Does purse-sized protection work in public privies?

As a mom there are certain locations that I’ve gotten to know, shall I say, “intimately,” since having children.

For instance, the diaper aisle of the local WalMart at 11:48 p.m. I found myself there one night, dressed in something akin to pajamas I’m sad to admit, navigating my way through a group of 20 other bleary-eyed parents who were desperately trying to figure out if they needed extra leak protection or the regular protection diapers with the cool Buzz Lightyear logo.

I’ve also climbed inside the slide at McDonald’s PlayPlace (a misnomer that should really be called McDonald’s House of Screams). My son once got to the top of the contraption, parked himself firmly like an emperor overlooking his fiefdom, and refused to come down, forcing me to shimmy my way into a claustrophobic oblivion.

Another place where I’ve spent far too much time over the years is the public restroom. Through potty training alone, I’ve put in hours waiting, coaching, and (being the writer that I am) reading: the signs on the diaper changing stations, the notes scribbled on the stall walls … anything to pass the time.

But today’s reading material made me laugh out loud. This particular public restroom had those handy toilet seat covers that are supposed to keep us safe from E. coli, strep virus, fleas, ticks and weapons of mass destruction (I’m not entirely sure of that list). And the dispenser in which they are stored is made by a company called REST ASSURED.

Now I don’t know about you, but the last thing I want to do when I am using a public restroom is REST. Seriously, who’s going to take some leisure time, kick back, put her feet up and take a breather in a public restroom? Come to think of it, why is it even called a restroom? It’s not like we’re heading in there for a nap.

And as far as being ASSURED of anything, I think that’s a bit much to claim when it comes to a public restroom. Have you ever experienced those automatic flushing toilets? They’re terrifying. Nothing assuring about that. Make one wrong move and you’re ready for takeoff.

My friend’s daughter used to sit on the auto-flushing toilets in a crouching position, looking over her shoulder frantically, staring at the red sensor light. When it would start to blink she’d yell, “See? It’s gonna blow!”

Preach it sister.

I dug a little deeper into my toilet seat cover research on the Internet (you’d be surprised) and found one product called Charmin-to-Go. These disposable seat covers are conveniently packaged so they fit in your purse, backpack or pocket so you are always prepared in any bathroom situation.

Seriously? I can barely remember my keys or the names of my two children, so the chances of me planning ahead to pack my own toilet seat covers are slim to none.
And another thing … which marketing executive had the brilliant idea to call it Charmin-to-Go? I don’t know about you, but any time I buy anything with the words “to go” in it, I expect a large fry and Diet Pepsi to accompany it. So I’m not seeing how an individually-wrapped sterilized toilet seat cover is an upgrade. Talk about false advertising.

Who comes up with this stuff?

But then, my friend Ann reminded me that the creator of the flushing mechanism on the toilet was named Thomas Crapper.

And another piece of the potty puzzle falls into place.

Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

When the VCR strikes midnight on tech efficiency

It’s official: We’ve become our parents. As of last night, 8:46 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, Craig and I came face-to-face with the harsh reality that our oldest child has surpassed our abilities in the technological realm.

A few weeks ago, back when we were still comfortably ensconced in denial, Craig and I bought a Wii game console. Our 14-year-old son Nathaniel was so eager to play that he set it up for us before we even had it out of the box. We could have set it up ourselves, mind you, but we decided to toss him a bone and let him do it for us.

Then last night, my husband bought a Wii Resort game and confidently told our 8-year-old daughter that they could play it when they got home. But when he went to set up the game with the new remote he couldn’t figure out how to hook up the remote to the console.

An hour into the exercise I heard Lily say, “Dad, are you ready to play Wii with me?”
“No honey,” he called. “To be honest, I’m just killing time until your brother gets home from practice to set it up.”

That one statement took me back to a time in 1991 at Craig’s parents’ house in Ohio. Once again, Craig and I were going over the basics of how to re-set the VCR clock when it blinks 12:00. As we went through the sequence of buttons, his parents looked at us as if we were speaking Greek to them.

“How long has it been blinking?” I asked.

“Oh, since Craig went back to school last semester,” his mom said.

