Dear Mr. Somebody,

We cross paths regularly in the halls or elevator at our workplace. You are usually, like the thousands of people working in our magnificent glass and steel office tower, dressed to impress or for success.

You are noticed. I see you engaged in discussion at weekly meetings, or laughing in the coffee line with your department cohorts. I watch as you rise up nonchalantly from the cafeteria table and leave your refuse and tray for someone else to pick up and dispose of.

Often I see you in the men’s room, during lunch hour or at a coffee break, adjusting your tie or collar, or fussing with your hair and taking up a little too much mirror. You don’t seem to mind making others wait for sink space, and you always look good. Damn it, you know it; you smell nice and make every possible presentable pretension.

You like to be noticed; except when you don’t. You are the one who scampers out of the washroom, especially when it’s crowded, after stepping out of the cubicle with that fake, false, and phoney it wasn’t me expression pasted on your face.

But when I take my turn in the stall, I know it’s you, or someone like you, that leaves the seat dripping, piss puddles on the floor, or the un-flushed bowlful of foul-smelling you know what.

Of course it’s you.

You might even be the one who leaves paper towels floating in the urinal. The waste bin is fastened to the wall only steps away, but it’s more convenient for you to drop them in a fixture that will not flush away waste it is not designed to handle. You know that.

You also know there is a legion of staff in this particular office tower who regularly ensure paper towels are available, hand soap dispensers are always full, and they clean and mop and gather up the stray pieces of bathroom tissue you leave behind, or pluck soggy paper towels from the watered-down urine.

Of course you know this, how else would the washrooms in this facility remain, mostly, as clean and hygienic as they are? Except when you, or someone like you, comes along.

Yes, I know you are in a hurry; we all are. We work in the world of commerce where time is money and we’ve got a job to do. We need to be at our desks. So I’m sure it is more advantageous for you to cut a few seconds off your time by not bothering to lift the toilet seat. It might even be quicker for you not to wash your hands (but I’m not going there today).

But. Really?

You know it’s not right, and you know your mother told you countless times through your youth that you needed to lift the seat. Did your father not teach you how to aim? Can you not now figure it out for yourself?

I know there are some public places with situations like this commonly occurring. I know there are places where children, supervised or not, need to use the facilities, and I know a young boy is not as practiced at hitting the bowl with the same accuracy as a grown man. I know this because my Dad, when I was very young, had me write out I will lift the toilet seat when I pee 100 times. It was a tough love lesson, but one I learned well.

Did your dad not teach you? I mean it’s probably the first, and perhaps only, lesson a father will pass on to his son about using that particular part of the anatomy.

Did your mother not ask you to stop all this nonsense? When your mother said she was tired of cleaning up after you, she wasn’t referring to gathering up stray socks or putting your cereal bowl in the dishwasher. Your mom was sick and tired of getting down on her knees and scrubbing the area around the toilet bowl because you assumed you could piss wherever you wanted.

What does your wife or girlfriend think as you spray the area like a male cat marking its territory? Is she at all pleased when she sleepily makes her way to the loo in middle-of-the night darkness and finds herself sitting on a sopping or sticky throne?

What does the newest girlfriend think? You know, the potential Ms. Right you’ve made it through three or four dates with, and she accepts the invitation back to your pad. Then, as you are pouring the wine, she asks to use the washroom. Do you rush to the space to ensure that it’s sparkling clean, or do you even notice the mess you leave in your wake?

Do you care?

Or do you do you even do this at home?

I suspect you don’t. I mean, as humans, we do have to empty our bladder with some regularity, and I’m pretty sure you exercise a little more caution while at home and knowing you will have to use the toilet later.

So why don’t you use the same caution in the workplace?

A therapist might say you either have a very high opinion of yourself, or very low self- esteem. Or you have some other phobia or issue that somehow justifies the watermarks on your highly polished shoes. I’m sure they may say there is some clinical name for what you are going through.

But I say you are an ignorant prick, with a mama’s boy complex, who has no manners or morals, the consistency of an Irish Setter puppy, little respect for others, and maybe not enough for yourself. Or you have obvious illusions of grandeur, thinking that someone will magically clean up after you.

You are the reason public washrooms have a bad name.

Now I know we are of the gender that needs to be reminded to put the seat down when we are done our business (yes, I’ve been scolded), but I’m here to tell you the seat swings both ways fella.

It’s time to grow up and show a little concern for your fellow man (this is the men’s room). Lift the seat. Be more careful, and be more considerate. We all share the same piece of the planet, and work in the same shiny office building. We drink from the same coffee pot, eat at in a common cafeteria, and we all shit sit in the same place. Life is already messy enough.

