I think it’s the water. Or, not the water exactly, but the tube that pipes the water into the industrial coffee maker we have in the kitchen at work. Possibly it’s the Maxwell, but I’d like to give the company more credit than that. Either way, whatever the cause, the women who drink the office coffee get the shits like nobody’s business, and the women who don’t do not. Laura was the one who came to this clever bit of deduction, and thank God for her. We make regular treks across the quad to the Heine Bros in the library to avoid the coffee-related dysentery that plagues the rest of the female staff. I can’t speak for the men because I’m not a regular frequenter of their restroom, but the women of this office have some serious gastrointestinal shit going on. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I do not work with a bunch of kindergartners, and yet by some bizarre happenstance—the details of which I don’t dare to consider—the other day somebody left a back-slider skid mark on the edge of the toilet seat. What. The fuck.

It wouldn’t be so bad if there was a modicum of propriety observed, but I suppose it is probably too much to ask for the professionalism to extend to the stalls. If people have already resorted to outright shitting on the seats, it’s unreasonable to expect sweeties to wipe the seaties following the occasional sprinkle after a tinkle.

I’m going to take a time-out here and tell you a little bit about my bathroom rules. I think it’s a little weird when ladies go to the Ladies in a herd, but I’m perfectly okay with the chatting that occurs by the mirror/sink area. A little conversation with your hand-washing or lipstick application is totally fine with me. But once you or I enter the sanctum of the stall, I expect all conversation to come to a halt. There are no exceptions. I might forgive a last word or two that oversteps the boundaries, but we are not going to be discussing anything over the metal walls that divide us. This goes double if we work together. I’m uncomfortable enough knowing you pissers shit all over the seats, I don’t need you asking about my weekend while I’m imagining you do it right next door.

We only have two stalls in the women’s bathroom and the worst is when I know I’ve walked into the middle of somebody’s private standing appointment. This happens more frequently than is normal—again, the poisoned coffee-water—and I’ve come to think a large chunk of our staff’s daily work hours are spent on the shitter. Maybe that’s when they get their best ideas… Anyway, I come in expecting solitude, and find myself taking a Navy-speed pee to avoid having to hear, smell, or God-forbid converse with anything going on in the stall next to me. This is the one occasion when I feel like my neighbor and I have similar goals, and there is nothing but tensed silence between us. All the same, it’s an uncomfortable experience for everybody.

Get it together ladies, and lay off the office dregs.