He had gone back to school three months earlier. I wondered, “Are these people incapable of handling a VCR without their son around?”

And now here we were, anxiously awaiting the arrival of our teenage son to get us out of our own technological jam.

When Nathaniel got home from band practice Craig explained the situation, and before he could even finish explaining the situation, Nathaniel was already working his magic. In TWO MINUTES (we timed him) he had it up and running. He fixed us with a long stare and said “What is WRONG with you guys?”

The problem, it appeared, was that Craig hadn’t turned the console ON.

“Don’t look at me,” I said, trying to save face. “It was your dad trying to do it. I just married him.”

Nathaniel gave me a withering look, quite possibly because he had recently gotten me out of a similar bind when I couldn’t figure out how to make a smiley face when sending a text.

I tell you, that kid continues to increase in value when it comes to helping us navigate our way through these newfangled technologies. He’s like an in-house tech support 24/7. He is going to be on my speed dial forever.

That is, just as soon as he shows me how to set up a speed dial on my cell phone.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and fixes the blinking 12:00 on her microwave in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

Put these questions on the "do not ask" registry

It’s not often that I am speechless. I usually have more than enough to say about everything under the sun, but there are a few instances that leave me scrambling to figure out what the appropriate response could possibly be.

For example, I had to have blood drawn a few weeks ago, and the nurse drawing my blood kept tapping my veins and saying, “You have really bad veins.” Now mind you, this is not the first nurse that’s disparaged my circulatory system. I get this all the time and I always sit by silently, allowing my veins to be slandered so, because really … what is the appropriate response? Do I say, “I’ll try harder?” How about, “Oh, you want the GOOD veins? Well, why didn’t you say so to begin with? Give me a minute … I was just giving you my mediocre veins but I know I can do better.”
Instead I sit by silently because there is no good response.

Here are a few other comments and questions that leave me speechless.

“Are these your children?”

This one always gives me pause because I’m not sure what behavior immediately preceded the question. Now, if my child has just played Beethoven on the piano without missing a beat, or been listed on the High Honor Roll, then yes, he is my child. But if my child has just finished burping the entire alphabet and followed it up with an arm fart, than no, I have no idea who that horrible child is. And any family resemblance is merely a coincidence.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

My mom was the queen of this particular question. It made me re-think every style decision I had made leading up to my entry into the kitchen for breakfast. I’d ask myself, “What is it exactly that she has a problem with?” (Because there was no doubt in my mind … she had a problem with something in my ensemble, hence the question.) Was it the 4-inch dangly earrings? The bleached-out jeans which were all the rage in 1984? Or the rolled-up bandana wrapped in a jaunty fashion around my head? I thought I was styling, but with one simple question, she left me wondering if I had indeed made a mistake. (For the record, I now use this technique on my own children.)

“Are you feeling sick?”

Whodawa? I WAS feeling right as rain until you came along. But now? No, I’m not feeling so hot because I’m wondering … Do I look ill? Do I have something hanging from my nose? Have I broken out in spots of which I am unaware? Has my skin taken on a hue that is not human? (A close relative of the awful “Are you feeling sick?” is “You look tired.” If you do come across me looking sick and/or tired, your best bet is to keep moving along and save yourself an (1) illness or (2) bad attitude.

“When are you due?”

Let me be absolutely clear here – this is NEVER a good question to ask a woman. If a woman looks like she might be pregnant, just stop right there. You need not ask anything further. If she is indeed pregnant, let her announce that joyful bit of news herself. You know what they say about assuming? NEVER ASSUME.

The ironic thing in all of this is that I’m usually the worst offender with these kinds of things. I tend to think verbally, then edit later, which, let me tell you, is not a good plan. Sadly, I came by my column name of “Did I Say That Out Loud?” honestly.

So let this be a reminder to all of us to be careful out there. And just let it go once in a while … we don’t really need to know “Is that your real hair color?” Next time you have the impulse to ask, just take a deep breath, smile and walk on by.

Eileen Burmeister lives and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com.

Time for my own page

I've been using Facebook to link my column to family and friends, but it's high time I start my own blog so here goes nothing.