The Christmas . . .er Bathroom visitor

Maybe I should preface this picture with the fact that I have nothing against children or their inquisitive behavior. Now on with my rant.

I was shopping for a bathroom today at work. I'm not sure if anyone else does this but within walking distance from my desk there are three distinctive men's rooms. I'll list them in order of preference starting with the worst.

1. "Employee" bathroom. This bathroom is your standard men's room that smells like a cross between wet dog, urine, and a Jr. high locker room. Let's just say it is a last resort to a desperate situation. I've never actually "hovered" as my wife calls it, but this bathroom has caused me to consider the action more than once.

2. "Flying solo" bathroom. This bathroom is sort of an anomaly in the workplace. It's a single user facility with a series of 3 doors to get in, the last of which locks. Hence, your forced to "run the gauntlet" to even find out if someone is occupying said bathroom. Usual etiquette would dictate that if the bathroom is currently being utilized that you continue shopping but some like to camp by the door like it's the line for U2 tickets. Hence, if your going to be taking your time it can be awkward facing everyone with strained looks on the way out. Only slightly better than option 1.

3. "VIP/visitor" bathroom. This bathroom was somehow designated for customers or important visitors. This means it is cleaned more than once a month and contains sinks that don't resemble something from a men's correctional institute. Whenever an employee walks in and catches the eye of another fellow employee coming out, a secret bond has been formed. Both nod like they are agreeing on a mob hit and never mention a word about the encounter.

The last bathroom is by far my favorite but can sometimes be tricky to get into. This will be the setting of my visitor incident. I was lucky enough to get the handicapped stall where there is always a newspaper left for people to read. It's like being at home. I was taking my time and reading about the TV writer's strike when I became aware that I wasn't alone in not only the bathroom but my inner sanctuary known as a stall as well.

Another employee had brought his two children into the bathroom and was cheering on his son occupying the stall next to me while his daughter was doing the same for me. She had poked her head under the wall and was peppering me with questioning looks.

I'm going to stop here and ask, where was her father during this conversation? Is this something that is not only acceptable to their family but encouraged? Either way, I pulled the deer in the headlights look as I lowered my paper to find a toddler staring straight at me. The conversation went as follows:

Blaine: Uh . . .
Toddler: . . . .
Blaine: Can I help you?
Toddler: . . . .
Blaine: Where is your daddy?
Toddler: . . . Well my real daddy ran away with a dancer named "Bambi" but this man takes care of me anyway.

Ok, that last line was fabricated, but you get the idea.

Eventually she wandered away from the peep show and her dad never mentioned the event. He might have even been oblivious to the incident. I am however scarred for life picturing this girl as the harbinger of doom in every restroom i now visit.