While I've always been envious of people with OCD's (it's nice to have a special purpose), the closest I've come is my tendency to take a different route to and from a destination. Even if that destination is, say, the restroom.

I wash my hands a lot. Too much, maybe. Of the whole situation. No. I ride public transportation. Door handles, stair railings, escalators, elevator buttons, and whatnot. And though I try to love everybody, I would prefer to carry along traces of mucus and fecal bacteria. Yeah, I'm a prude.

So. Most of my office restroom trips are for hand washing. Or tooth brushing (remember, oral cleanliness is next to oral godliness).

The one problem to all of this (that I choose to admit) is the soap in the dispensers runs out before noon every day. To deal with the run on soap, the maintenance staff has responded by installing motion-activated, electronic soap dispensers.

I'm sure that the cost involved with an electronic device rationing out soap worth fractions of fractions of fractions of a cent will pay for itself within the lifespan of my great grandchildren.

And, costs be damned if they worked worth a damn. Instead, when you put your hands under them, you hear a sound that, I swear, sounds like "spooge". And a tiny little dribble of soap slowly drips into your hand. It looks like the way Dave Small used to pin me down on the playground and let loose and suck back a string of drool that was so horrifying, I later referred to him as the Sword of Damocles.

How little soap comes out? Well, I pictured that, if I were to have a vestigial twin growing out of my hand, there'd be just enough soap to lather the whorl on his li'l noggin.

So, the natural solution is to wave your hands under the thing more than once. Nope. The things were apparently designed by men of a certain age, built in their own image, and they need a little time to ready themselves for an, umm, repeat performance.

But with two basins, side-by-side, I could reach under both of them, and get a more serviceable amount. Spooge right - check. Spooge left - .... It was empty.

Looking in the mirror, I mumbled, "Come. The fuck. On." I'm not going to let Big Soap keep me down. I'm strictly BYOS from now on.

Labels: whatever happened to duck vagina?