Potty Humor: Gender Stereotyping in Bathroom Propriety

Women have you ever used the men's bathroom when the women's was taken or flooded? You never know how many refuse to lift the lid in a men's restroom though and miss the hole, since it supplies their only chance to leave it down or up without fear of spousal abuse later, so you wipe the seat and just hover while you pee. Somehow men's restrooms tend to feel filthier and less inviting. Public restrooms in deserted areas are easier to get away with sneaking in and out of because no one would notice your breech of societal rules. But what about busy places like grocery stores for instance? Is it forgivable to rebel against segregated bathrooms when really one size fits all? Often the only differentiation between the two rooms is about four inches of white paint depicting a skirt. Some do have urinals, yes and I find it amusing that so many women in our country have never seen one. A urinal for a woman is a taboo. We have all wondered about them, but never dispute that we are essentially forbidden by gender rules to explore them. I mean explore in the most basic of actions, using sight to observe detail and construct an understanding in one's mind. My question is, what purpose does it serve to have separate bathrooms? In most small businesses and in our homes there is one bathroom for everyone. If there is a constant flow of squatters (heh heh..) like at airports than I can somewhat understand the need to respect different cultural gender proprieties. More importantly how is it that some are so insistant that only that gender uses their designated restroom. So what about queers and transgenders, drag queens, transvestites, bisexuals, where do the rest of us fit in that black and white equation.

Good times...

You know those times with friends when the conditions are right, when everyone is energized and full of laughter. Yeah, why are those so rare?

Curse of a Caregiving Personality

A week has come and gone. I drove my little sister Michelle back to our parent's, back to her reality. My boyfriend joined us so we could visit his family. After arriving, I pried my littlest sister downstairs to greet me. She had something for me: a gold pen with my name engraved on the cap and the words "an attractive and considerate person" on the box. It surprised me somehow to know that she does think of me, and that I am a positive influence in her life no matter how far away I am. The tears caught in my throat, which she gathered as I was explaining how meaningful it was to receive something tangible back from her. I couldn't remember the last time we exposed our tears to one another. She covered her eyes and turned away shyly. Emotionality is a contagion in a family of sensitive women.
She interjected my emotional appraisal of the pen, "You'll still have me for the summer won't you?"
Pondering the sudden topic change, I nodded reassuringly. "Of course." I would take you back with me now but that is unfair to Jim and I need a few weeks to catch my breath. "Do you think you hold out until then?" I needed to know how desperate she was.
"Yeah. I can wait." Her voice seemed relaxed enough, verifying her words.
"Well if not, just call me." I hugged her again.
"I love you."
My heart drove into my brain. I wanted to pick her up and wisk her away right then. Required all my strength, faith in her resiliency and ability to survive to shove that protective urge down into a knot of weight in my chest where it would stir until I could release it safely.
Wait, just a little longer baby. "I love you too."

Beam Me Up

I never admitted that all developing adolescents, including my sisters, experience stages of sexual development. Not quite the same as realizing that your grandparents still have sex, because you don't have to clean up your vomit afterward, but equally disconcerting. Just one more thing to the list of denial.
I came home from work to find the office door closed and my little sister missing. I thought maybe she was hiding her emotional attack. As a courtesy, I knocked to provide time to compose herself, and walked in. But her look of modesty paired with a silly grin gave her away. A glance to a blank screen of the computer she was facing implied she was watching something she didn't want me to know about. Ho ho! Little miss modest does have naughty thoughts. I smiled suggestively, asked if she was okay, then walked out.
I came back an hour later and repeated the same ritual: knock, observe nothing on screen, you okay. But my curiosity had me lingering in the doorway longer than before.

The Believer - An Evening With Hapa

Perhaps I was wrong (refer to Writing Style Experiment). My friend had a dream come true, to play with those who inspired the path he follows, Hapa. Each concert, every gig working toward a way of living, learning guitar, building two groups together, endless rehearsals, a degree, jam sessions, all with a belief in what Hapa stood for, what he felt they accomplished and brought to his life. For some an idol is essential inspiration, a starting point or ideal. It was ill of me not to acknowledge that a belief is more than just the walking vessel. My apologies. They were not my models, but I appreciated the escape they provided nonetheless.

The concert was sold out, fans of young and old filled our little university recital hall. Add in our music professors and cream pies and we got ourselves a party! We could shave their heads if they would prefer that.
Ha'ena, my friend's local cover band, were invited to open the show for their idols as guest performers. Let us know how it was guys to watch and chat with them backstage. Chicken skin was your phrase?

I cannot fathom that true bliss of exchanging words with my guiding light. For comparison, would you compare it to meeting God? Better make certain Hapa doesn't read this, may overwhelm their egos. Possible?

The performers themselves were not what I expected. Familiarized with the relaxed traditional Hawaiian music my friend's group Ha'ena plays, I was surprised when a Billy Joel impersonator walked on stage and began dancing with his guitar like he was a one man band (minus the bad accent, at least Barry admitted being howlie). But it was entertaining to see a rock star in action, and the musician in me still sat amazed at the way their hands glided over the strings. I sware it was an optical illusion (what is this supposed to be?); I heard the notes, but my eyes couldn't catch their strumming. But I sank at the warmth of Nathan's voice. To hear vibrato and warmth like his applied to traditional songs was an experience all in itself. Never have I been so aroused by a man's falsetto. Whew.

I always enjoy watching traditional hula as well. The grace and simplicity of the movement speaks of a strength found in feeling connected to something greater than any one person. It demonstrates an appreciation for the land and ocean, for family, and encourages respect for the female form rather than the overly sexualized generalization created by media.
Truly a pleasure to be a participant in a rich display of empowerment. I am so happy for you my friends. Chi-hoo Ha'ena!

Disclaimer: For personal reassurance, I maintain high consideration for those whose lives inspire my writings. It is never my purpose to tell another's story, only to theorize about myself and my environment based on observation. I am fascinated by the affect the slightest interaction has on my perception of the world. I aim to share my musings on the human experience while the inspiration is stirring. Thus my work is my interpretation of his behavior based on my own colored lens and filtered through my own experience.