On the right (urinary) tract to equality.

I drink a lot of water. Seriously, a lot. I have a water bottle I got from a race that advertises a triathlon I didn’t run, but I still carry it with me like some stupid badge of pride or security blanket. I’m fearful of dehydration but according to the almighty Internet, if you drink more, you avoid snacking. It hasn’t really worked, but was has worked is my urgent need to urinate almost every hour.

While this happens mostly at work, I’m lucky with a home-based office that I share a bathroom with my boss’s son, and there are always good books to read on the scintillating subject matters of shapes, opposites, and ducks.  More seriously, I’m lucky that my bathroom isn’t designated by gender.

I don’t know if I’ll become enough of a crazy liberal to argue for those Ally McBeal unisex bathrooms, but I will argue that urinals are a waste of resources. And it’s not just me, the Navy also agrees. Recently, the Navy decided that all of their new carriers (you might recognize this class of ship by sinking it on Battleship) would not have urinals in order to accommodate for changing staff on the ship.

The change heralded by the Gerald R. Ford class of carriers – starting with the namesake carrier due in late 2015 – is one of a number of new features meant to improve sailors' quality of life and reduce maintenance costs, Capt. Chris Meyer said yesterday, 7/11/12 (CNN Blog) Plus, look how fucking sweet this new carrier is:

First of all, as a huge supporter of our military, I’m excited that the Navy is making the right measures to help improve the morale of the troops and spend the defense budget on something more apt, say, actually defending our country. Without urinals, bathrooms can be designated as male or female on a whim, and account for the changing population of the Navy (girl power!).

Second, urinals are not as inclusive as they sound (your-inals is deceptive). While I’ve never successfully peed in one, I know how gross they can get. Captain Meyer agrees too. “Urinals clog more than toilets and therefore can be smellier and costlier to maintain”. Obviously, because guys are fucking slobs.

One of my first blog posts ever was about sharing a bathroom with my previous roommate Alex, and his attempt to train me to leave the toilet seat lid down. While Alex was remarkable about not leaving the seat up (you were too Brock!!), I still wonder to this day why guys have to lift the seat up to pee, but can piss with seemingly (but never perfect) accuracy into the much smaller urinal. Men, you must weigh in on this inconsistency to me. The fact that you can’t aim when you’re sober is appalling to me.

I am going to share a ridiculous story with you. One time, when I was roughly 7 or 8, I accidentally opened the door on my Dad taking a leak. I didn’t see anything except the subtle difference that he gets to pee standing up and I had to pee sitting down. Plus, at that age I was neurotically wasting toilet paper to cover the seat every time I went, even when it was at home. I was bowled over. What a time saver! Why didn’t I think to pee standing up?! I realize my blissful ignorance came at the time that I also didn’t know guys had different parts than women, so it obviously made more sense at the time.

So, I tried a few hours later. I stood straight up and got as close to the toilet as possible without crouching, and peed. Shocker, I ended up pissing on my rolled down tights and underwear. That’s when I engineered a better idea, I would stand OVER the toilet, on top of the seat, and gravity would take care of the rest. Without taking off my urine tights or my shoes, I stood on top of the seat, one leg on each side of the lid, and finished my stream. It actually worked, until I slipped coming down due to how much pee I had on the floor. The injury wasn’t worth it.  Later, I’d chalk it up to being a hard way to learn that guys have a penis and girls have a vagina (Thanks Kindergarten Cop).

This embarrassing anecdote over, I return to my rant about urinals. Yes, in an ideal world, everyone could pee the same way and if we just had lines of uniform, walled-in stalls, would anyone be the wiser? No, but since anyone who stands up to pee ends up making a mess, we have to have separate bathrooms and it’s not fair that guys are genetically inferior and can’t learn how to pee cleanly and safely. Until they do, I fundamentally believe urinals should be outlawed.

And I’m not alone. Men in the Navy are optimistic about this change. Many sailors like to sleep in little clothing, Captain Brian Luther reports. On Ford, they won’t have to bother with putting on more appropriate clothing before hitting the head. A corpsman said he has seen sailors relieving themselves into bottles in their rack rather than having to get dressed in the middle of the night. (Navy Times Article) Now, everyone can experience the same agony of lumbering up in the middle of the night to take a leak in the toilet. God bless equality.

I applaud the Navy and its progressive attitutde with its flexible accommodations. I don’t think the switch over will lead to a caliber of less manly servicemen (some fuckwits online believe this can actually happen), but I think we should embrace the role of women in our service and hope that men who protect our great country can someday keep a clean bathroom and improve their accuracy. If they can’t aim the stream of pee coming out of their penis, do we really want them firing missiles at terrorists, anyways?

Hot Rod Lincoln: My Love Affair with Nebraska

After the tumultuous weather experienced in DC on Friday, I knew I had to get out of here. Nobody had power, residents were driving like lunatics, and the tree people were threatening to take over our major roads. Fortunately, I had an outlet: a planned brief but intense work jaunt to Lincoln, Nebraska.

