It is definitely a good thing that Hanni and I have separate bathrooms. I’ve mentioned before that the most significant difference between men and women is the amount of dirt and semen they’re willing to comfortably ignore, and the bathroom is a prime example of this. Whenever I go into my bathroom I see just your run-of-the-mill lavatory; a necessary evil where I go to excrete certain unmentionables and occasionally run a comb through my hair so I don’t look like the Elephant Man whenever I’m forced to go into the outside world. Hanni’s bathroom is more like a shrine to the cosmetic industry. I’m pretty sure there’s a toilet in there because often I hear it flush, but finding it would require a machete and native guide. The place 
is flush with all manner of tubes and bottles full of human maintenance equipment, all carefully placed on the counter within easy reach so they don’t clutter up the inside of the drawers or cabinets. It’s like a medieval apothecary shop in there; I’m pretty sure I saw a copy of the Necronomicon whenever I foolishly went in search of a bar of soap.Don’t get me wrong; I am fantastically pleased with the results of all those creams and conditioners and…whatever; my fiancé is quite a fetching woman. No, what baffles me is how she can peer into that huge den of sorcery and see animated sparkles dancing off every surface, yet looking into my bathroom an expression comes over her face which can only be equaled by one watching the manual masturbation of farm animals. It’s clear that whenever viewing my water closet Hanni is seeing Ebola virus just smeared over every surface. And my bathroom is totally clean. Okay, so yeah, sometimes there is a tiny amount of dried urine on the floor next to the toilet, but it’s dry and unless you’re licking the floor beneath the toilet, I fail to see the trauma. It’s not like I’m painting the walls with my poo. The sink’s clean, the mirror’s clean and a little stray pee is just the unfortunate payoff of having to urinate through a hose attached to my pelvis.
You know, I think I just figured something out. I think the general female skittishness with floor-pee can be traced to how differently the sexes vacate their bladders. Women hover and blot whereas men stand and shake. I’ll wager the fact that, as children, men are going to get piss all over their hands (and dribbles in their pants, let’s face it) leads to an overall casualness with pee that women just never get to experience. Not that I want the guy at the urinal next to me treating the bathroom as his own personal water park, but a little stray micturate isn’t going to bother me. (Micturate is your vocab word for the day, ladies and gentlemen; try to work it into conversation!)For reasons which will forever elude me, Hanni thinks I’m kind of dirty. Since the two of us got together she has been preoccupied with making sure I take a shower once a day, silly as that is, I know. Almost always we shower together, which I like. On the rare instance that we bathe apart, it seems inevitable that whoever is not in the shower will mess with the other. Our apartment is too new for simple games like flushing the toilet to make the water run hot and cold, so we have to get creative. Last night we didn’t shower together because I was doing dishes whenever Hanni went to clean her body. I went into the bathroom after she’d gotten in and she touched off the shenanigans by flinging water over the top of the shower at me. The games were afoot.
I retaliated by throwing a gallon pitcher full of ice cold water over the stall; nothing too fancy, and then pitched the container over too for good measure. I foolishly thought that would be enough for the night. The games always involve throwing something annoying onto the other person; sometimes it’s dishwashing liquid, but the best one is baby powder. It forms this odd, cloyingly fragrant paste upon contact with a wet body. At any rate, Hanni gets out of the shower and I’m quietly minding my own business in the kitchen when she comes up behind me and I feel something poured onto the top of my head. For a moment I think it’s water until I realize that whatever it is isn’t dripping off my cranium. Not water. A huge pile of baby powder had just been deposited unto my melon, shortly followed by the sound of maniacal laughter as wet footfalls padded away into the bedroom.
I looked like a very annoyed Founding Father. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to get baby powder out of your hair without water, but it’s nigh impossible. This seemed a nice addition to Hanni’s diabolical plot, because, as she put it, “now you have to shower tonight.” If I didn’t feel that I would suffocate in the night from the powder coating my lungs I would have slept in it just to prove her wrong. But don’t worry; I will get my revenge. Tonight I poop in her pillowcase.Jesus, this is another bathroom post, isn’t it? There’s something very wrong with me.
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