Synchronicity for the Day: Numbers No. 2

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia.

That’s right people. Try to wrap your tongue around that bad boy. And try not to giggle like a thirteen year old at the innuendo in that last sentence. That’s the name of the fear of the number 666. Revelation 13:18 says, “Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number [is] Six hundred threescore [and] six.” It is this biblical reference that links this number to the Anti-Christ, and an assortment of superstitions and fears within the Christian faith have developed and persisted even today.

I don’t personally have this fear, as I am not a Christian, and have not been convinced that the entire contents of the Bible are true, either in a historical or moral sense. And since I am not burdened with this particular fear, when I have happened to meet people who have it, I find it hilarious. I once had a coworker who was telling a story in the office of a time that she was on vacation and the hotel room they assigned her was number 666. She demanded to have it changed because she was genuinely uncertain, despite the humorous way that she relayed the incident, as to whether it mightn’t bring her bad luck, or be a bad omen. I personally found this to be ridiculous. I don’t believe that any one number is particularly good or bad in and of itself. I acknowledge that I may take note of numerical coincidences and patterns that I see play out (this very post is about the same subject), but I’m not moving hotel rooms or demanding that a building rename the 13^th floor for me.

So for whatever reason, I one day got a bee in my bonnet to whip out my phone and take a picture every time I was out and about and saw someone with a car license plate that had the 666 in it. You know, for teh lulz. And I created a photo album on my Facebook page where I add these photos as they come up. At first it was just a dumb thing to do (OK, it still is), but now when I see one I get all excited. I frantically try to get my phone out and get the camera function working in time to capture the plate before the driver takes off. Sounds safe while on the freeway, right? Right??

That Dodge Dakota is the Devil!!!

Since I post these on Facebook, other people know about it and I encourage them to send me any plates if they come across them, but no one had sent me any yet. This morning my aunt calls me to fill me in on some family news, and she also mentions that she saw a 666 plate when she was out on her motorcycle and she wanted to send me a picture, but the driver turned before she could get a shot.

Then, later in the day, another Facebook friend, a former coworker, posted a picture on my wall of a 666 plate that he captured while he was driving. Nice! Two in one day!  I mean, I didn’t actually get a picture from my aunt, but her mentioning it was enough. I commented on my friend’s photo, telling him about my aunt and the plate she saw. He joked back that “these things come in threes; be on the lookout for another one!” to which I was able (I realized suddenly), to reply, “Trifecta complete!” because just last night I had snagged a pic of one of these plates just after leaving the bank.

Now I don’t impart any special meaning on incidents happening in threes especially. I just liked this dual synchronicity where not only did I have two different people think of me when they saw the plates on the same day, and I had just seen one myself, AND one of the people brought up the three factor when in fact his picture rounded out the three.

What does this one mean for me? Well, I did learn last night about a death in my family, albeit of a person whom I did not know extremely well. I can’t say that this incident, or the musical coincidence from yesterday really pertained to the passing of this person, but I think I would like to consult the Collective on the board and ask, mainly for my own record-keeping purposes. If I can begin to see patterns in this occurrences I am documenting, this may lead me to be able to interpret these synchronicities more easily on the future.

Bathroom Routines

The bathroom is the great leveler.  All of us end up in there whether we be CEO or salesman.  Everyone showers at one point or another, brushes our teeth, and yes, once a day sits down on the throne and performs about the least regal act we can think of.  Just think!  The Prime Minister or President is no better than you, in that at some time in their life they have gotten halfway through good 'ol Movement No.2 of the Turd Symphony and realized that there is no toilet paper left, and sat there stymied.

And everyone eventually arrives at their own unique Bathroom Routines.  You may not know that you have these routines, but you will be made aware of them when you move in with somebody.  Because they will have different Bathroom Routines.  And should you have occasion to share bathroom time (for example as  husband and wife, or just a roommate with personal space issues) you will find yourself amused, bewildered, and even horrified by this other person's routines.  You will have internal monologues that you never imagined.  What the f&@k is that doing in there?!  Is that a used bandage??  And why are there goddammed dishes in the bathtub?!

When my husband and I moved in together, he pointed out some of my routines to me (some of them in a jesting manner, others accompanied much eye-rolling) and I will admit a few of them now in this porcelain confessional.

Q-Tipping

There was a Saturday Night Live sketch (it could have been MAD TV, I don't totally remember) about this dangerous new practice "the kids" were into, which basically equated with getting high the thrill one gets from cleaning their ears with a Q-Tip.  I remember seeing it and being the only one not laughing. They're right: that shit is addictive.  

