"Is there anyone just resting in this room?" - DC

Just like any institution, I work in a place that houses tiny little cubicles that we defend with all of the aggressive habits of any free range dog. I am sure that Spencer, the newest addition to our Frankenstein of a family, has properly marked his territory and the cliché red stapler. Even though we aren't stuck in our tiny, al fresco offices like the normal work place, we do encounter all the banal hilarity that can be found in the latest Dilbert comic. We have the classic love/hate relationship with the copier, we breed the Dunder Mifflin staff quirks, and there then there is the continual search for paper, staplers, and pens that work.

I offer you a few tips for survival in the big city of minuscule working quarters.

Part One: The Bathrooms

Elusive Privacy – Pee shy, performance anxiety, social conditioning gone awry thanks to your mother and her glare of shame, call it what you want. Some people need privacy to do their business. You would think a tiny rectangle with no roof, no closed floors, and a flimsy clasp not even worthy of closing your Wonderbra would afford you the luxury of a voyeur-free experience. God forbid you get stuck at a high traffic time and you end up with the dark stall which doesn't close.

If you can not manage the difficulty of the sacred double palmed door hold, you are usually out of luck. Have no fear, if you have armed yourself with your Office Kit, you can just reach in and grab the multi-tasker of amazement: duct tape. A few strips of this on the door and no one enters or leaves until you are done properly testing the indoor plumbing of your, no doubt, 100 year office building.

Scapegoating – It seems that I have free moment at everyday between the minutes of 11:13 and 11:20. If I miss this window, I am stuck standing up, breathing very shallowly, and giving the “I really am laughing on the inside” face until around noon. Unfortunately, if I do make the designated moment of release, I walk into the mustiest fog that ever left a human's body. Sometimes the evil-dooer would spray, but rotting intestinal refuse mixed with wild berries just adds a whole new level of harm. Why? Because there is a receptor in your brain that thinks “wait, but we like mixed berries!” and even though you have closed off all pathways into your body, some part of you wants to let in the berries. So, I hold my breath, but turning blue on the toilet is not the way I want to die, so I do the logical thing; I breathe through my mouth. Always a horrible mistake. A palatable humid funk invades and I try and resist, but then I think “wait, mixed berries!”. In the end, I just shed a tear and wait until I can open the door and escape the gas chamber this person has left behind. As I run to safety, I am inevitably and always confronted with a person, much like myself, who is dieing to use the loo. You see where I am going with this? Yes, the funk of doom is now pinned on yours truly who has barely survived in the dutch oven of hell herself.

A few days ago, I identified the culprit as the older blond lady with way too much lip liner. And I liked her so much before this. She had to be stopped. I was not going to be the one blamed for the torture of my co workers. Part of me wants to know what sort of weird bean and broccoli only diet she is on, another part of me wonders if she is really human, and another suspects that she is disposing of her rotting ex husbands via the indoor plumbing.

If you are ever caught in this lethal situation, my advice is to either fake throwing up (which won't be hard) in order to signal to the next person that a.) the person before you left a stench not even a dog would roll in and b.) that you did not expel anything from the end of you that would produce such wondrous gases. You may also want to open the stall, room, whatever you have and keep it open as to let everyone around you know that you are not going to become a mouth breather in that poisonous atmosphere.

Or, you could do like my Russian co worker, Alina, does. She opens the door, takes a whiff and says, “I can do better!”

Be A Man Use Your Hand – Why is it that the most difficult task for a janitor to do is to replace the toilet paper when it is low? Is it because that enormous roll of paper is so rough and thin that picking it up ends up being a very daunting task? Is he hording the stuff for his family of eleven? Are the dispensers just too darn complicated to operate? Who knows. And who knows why we covet this sandpaper at all. We use the paper that can't even take the stress of its own function for the most holy of sanitary acts. You want a few squares, maybe three, maybe four, but this roll of iniquity can't even handle the tug necessary for the roll to move anymore than a square at a time. If you are in a high class place, you can tell by the way the toilet tissue flowers in your hand. Yep, there's your two ply, a see-through pile of squares.

Baby wipes are a good solution, but once again you have to have confidence in your building's decrepit piping. I suggest hiding a roll in your filing cabinet. Nothing is worth a wet hand, an eternity gathering squares, the dread shake, or a day of swamp ass.

For him or for her – If you've ever worked in a normal place of business, you've had the opportunity to venture over to the other side, the land of urine scented tile and little metal door flaps.

Aside from the one employee who dispenses the fog, the woman's bathroom is unique in its attempts to cover up the result of too much coffee with very oddly misplaced scents. Oh, is that fruit I smell in the bathroom? Who was eating a watermelon in here? Sugar cookies? Huh, wow, how come I didn't get any? Another facet unique to the ladies' room is the metal door of disgust. It's that tiny, and often broken, silver box usually mounted between stalls, and if you push far enough you can watch Betty, grandmother to five, doing her business. Most women steer clear of that box unless they are adding to its vile contents. Men, don't give into your curiosity. That elephant stays in that room and you never address it, not for a second. You hear me? Although, you will find that it is broken much of the time and your delusions of the bodily function-free woman will not be spared.

The mens' room has its own special features. I have often heard of bizarre urinal situations. Some involving very tall men and short fixtures that allow a great splashing effect, much like the fountains in Las Vegas. I have also heard of very tall urinals that defy logic and probably require water works talent to operate. All of this crazy contorting makes for a splash radius rivaled only by the first five rows at Sea World. Women, if you must use the mens' room, wash the bottoms of your shoes when you've left. Despite all of the stray pee, I am still envious of men and their quick, no bending, no wiping, in and out routine.

Other bathroom quirks to be aware of:

There is often no hot water, if there is, it is probably scalding or takes an hour to come through the pipes.

Paper towels are just that, paper dyed brown. They hurt.

Watch for crouchers and always line the toilet seat. You don't want to come home to your significant other and be asked why you have the bottom of someone's Nike drawn out in dirt on your ass.

Want to clear the bathroom? Just sing.

Beware of people who talk on the phone in public restrooms. There is something wrong with them.