We need to talk about toilets.

Warning: this post primarily concerns bodily functions. I’m sorry, I know we’re still just getting to know each other and I’m springing bathroom talk on you already, but I never promised this blog would be pretty.

You see, my office has an “artist” in its midst. A Jackson Pollock imitator most foul. Her canvas, the loo; her medium, poo.

…I sincerely apologize for that, but I couldn’t resist the rhyme.

We all know who it is, without question. For one thing, in an office this small, where every desk has a clear view of the ladies’ room door, you can’t help but be acutely aware of who’s paying the porcelain throne a visit when. For another, there’s the fact that these fecal Rorschach tests only started showing up immediately after the newest addition to our Fortress of Quietude arrived.

It was quite the surprise when I first came upon one of her scatological oeuvres. I knew it was her; it could only be her, and yet my brain just couldn’t believe it. After all, every other clue points to Madam Rorschach being the biggest neat freak this office has ever seen.

• She spent the entire first hour of her first day scrubbing her cubicle from top to bottom.
• She lint-rollers herself from head to toe upon her arrival each morning.
• The Venetian blinds on her window are dutifully Swiffered every week like clockwork.
• She talked our janitor into stocking the scene of the crime washroom with fancy foaming hand wash, and has begun a tradition of keeping a backup can of air freshener in there at all times in addition to the main one because god forbid we go one afternoon without filling that tiny room with the chemical scent of artificial pine.

Do you see how I might find it difficult to believe that someone like this would leave any kind of carnage on the crapper without a single motion to clean up after herself?

But Madam Rorschach is definitely the culprit. I don’t know what the hell she eats that turns her ass into an airbrush, but whatever it is, it’s pretty powerful stuff.

She’s been working here a year now, and her pooptacular pointillisms show up, on average, once a week. That’s at least fifty-two dung doodles varying in severity from “simple connect the dots” to “OH MY GOD, SOMETHING EXPLODED.”

The Boss Lady and I haven’t said anything. And I’m pretty sure we never will.

I mean, how do you bring something like that up? I’m sure some of you are shaking your heads, going, “Duh. Just come out and say it!” I’m sorry, Dave, I’m afraid can’t do that. Even if your name’s not Dave, I still can’t do that. That’s just not how I operate. You have no idea of the lengths I will go to to avoid that kind of awkward human interaction. Or any kind of human interaction, really. I would sooner try and get the message across in smoke signals than talk to Madam Rorschach about it directly. And judging by the fact that our ultra-assertive, no-nonsense boss hasn’t broached the subject with her either, she feels the same way.

Passive-aggressive notes are out of the question, of course. In an office housing only three regular tenants, it would be blatantly obvious who the author was, which violates the Cowardly Anonymity Clause of the Passive-Aggressive Note-Writer’s Rule Book.

And we don’t have a human resources department to have these types of embarrassing chats for us. Reading The Bloggess’ hilariously horrifying HR stories made me realize how lucky larger offices are to have a separate department that handles all the really awkward conversations in their stead. I’m pretty sure that a woman who has had to ask “Is this your penis?” on multiple occasions in the line of duty would be kickass at talking to my coworker about her lines of doody.

But even if I had the guts to say something, even if all the passive-aggressive notes and HR superstars in the world were at my disposal, I’m still not sure I would. For one simple reason:

Better the devil you know.

I’m not a germophobe, per se, but I just really like to know that certain things, like toilets, are getting the proper cleaning they deserve. And I’ve seen some people’s idea of “cleaning” where they take a dry paper towel and just push stuff around until it’s harder to see. The only thing that makes me shudder more than walking in on The Mona Feces is the thought of sitting on a toilet where the remnants of The Mona Feces have just kind of been buffed into the seat without my knowledge.

At least when I do the cleaning, I know it’s being done right.

Madam Rorschach has been on vacation for the past two weeks, and I’ve made the most of ten blissful business days with absolutely no surprises when I patronize the powder room. I hope the toilet’s made the most of it too, because come Monday, all bets are off.

Life’s a bleach with Madam Rorschach.