, to be nice and chatty, I asked her about it.

"Yeah, a lot of famous people went to high school there, like Michelle Kwan and that lady who was in Romeo and Juliet as Juliet. No, not the one with Claire Danes and - oh, what's his name - uh- oh yeah, Neolardo! Neolardo Ricaprio! Yeah, not her."

Neo: from Greek, νέος, meaning "new"
Lardo: from Spanish, meaning "bacon"

You will have to pardon me as I hasten to go watch New Bacon Ricaprio feign freezing to death in a maritime disaser.


Until my return, I remain,

Domonic


* not a real conversation, as I am wont to make things up. But it's close.

** something I have never done, as we are too poor for the paper. I have never actually seen my neighbors and, if it weren't for their yipping pets, I would believe that they were nosferatu.

*** I am afraid to Google this made-up publication because I fear that it might actually exist.