And remember, there will be a time when you just have to go. You’ll be the one in a rush to unzip before your bowels explode and, while sitting on a slippery seat, it will be your belt buckle or the seat of those freshly pressed trousers that dips into the pool of somebody as careless and uncaring as you.

I don’t wish that on you, or anybody for that matter, but karma does flow both ways brother.

Your truly

Jus’ Sayin’

© 2015 j.g. lewis

 

 Today’s rain washed away most
       of the evidence of winter.
The water has spilled over the river’s banks
       but is receding.
                                    The air is fragrant
       with the change of season.
       Maybe it is because the dust has settled for a bit
       but I could smell spring as I walked the streets.
At one point, this afternoon, it was like nighttime
       in the middle of the day,
                                     the windshield wipers kept time
       to the rhythm of life.
This evening, however, just after the sun had
       disappeared altogether, low-lying clouds
       hovered just above
       and in patches.
Stars shone through the clouds
       like freckles on a lover’s skin, peeking out of the
       crisp sheets.
                              Spring brings optimism
       and hope.
You hear people on the streets again,
       they too are pleased.
       Just wait for summer.
                             I can feel peace,
                                                            can you?
        © 2006 j.g. lewis

Image: Wet Prairies
Artist: Steve Repa – 1977

Ten years ago, in a journal, I wrote this for my daughter. An early spring then,
as it is now. Seasons may change, but poetry remains, as does optimism and hope.

                                      Awaken the night
                                                                        feeling a fire,
                      new moon of fortune, new moon desire.
     Headlights randomly spray
                                              stray light           in the wake
     of a few restless souls, little left
                                                                             to forsake.

   Window cracked slightly, aware of the noise,
 discounting discomfort, confronting a choice.
          A season of change and mysterious ways
          growing weary of colour,
and
         tired of the days.

A breath wholly taken in the good name of fear,
               exhale in silence,
                         the silence found here.
Winter is going, but never soon enough,
it’s the waiting for the waiting that
                                        makes it so tough.

     Test pattern sheds light on the night’s darkest hour
     before pre-dawn confusion from a much higher power.
     Sanctimonious lessons in a stiff designer suit
                                  no lack of words, she knows what to do.

                       Obey,
                                  fall in line
                      or
                                           fall out of grace,
     Heaven, in her good judgment,
                                                               is a judgmental place.
New moon wonder,
new moon is now,
                       unconscious thought enlightens somehow.

To be mindful of a future only makes sense
      stop reviewing past actions in solely past tense.
Breathe it all in,
                             as you listen and learn,
      question your morals and for what you may yearn.

     No dreams for the restless, wandering their way,
     few thoughts for the weary with so much to say.
New moon,
new cycle,      falls into sight
                    dilemmas become clearer when the days become bright.
©2016 j.g. lewis

People put a lot of thought into what they wear every day, but how much consideration goes into what is worn each night?

Some people strip down to nothing, while others fall into bed wearing what is convenient or clean (or not), but like anything else, whatever you are doing, it is important to always dress for the occasion.

We dress for success, adhere to a dress code at the office, or dress up for a date or social function. We may adorn our Sunday best for a more formal event, or dress down for the gym, but fashion and function no longer get the nighttime attention they once did, at lest as far as men are concerned. I recently shopped one of the oldest, and largest, department stores in the city, and could not find one complete pair of traditional pajamas. It’s enough to cause a sleepless night, particularly with this retailer’s fashion-forward focus.

Humans spend a significant amount of time in bed — sleeping away approximately a third of our lives — it’s only fitting that you dress for the time. For some people that means yesterday’s sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt, togs more appropriate for yard work or painting the fence.

Why on earth would you dress like that for something as important as sleep? I wouldn’t dream of it. Your body craves rest as much as it does comfort. We all know how a bad night’s sleep can affect a good day at the office. Old workout clothes won’t cut it for me, I dress for the purpose in pajamas you see.

I won’t pass comment on those who chose to sleep in the raw. I do; have; and will again, sleep in the buff (depending on company and circumstance) and I will not argue that sleeping in the most natural state is truly pleasurable, unrestrictive, and quite necessary on certain occasions (summer’s heat and humidity being just one example). But for all intents and purposes, I am a pajamas man.

And I’m not at all trying to perpetuate any sort of playboy image. Hugh Hefner was famous for his smoking jackets and silk pajamas (he claimed to work at night, a lot, so the clothing was most practical), however I have not the budget, nor the affection, for silk (not on my body anyway). I like pajamas for the practicality, 100 per cent cotton that breathes and becomes more comfortable over time. Pajamas will last forever; if used solely for sleep there is little wear and tear as most of your nocturnal activity is mental and not physical.

