when partner and i were in europe, we encountered this phone booth in austria. we said at the time that if it were possible to catch an STD from a phone booth, this would be the one.
as luck would have it, i wound up enduring an arduous hour-long relationship drama on a trans-atlantic phone call from this very phone booth, so we have pretty definitive proof that if you're a good girl it is, indeed, impossible to contract an STD from standing in the skankiest place on earth. nonetheless, this phone booth became the standard by which all future nastiness was judged.
that said, i've long feared that my bathroom has achieved the hygienic standards of that phone booth. because i LOATHE cleaning the bathroom. with a violent passion. and so i have avoided it. to the extent that i am not sure i have ever truly cleaned a bathroom in my entire adult life.
and now birnsy is coming to town. we're going to save for another day the in-depth analysis of the fact that the impending arrivals of various lovers and dear people have never stirred me to such action and instead focus on how it wasn't until i was threatened with the arrival of a friend i hardly know, that i finally womaned up and hunkered down and cleaned the bathroom.
a bathroom, i should mention, that is over 100 years old and which, judging from the hair/dirt/filth content that i extracted from the crevice beneath the radiator and the floor, has never once been cleaned in its 100 years. and having now touched the hair/dirt/filth of generations of dwellers who lived here before me and whose hair/dirt/filth may have survived them by 60+ years, i think we have a new standard by which to judge all future nastiness. because that phone booth's looking pretty good right about now.