Jingle Butts

I don’t know why I’ve been so exhausted lately. Workwise I don’t really have any more on my plate than I did in November; lifewise, ditto. My Christmas shopping is done, gifts are wrapped and under the tree, party obligations fulfilled. Nothing left but to gorge myself on eggnog and imported iced gingerbread.

Despite all this, my body is acting like I just ran back-to-back Tough Mudders or something, because apparently if I can’t give it a legitimate excuse to complain then it’ll damn well just make one up.

Because it’s a douche.

So I grabbed a Groupon and hauled my douchey body to the spa to have a much too friendly and energetic lady beat the everloving shit out of it treat it to a nice, restorative deep tissue massage.

But before we got started, I paid their washroom a visit and was greeted by this:

I just love it when businesses find creative ways to incorporate their spare toilet paper into the decor.

Here we have all the makings of a great festive holiday basket: a bed of terrycloth and fragrant potpourri; a bare tree branch, signifying the bleak sparseness of winter; a handful of sturdy pine cones whose seeds will bring forth new life in the coming year; a roll of bathroom tissue, symbolic of pure white snow and the future act of writing one’s name in it…

Beautiful.

Okay, so it’s not exactly a museum-worthy work of toilet tissue art, but points for trying, right?

I do think the spa could elevate their decor efforts even further with the right choice of soundtrack. The standard soft flute melodies and rainforest noises they tend to favor are pretty, but predictable.

In my opinion you can never go wrong with a return to the classics. Personally, I think a little “Air on the G String” would complement their chosen theme perfectly.

See? Lovely.

NanoPoblano, Day 2: The heat is on.

Bless me, Father, for I have traveled. It has been five days since my last use of a toilet without a heated seat.

Japan…you know I love you. From your stupidly complex rail system that puts the London Underground to shame, to your stunning shrines and landscapes, to your private karaoke booths, you are perfectly eccentric and lovely. But you have issues, Japan. Issues with warmth.

Believe it or not. I am just fine with sitting down on a toilet seat that doesn’t feel like another warm-blooded human being has only just recently vacated it. And don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the sounds of rushing water and chirping birds that accompanied my restroom visit in Disneyland, but are all these things really essential in life? Will my thighs disown me and run off to join the circus if I sit them down on a  regular toilet seat that isn’t at optimum temperature, accompanied by soft jazz and the sounds of nature?

No, they will not. Because your heated seats are creepy. My ass is hot enough without your help. Double entendre intended.

Hot bottled vending machine drinks, on the other hand…why exactly are these not a thing in Canada? ‘Cause dang…good job on those.

The return of Madam Rorschach.

Remember how I told you about Madam Rorschach’s unsavory oeuvres d’art? And how she was coming back from vacation after two weeks of the office toilet being spoiled spotless?

Well, either she was suffering from a creative block (mental or physical, take your pick) or just decided to give the toilet and I a grace period to readjust to her presence, because her first week back came and went without any new additions to the Sistine Crapper. And silly me, I made a terrible mistake. I got my hopes up that maybe, just maybe, she had had some miraculous epiphany during her time away and realized that the art world was not for her after all.

Live and learn, people, live and learn. Because today I discovered…

This is what I get for being an optimist.

Even so, I’m suitably impressed that she made it through a whole week without any displays of shartistry. Maybe I’ll bake her a cake to commemorate the achievement.

Although a bran muffin might be more appropriate.

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.

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