I’m speaking, primarily, of men’s sleepwear here; the silk and style of women’s negligee has little to do with pajamas and purpose, at least in the present context.

Replacing the more unisex nightshirt in the late 1800s, the two-piece pajama option became a staple of a gentleman’s wardrobe by the 1930s. For the longest time it was not thought proper for women to wear pajamas, until Coco Chanel changed it up in the 1920s (about the same time her fabulous #5 perfume was introduced). Like many of her early designs, Chanel modeled her PJs after the men’s version; proof that the traditional nightwear can be quite fashionable indeed.

From the jersey knit Star Trek-styled PJs of my youth, to my present button up preference, the nightwear has been a part of my sleep routine since my mother’s ‘get ready for bed’ instructions included bath time and my jammies.

I used to travel for business, frequently, and PJs were essential when packing for a week on the road. Sleeping in strange beds night after night — hotel sheets never quite feel right and the mattresses were not always to your liking — you could always count on pajamas to make a bed feel more like home. The feeling of something familiar against your skin can make a great difference in both the quantity and quality of sleep you receive each night.

There is also a psychological advantage in dressing for bed. In removing your clothing you strip away the demons, dogma, and detritus of the day. Following a shower or bath, after scrubbing off all the sins and sanctimonious bullshit that has stuck to your skin, you button up freshly laundered PJs, slip between the sheets, and take the first steps from daytime busy to nighttime bliss.

Pajamas prepare you, mentally, for a few hours of sleep, and if you are lucky they dress you up for your dreams.

I got a library card last week. I’ve been meaning to get one for while, having moved to a new city some time ago, but never really found the time.

It’s not like I haven’t been reading; I brought a box of books with me, and have picked up a lot of new material along the way (I’m a sucker for a used bookstore), but it had been a while since I’d done something as normal, or as regular, as dropping into a library. Since moving, I’ve replaced all the documents required when you arrive in a new province, and had even renewed my passport, but in doing all the stuff that needed to be done, I never found the time to do what I wanted to do.

A library card, in so many ways, is like a passport. Once in your possession, the card can take you wherever you want to go, allowing you to explore foreign countries, meet new characters, and explore the world without ever leaving your city.

As a kid, regular bus trips to the library were commonplace. I learned very early that if you want to know anything, if you want to learn about something, you could always find the answers in a book from the library. I remember when the Brandon Public Library moved from the dusty, musty basement of a historic building to expansive (by the city’s standards) sun-drenched premises.

During University, the library was a place to duck out of the hustle and bustle of the campus, sequester yourself in the quiet under the guise of research, and maybe even catch the occasional nap.

As a young parent, Saturdays were library day with my daughter, where she’d select the maximum amount of books (and many times the same favorites) for her pre-bedtime reading. Books were more than a treat.

In Winnipeg we celebrated the opening of the Millennium Library, a magnificent structure with comfortable places to read, and functional Wi-Fi workspaces where you could plug in or tune out. Just as comforting, but in such a different way, was the Cornish branch; the same library my father used to ride his bicycle to in his younger years. The breadth of the selection at the Cornish was never as great as the downtown facility, but the room spoke to me.

All libraries provide a similar sort of comfort. Often, as an excuse to get away from my regular writing desk, I’d haul my laptop or scribbler down to a Winnipeg library and work away, inspired by a new setting. I’ve written short stories based on what I saw at the library, characters have been developed, or described, from the people I would see wandering through the stacks or waiting in line.

I’d also find three or six books from the holdings, usually an author I’d never read (or heard of), a novel a friend had recommended, or a volume of poetry from one of the masters. I always, still to this day, keep some kind of poetry book in my packsack, a way to take a break from the everyday and become motivated by someone else’s words. You can always find poetry in any library. You can find, pretty much, everything.

The beauty of a library is that it offers so much, and thanks to Melvil Dewey and his unparalleled system for classifying every subject known to mankind, you can generally find what you are looking for. And more. It’s amazing how the Dewey Decimal System, a program created more than 140 years ago, using digits, few letters and a well-place decimal point, still functions supremely well in this digital age.

Libraries have adapted through the years, as movies, music, and magazines have all been added to the collections. Along with the histories and mysteries, there is always something that can take your mind away from the day-in-day-out stuff we all deal with. The price is always right.

Library cards are free, but they are infinitely valuable. Time with a book is always well spent.