Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Another Public Toilet Dilemma: The Seat

One of the very few truisms I learned from my mother Phyllis was never to sit on a public toilet seat lest I become pregnant. And here I am 68 years old and I’ve never sat down on a public toilet seat nor have I ever fallen pregnant. This may be the only advice from that woman for which I’m grateful.

But this safer peeing comes with a price. The purity of my “down there” is predicated on the dirtying of my thumb and forefinger. If I am to avoid spritzing the seat and polluting the experience of subsequent users – which I do avoid at all costs – I must raise up the seat and squat over the bowl – which I do. I accomplish the lifting of the germy oval by holding a piece of toilet paper between my hand and the plastic seat. When I finish squatting, I perform the reverse action.

If the American toilet seat designers had listened to Phyllis like the Italians obviously did, they would have simply produced seats with a lip-like handle (see the photo above) meant to aid us in elevating and lowering the oval. It protrudes from the seat so that nobody’s ass touches it and it is not splashed with poo-poo water from underneath. It is meant for fingers. I found these in many of the public facilities during a recent trip to Italy and it was such an easy solution that I was surprised it hasn’t been replicated in the States.

The top photo is what the Italian version looks like, but there are a variety of inventions based on the same concept, such as the ring in the photo to the left. Apparently you can even get a pack of disposable plastic hooks to use when you’re out and about, but that seems like a lot of work. When I have to pee, I don’t have the temporal luxury of rooting around my backpack, opening a package of finger hooks, and then completing the action. At this age, when I gotta go, I gotta go.

You are probably desperate to know which other truisms Phyllis bestowed upon me. One was the rather innovative idea that if you splash cold water on your face on a hot day, it might cool you down. The other was that if you get your bangs off your forehead and keep yourself clean and neat, it won’t matter so much that your nose is terribly big.

Yes, my inherited mansion may have failed to arrive, but you can see where my street smarts came from. (My dad.)

VENUS IN FUR at Balch Arena Theater, Tufts University

Venus in Fur calls itself with perfect accuracy “a seductive comedy about love, lust, and literature.” The play was adapted by David Ives from the novella of the same name by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch (from whose name comes the term “masochism”). The award-winning director Sheriden Thomas has once again brought theatrical excellence to Tufts with this edgy, complicated treat.

The two Tufts seniors, who comprise the entire cast, play both actors and the characters themselves, moving in and out of the mundane and the imaginary, of the dominant and submissive, and of the antagonist and the flirt.

Tyler Beardsley does a nuanced job of playing Thomas, the writer who is transformed into the director and actor, pushed past his straight-laced personality into the depths of his buried kinky desires. Tessa Barlow-Ochshorn is riveting and exciting as Vanda, the name of both the disheveled, distracted actor coming to audition and the role she is trying to secure. Tessa’s performance is stunning.

Sheriden Thomas, a senior lecturer in the Department of Drama and Dance is also an actor who recently won Best Actress at the 20th Annual Independent Reviewers of New England Awards ceremony for her work in a Play Small Theater (Fringe). Her directorial decisions in Venus in Fur are flawless. For years she has chosen risky and daring plays for her students. Full disclosure – Sheriden and I are friendly.

Forgive me for repeating myself from previous reviews, but we do not sufficiently support regional and university theatre in Boston. I remember this every time I am inspired or tickled by just such a production as Venus in Fur.

Market Basket and my Butt

I have a long history with the local supermarket chain Market Basket. When it was my neighborhood grocery store for a decade in the 2000s, I noticed two patterns there. First, every single solitary time I stood and oversaw as my groceries were rung up, the person or the cash register made at least one error in favor of Market Basket. There was always, without fail, an error and it was always, without fail, an overcharge. Not a single undercharge in a decade. You can believe that I called a manager over each time and was loud in my objections. I pointed out that the consistency of the problem meant that it was a policy decision, not a hiccup.

The other pattern I noted was that every manager and assistant manager in the store was a man and every checkout person was a woman. 100%. I put my outrage into a correspondence with upper management and within months that was no longer the case. Ever after I used to go up to the women managers and tell them, “You’re welcome.” They probably thought I was some crazy old white woman. To which there is some truth.

I no longer live near any of their stores. Yesterday, though, I decided to go to the new Market Basket that opened up about 5 miles from me. The thing is: I am addicted to MB’s basic toilet paper – and as my storage space is almost non-existent – I have to replenish every few months. Why bother over this one brand? I was in a quandary when I first returned to the States. I didn’t like most of the available toilet papers. The Scott was so thin that it needed to be wadded; and the over-“luxurious” types like Charmin felt spongy like Styrofoam. Market Basket’s basic product feels like paper and does the job.

So it is time to go load up on MB toilet paper. I also need a quart of milk and a few lemons. I enter the store (the first time I’ve been to this new one), and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the gargantuan size of the space. The milk turns out to be all the way to the left and the lemons all the way to the right, with the toilet paper in the middle.

I am not wearing my walking shoes, which is unfortunate because I end up doing more walking than a day in Venice. They ought to think about providing Segways or motorized carts. Helicopters would be too noisy and Star Trek transporters too expensive.

How I longed to be back to the human-sized Trader Joes. I don’t need a choice between 11 different brands and sorts of Raisin Bran. This American concept of “choice” is a delusion, meant to force us to pass hundreds of commodities in order to get to our quart of milk. My butt and I have got to face up to the challenge and find a different brand of toilet paper.