Suicide Showers and Poopy Papers

I have moments every so often now when I am reminded that there are are others, probably tens of millions of others actually, who have survived to adulthood while playing a vastly different game than any that I am used to. Life for even the most destitute American Child must be viewed as amongst the highest in the world in terms of nutritional standards, universal availability to top-notch medical care, and any other number of socioeconomic advantages. American Children, who later become American Teenagers and American Adults, all grow up with certain perceived minimal standards of what constitutes safe/sanitary in the bathroom that would shock or disgust them if breached. Some need nothing short of a platinum bidet to be happy while many mountainfolk make due with holes in the ground.

I, the Intentional Gringo, have recently had to vastly alter my attitudes regarding basic bathroom axioms. Those are Suicide Showers and Poopy Papers.

A Note Regarding Basic Safety: Ever tossed a television into a bubble bath before? How about a rice cooker? No you say? Interesting. Almost sounds as though you learned from a very young age that electricity and water are bad together - Whitney N' Bobby BAD together. Trees in a thunderstorm? GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THEM. Swimming in a thunderstorm? GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WATER. Over and over again these warnings have been shouted by anyone older than 12 to anyone dumb enough to not know that electricity and water will straight up murder your ass.

Not in my apartment. Nor the apartments of a few million people in my adopted home. No...in THESE homes the 'Electricity + Water = Death' Equationists must take a seat to the Electrified Showerhead Lobby, for they are the purveyors of the aptly nicknamed "Suicide Shower". This powerful consortium of the brightest minds in this country have banded together to popularize a shower head that heats shower water via direct electrical connection located inside the shower. I do not lie. This device conveniently makes a noise similar to the low pitch hummzphummzp of a bug zapper. Many locals have remarked to me the notices in the newspaper that are frequent enough to not arouse special attention that eulogize some poor soul foolish enough to try and move the shower head the wrong way...and get fried like pollo. Because there is electricity inside the shower. Is the school for electricians THAT wildly different here than in the US where they allow certified professionals to install a separate outlet in your shower?? This is something that I doubt I will ever understand or condone. Remember this when you bitch about your water pressure - at least you wont die if you cant get all of the conditioner out. There are men here who's last words are an off key, erroneous rendition of a Nickelback song.

Etiquette de Papel Higenico: God bless my mother. She has spent the last 20+ years of her life devoting all of her love and energy to me, and for this I am eternally grateful. Unerringly she has taken every possible opportunity to shower me with praise, especially in reference to my early childhood. I musta been some sort of child wonder the way that my mother carries on about my sophisticated sense of humor and boundless curiosity.

My father, on the other hand, likes to point to a different part of my early youth as a prime example of my unique gifts. He, unerringly, loves to refer to the fact that it took YEARS for my parents to potty train me. Seriously. I don't remember anything from that period of my life but from all accounts I was just not into the whole porcelain thing. Thankfully my mother has the patience of a saint and helped me become the man that I am today, a man who is no different than yourself kind reader. I am now an Official Member of the Big Boy's Club and I wear my badge proudly. So imagine my dismay when I learned that my adopted homeland had different requirements for admission into said club. Remember Mr. Hungry, the man who lives inside the toilet and eats your poopy when you're a good boy or girl?

Here, My. Hungry only eats poopy. He thinks toilet paper tastes yucky.

I'm 100% fucking serious folks. I have been trying to convince those amongst my friends and family who have expressed shock at my decision to move that my adopted home is "third world" in only the loosest of regards and that is more akin to a Little League America than a Save The Children Zone. THEN I have to tell them that I can't flush my goddamn toilet paper and it shoots my whole argument in the nuts. Can't even fathom how strange it is? Here's an experiment - next time you take a crap, right before your brain tells you to drop the paper after wiping down the business zone...STOP. Hold the paper. Now, carefully, bring the paper Out - Of - The- Bowl and figure out what the fuck to do with it. And try not to look directly at it either lest you vomit. Then think of a 2 year old Intentional Gringo laughing hysterically at the look of sheer disgust written all over your genteel face. I literally had to buy a little garbage can (complete with lid!) to sit NEXT to my toilet FILLED with poopy papers. Leaving for the weekend? Better not forget to empty the can! Learned that one the hard way. Early in the morning and your aim is off? Well gents, this aim BETTER be accurate because a little stray piss can be handled much more succinctly than a shit-trail on the floor or wall where you THOUGHT the can was. My personal suggestion? Take two strips of paper, maybe 3-4 squares long, and lay them out in front of you BEFORE dropping the kids off. Then wrap each defiled handful of shame in one of the strips at your feet before depositing it in the poopy basket.

Yes. This is my life.