It wasn’t meant to be glamorous trip, or that’s what I assumed. I had to cancel on a couple of Sunday plans with the excuse “I’m going to Nebraska…no seriously”, but ultimately I was excited. I love everything about travel and visiting new places. I’d get to see my colleague Travis and escape the third world country that the Washington, DC area had become. Little did I know that in under 48 hours, I’d fall in love.

Upon eventually arriving in the Cornhusker State, I didn’t feel any different. The weather was comparable and the airport still smelled like fast food. I met up with my shuttle driver, Dennis, and that’s when I immediately noticed the difference: people in Nebraska are nice. Like really fucking, Mister Rodger’s,  nice. They have manners here. I look fondly back on that quote in Fight Club where Marla says that when you’re dying, people actually listen to what you have to say, instead of waiting for their turn to speak. Or something like that. Except no one is dying in Nebraska (besides normal mortality rates), they just actually give a shit about you.

After I checked into my hotel, I already had my disheveled airline hair complimented, my faith praised as being one of the ‘Chosen Ones’, and was told to just be happy and party hard. As someone who just never shuts the fuck up, I occasionally feel like a diseased stranger in DC. My verbal diarrhea is looked upon like a mental illness, and that outright outspokenness is a detriment, unless you’re a political pundit. In Nebraska, discourse is not only welcome, but it’s the norm.

I went to a bar, and was greeted with just really nice people. It was a local bar (Patty’s Pub, no relation to the one in Philly on FX), and full of locals. I plopped down next to Frank and Connie, two married retirees who hoped they’d hit it big on Keno. Keno’s a big fucking deal in Lincoln, it’s like the national pastime. I thought it was like bingo, but as Frank explained, it’s “Chinese or Japanese or Asian for ‘one more number’”, which makes sense, since everyone just wants one more number to be called for them to get the jackpot. Frank’s biggest payout was $6000, and he’s been playing the same lucky numbers for 25 years: the birthdates of his grandkids. 

Frank took off to take a whiz and to say hi to some of the other bar regulars: (“nice butch Lesbian girls, but aren’t we all here to party hard on Earth, so who cares who they love?”), I got to talking to Connie, who was fretting about smoking a big turkey the next day. This seemed stressful, so I pressed her for more information. She’s already smoked pork butts and ribs before, but this was a whole turkey. I wish I could have given her real advice, but my unfortunate background in the Northeast just told her that I knew how to buy another turkey at the grocery store if she messed up. “Oh no,” she explained, “I killed this one, I don’t have anymore”.

The personal independence of people in Nebraska is huge. I’m so used to be around whiners in the DC area that it was refreshing to be around people who just had their shit together. Instead of worrying about traffic on the Beltway, Lincoln is set up like “a checkerboard, you know, up and down lines. Got all your pieces in a row”, my other new bar friend Leonard exclaimed. He was so proud of his longstanding insurance business and apartment rentals that I was almost ready to ditch Silver Spring to lease a two bedroom apartment with utilities included for $900.

Besides the upstanding caliber of people in Nebraska (unemployment is super low in Lincoln and there’s very little crime), the food is amazing. After a whirlwind work day on Monday with Travis, I told him I wanted distinctly Lincoln, Nebraskan  food. I was already stuffed from a hot turkey sandwich and mashed potatoes the night before at Patty’s.

I knew I couldn’t eat another meal submerged in enough gravy to stop one of Hanibal’s elephants dead in its tracks, so we went out for what’s called a runza. I posted it on Facebook, but it’s too delicious for a picture to do it justice. It’s like an oven baked pierogi meat mouth spectacular. Served with fries or onion rings (a combo of both is called Frings), the pairing is terrific. Served quickly, efficiently and with a smile, I didn’t want to leave the restaurant. Gone was my previous personal shame about admitting I had McDonald’s for lunch—runzas are a confidence booster and a badge of pride of the fast food industry.

I was comfortably satiated until dinner, when I got to experience another Lincoln culinary delight: Valentino’s pizza.  This was the most famous pizza the city had to offer, and I was just ready for something with crust. No—it was SO. MUCH. MORE. We splurged and got garlic bread, which ended up being cheesy hamburger bun tops soaked in delicious garlic and butter. Travis said he could have eaten at least 6 servings, and after I finished my portion, I truly felt I could do the same. The pizza was just as delightful. I sprung for the spinach and artichoke dip pizza, which is even better than the name. Back home in the East, we just use spinach and artichoke dip as an appetizer. In Nebraska, it’s a pizza topping. I’ll never be able to go back to a Chili’s again.

And so, I leave Nebraska with a full stomach and a fuller heart. I’m not looking forward to clambering on the Metro, dealing with rush hour traffic, and rudeness. Time might move a little slower in Nebraska for some, but every minute is enjoyable. I can’t wait for my next visit, and I’ve already gotten down the lingo of corn futures, grain production, and lucky Keno numbers. And who knows, maybe I’ll take up Leonard’s offer. He did give me his business card. I’m sure Connie will have some leftovers waiting for me also.