Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Bathroom Humor
Warning: If you are squeamish about things of a scatological nature, skip this post.
*****
I admit to being hopelessly out of touch with popular culture. When I happen across lists of the Top 10 records or books or movies, I rarely recognize any of them. But I do know that CSI is the most viewed program on television. And though I've never seen an episode, I hear that it has sparked a surge of interest in all things forensic. I consider myself lucky that I struggle to imagine a single way in which forensics relates to my daily life. But all that changed today.
Today was the celebration marking Max's last day of school. The kids warded off the heat by splashing around the courtyard in their bathing suits and slurping ice pops while a facepainter transformed 3-year olds into lions and bumblebees and ladybugs. For his metamorphosis, Max wanted to become a red and black butterfly. He'd informed me last week that his favorite day at school was the day the butterflies came out of their cocoons on the playground, and I suspect this was his tribute.
We'd been home a short while when Max set off running toward the back of the house. After a minute or so, I followed him. He was already coming back down the hall wearing nothing but facepaint. I asked Max if he had used the potty. "No, I went into your bathroom, but I ran out of time."
As I walked by my sink, I saw the puddle in the middle of the floor. Taking a giant step over it, I retrieved a towel from the cabinet near the shower. I thought my clean-up job was complete when I noticed drops on the doorframe between the sinks and the shower room. Then I spied rivulets running down the wall. A telltale smudge of red and black paint stained my white robe. Max's discarded bathing suit lay nearby. As I moved along the wall, I noticed that the floor in the toilet compartment was wet, too. The sheetrock behind and beside the toilet yielded more evidence. The toilet wasn't spared, either--it wasn't used, of course, but it wasn't spared. The lid was down, and the porcelain was splattered. Turning around, I found the door christened, too. Then I retraced my steps to the original crime scene and took a closer look. Pools had formed on the marble countertop surrounding Lee's sink and on the floor beneath it. The cabinets in between were still dripping, and the wet footprints of the perpetrator led out the bathroom door and down the hall.
All I could think was: "What the hell happened here? How on earth did Max do this?"
After examining the evidence, here's my hypothesis: When Max entered the bathroom, he thought his plan was sound. Standing next to the tub, he removed his bathing suit. He went into the toilet compartment, but he encountered an unexpected contingency: the lid was closed. According to his body, time was up. He began to pee. Now Max knew that his plan was failing, and he panicked. He turned, spraying walls and door, and walked back past the tub, spraying more walls and my robe. There was no turning back. He stopped close to the doorway, facing in the direction of Lee's sink, where he relieved himself to the utmost. And then he fled.
I hope I never get to see a reenactment.
*****
I admit to being hopelessly out of touch with popular culture. When I happen across lists of the Top 10 records or books or movies, I rarely recognize any of them. But I do know that CSI is the most viewed program on television. And though I've never seen an episode, I hear that it has sparked a surge of interest in all things forensic. I consider myself lucky that I struggle to imagine a single way in which forensics relates to my daily life. But all that changed today.
Today was the celebration marking Max's last day of school. The kids warded off the heat by splashing around the courtyard in their bathing suits and slurping ice pops while a facepainter transformed 3-year olds into lions and bumblebees and ladybugs. For his metamorphosis, Max wanted to become a red and black butterfly. He'd informed me last week that his favorite day at school was the day the butterflies came out of their cocoons on the playground, and I suspect this was his tribute.
We'd been home a short while when Max set off running toward the back of the house. After a minute or so, I followed him. He was already coming back down the hall wearing nothing but facepaint. I asked Max if he had used the potty. "No, I went into your bathroom, but I ran out of time."
As I walked by my sink, I saw the puddle in the middle of the floor. Taking a giant step over it, I retrieved a towel from the cabinet near the shower. I thought my clean-up job was complete when I noticed drops on the doorframe between the sinks and the shower room. Then I spied rivulets running down the wall. A telltale smudge of red and black paint stained my white robe. Max's discarded bathing suit lay nearby. As I moved along the wall, I noticed that the floor in the toilet compartment was wet, too. The sheetrock behind and beside the toilet yielded more evidence. The toilet wasn't spared, either--it wasn't used, of course, but it wasn't spared. The lid was down, and the porcelain was splattered. Turning around, I found the door christened, too. Then I retraced my steps to the original crime scene and took a closer look. Pools had formed on the marble countertop surrounding Lee's sink and on the floor beneath it. The cabinets in between were still dripping, and the wet footprints of the perpetrator led out the bathroom door and down the hall.
All I could think was: "What the hell happened here? How on earth did Max do this?"
After examining the evidence, here's my hypothesis: When Max entered the bathroom, he thought his plan was sound. Standing next to the tub, he removed his bathing suit. He went into the toilet compartment, but he encountered an unexpected contingency: the lid was closed. According to his body, time was up. He began to pee. Now Max knew that his plan was failing, and he panicked. He turned, spraying walls and door, and walked back past the tub, spraying more walls and my robe. There was no turning back. He stopped close to the doorway, facing in the direction of Lee's sink, where he relieved himself to the utmost. And then he fled.
I hope I never get to see a reenactment.
2 Comments:
Oh. My. Go...odness.
I'm sure you would've made a fine forensic investigator, had you chosen that path.
Did Max manage underpants for the last days of school?
Yes! And successfully, too, according to both Max and his teacher. That's good, because I was afraid he might try to use a flower bed in the courtyard like he sometimes does in the backyard. (Love the picture of you with Sasha!)
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