The last time I encountered a lack of toilet paper in a coffee shop restroom, fortunately I only had to pee, so I wasn't concerned for myself, but I couldn't stop worrying about the next poor guy who would come in there and need to do more than pee.
This concern may arise from the time I was four years old and the upstairs bathroom in our house ran out of toilet paper. And this is one of the vulnerabilities of being four years old: one does not check in advance to see if there is toilet paper or not. The horror of finding a cardboard tube on the dispenser instead of the fat roll of white paper is indeed a disillusioning experience. There has always been toilet paper there before. The very idea of not having toilet paper has never even entered one's mind at that age. Not wanting to soil a perfectly clean pair of underpants, and hoping that I could slip unobserved past my three brothers playing in the next room, I decided I could make a run for the downstairs bathroom, with my pants around my ankles. This is not something I would chance now, at age 55, but at age 4 it seemed like a possibility. I opened the door and began my fastest waddle towards the stairs. My oldest brother pointed at me, laughing, "Look at Mark!" And that was the end of my hope of getting downstairs to the toilet paper unseen.
So when a public restroom runs out of toilet paper I have a premonition of some unlucky full-grown man waddling out in search of anything paper, pants around his ankles, hoping no-one will see him. So this time I exited the one stall restroom, and strode over to the table my friend was sitting at, typing into his laptop, extracted four napkins and strode back to the bathroom, leaving them on the back of the cistern. I felt peaceful returning to my seat opposite my friend, a beatific deed done for an unknown person in need always leaves me with a buoyant feeling that all is well with the world, or at least all *could* be well.
My friend, however, had a perplexed expression on his face.
"They ran out of toilet paper," I said quietly, letting him in on the situation. He still looked concerned. "The napkins are for toilet paper."
"I got that," he said, wrinkling his nose.
"It's better than nothing," I said.
"Oh, absolutely." Why would he object to me leaving napkins for the next guy? What's disgusting about that? Then it dawned on me.
"Oh! Not for me," I said. "For the next person."
"Oh, good. I was worried about the sequence of events there."
Which prompted me to consider the topic of cleaning supplies today while walking my dog, Merlot, who, of course, does not use cleaning supplies because he is opposed to cleaning, likes the smell of dirty things, is lazy, and he subscribes to the philosophy that if he can't clean it with his tongue it should not be cleaned. Besides all I have ever seen him clean is a plate and his genitals, both with his tongue. (Now he has less genitals to clean than before, but that is off topic.)
I am a strong advocate of the principle that cleaning supplies should be stored near the item that needs cleaning. For instance I have become a topnotch cleaner using toilet paper. Toilet paper is almost always available, and so when I am in the bathroom it is easy for me to take a big wad of toilet paper and clean the sink, occasionally the edge of the tub, sometimes along the floor against the baseboard, and of course, around the rim of the toilet. All because the toilet paper is readily available. If more cleaning supplies were as available as toilet paper imagine what could get cleaned!
There has been an ongoing discussion about the toilet brush. I believe it should sit right next to the toilet bowl, so that when I get the urge I can just pick it up, run it around the bowl and then feel that wonderful sense of righteousness, knowing that I am probably the only person in the household who ever cleans the toilet and why doesn't anyone ever help around the house?
This concern may arise from the time I was four years old and the upstairs bathroom in our house ran out of toilet paper. And this is one of the vulnerabilities of being four years old: one does not check in advance to see if there is toilet paper or not. The horror of finding a cardboard tube on the dispenser instead of the fat roll of white paper is indeed a disillusioning experience. There has always been toilet paper there before. The very idea of not having toilet paper has never even entered one's mind at that age. Not wanting to soil a perfectly clean pair of underpants, and hoping that I could slip unobserved past my three brothers playing in the next room, I decided I could make a run for the downstairs bathroom, with my pants around my ankles. This is not something I would chance now, at age 55, but at age 4 it seemed like a possibility. I opened the door and began my fastest waddle towards the stairs. My oldest brother pointed at me, laughing, "Look at Mark!" And that was the end of my hope of getting downstairs to the toilet paper unseen.
So when a public restroom runs out of toilet paper I have a premonition of some unlucky full-grown man waddling out in search of anything paper, pants around his ankles, hoping no-one will see him. So this time I exited the one stall restroom, and strode over to the table my friend was sitting at, typing into his laptop, extracted four napkins and strode back to the bathroom, leaving them on the back of the cistern. I felt peaceful returning to my seat opposite my friend, a beatific deed done for an unknown person in need always leaves me with a buoyant feeling that all is well with the world, or at least all *could* be well.
My friend, however, had a perplexed expression on his face.
"They ran out of toilet paper," I said quietly, letting him in on the situation. He still looked concerned. "The napkins are for toilet paper."
"I got that," he said, wrinkling his nose.
"It's better than nothing," I said.
"Oh, absolutely." Why would he object to me leaving napkins for the next guy? What's disgusting about that? Then it dawned on me.
"Oh! Not for me," I said. "For the next person."
"Oh, good. I was worried about the sequence of events there."
Which prompted me to consider the topic of cleaning supplies today while walking my dog, Merlot, who, of course, does not use cleaning supplies because he is opposed to cleaning, likes the smell of dirty things, is lazy, and he subscribes to the philosophy that if he can't clean it with his tongue it should not be cleaned. Besides all I have ever seen him clean is a plate and his genitals, both with his tongue. (Now he has less genitals to clean than before, but that is off topic.)
I am a strong advocate of the principle that cleaning supplies should be stored near the item that needs cleaning. For instance I have become a topnotch cleaner using toilet paper. Toilet paper is almost always available, and so when I am in the bathroom it is easy for me to take a big wad of toilet paper and clean the sink, occasionally the edge of the tub, sometimes along the floor against the baseboard, and of course, around the rim of the toilet. All because the toilet paper is readily available. If more cleaning supplies were as available as toilet paper imagine what could get cleaned!
There has been an ongoing discussion about the toilet brush. I believe it should sit right next to the toilet bowl, so that when I get the urge I can just pick it up, run it around the bowl and then feel that wonderful sense of righteousness, knowing that I am probably the only person in the household who ever cleans the toilet and why doesn't anyone ever help around the house?