I know on the package of Q-Tips it shows little cutesy illustrations of the swab being used to clean a keyboard (something the package designer has obviously never tried, because they would know that trying to do so is like trying to clean a cinder block wall with a rubber-handled mop), or removing the crud from around baby's eyes.  And then they have the repeated stern warnings not to stick the Q-Tips into your ears.  HAH!!  Let me tell ya, pal, I (and I suspect most people)are buying this packet of cushiony twigs to do nothing but stick them in our ears.  I might use a few for removing eye makeup, but that's about it.  Much like the "back massager" industry, the cotton swab manufacturers have built an entire empire on a product that is officially meant for any use except the one for which people are actually purchasing it. No one buys a box of Q-Tips so that they can do arts and crafts and then coyly, when no one is looking, decides to just "try out" cleaning an ear.  You buy that box, rip it open, and start rooting around with a tiny stick, millimeters from your ear drum.

I am completely obsessed with cleaning my ears.  I have to do it each and every morning, immediately after getting out of the shower, and sometimes a second time in the day, if I'm feeling particularly wax-laden.  If I go somewhere where I have to spend the night away from home, I make sure to take at least a dozen Q-Tips with me.  Just in case there is some sort of wax emergency.  And not just any tip will do: I only get the ones with the compressed paper shafts. The kind with the plastic shafts are too bendy and there is never enough cotton on the end so I end up scraping up the inside of my ear.  Not the ear drum, relax, people.  I would never go too far. I am a professional.

Rinsing the Razor

Many of us ritually scrape the excess fur off of our bodies for a variety of reasons: cultural conditioning, vanity, hygiene.  Sometimes simply so that we won't bristle our significant other.  No one wants to feel like their face is being grated off by a piece of 150 grit sandpaper every time they make out with their boyfriend.  And it's really disturbing when making out with your girlfriend.

I have two razors: an electric one that rarely gets used, and a 4-blade disposable one that is my go-to shaving implement.  It gets used in the shower.  I don't really go in for shaving cream or lotion. I know I should, I know it's better, but I'm cheap and it's just one more step in a shower that usually already is taking too long.  I just get in there and put blades to hair and be done with it.

Recently I was sharing bathroom time with my husband and during my shaving routine he started laughing at me.  Well no one wants to be laughed at while they're naked, so I snapped at him, "What's so funny?"

"You're not accomplishing anything by doing that," he chuckled.  He was poking fun at me because when I shave, at intervals I leave off the actual hair removal and run the razor through the water to flush out the excess stubble.  A clogged razor does me no good.  But since I had been facing away from the water, I was just thrusting the razor over my shoulder into what I thought was the stream from the showerhead.  According to my husband, I was merely waving it around in the air, attempting to clean it via magic.  I told him that my plan was to put the hair out of my sight and strenuously ignore it until it felt awkward and went away on its own.

They See Me Rollin, They Hatin'...

Apparently I use too much toilet paper.  Just ask my husband.  My level of toilet paper usage never crossed my mind until I began sharing a bathroom.  I remember him walking by the bathroom door at some point in our past and doing a double-take. "Whoa! Take it easy on the TP!" he admonished.

Take it easy?  Look man, there is no polite way to say this, but until they popularize bidets here in the States, I gotta get clean somehow.  And that somehow is with toilet paper.  As much as I need to get the job done.  I don't care if I have to unroll enough to stuff a pillow if that's what it takes to keep skid marks outta my underwear and me from doing the Walk of the Unclean Bunghole for the rest of the day.  Sorry, but it is what it is (and yes, I am aware that many people hate that expression, but you are reading a blog entry about potty cleanliness, so don't act like your standards are so high).  He has been on me ever since about me using more paper than he thinks I should.  Like there are regulations somewhere hidden away in the dusty offices of the Bureau of Disposable Tissues that he has consulted and is dutifully counting how many squares I pull off the roll.

I will admit that I have lived (and worked) in some places that have "finicky" toilets.  You know the ones.  You can only pee and put two squares of paper down there and THAT'S IT or the whole damn thing gets clogged.  I have promised myself that if I end up doing a bathroom remodel and I have to buy a new toilet, I am going to make sure that I get one that you could flush an entire houseplant down, pot and all, with one powerful whoosh.  Let's stop playing around with these pansy crappers that they seem to like to install just about everywhere nowadays.  Hint: it's not a "water-saver" toilet if I have to flush three times so that I don't hurt its delicate constitution.

A Little Help From My Friends

Now this last one is not a routine that I initiated, it's just something that happens as a bizarre side effect of me being in the loo.  If I go into the bathroom, within 90 seconds there will be a cat in there with me.  I know I could close the door, but I don't really mind them most of the time.  It's just weird if anyone else were to witness it.  

Sit down, start doing my business, and here comes one of the cats, strolling in like, "Hey!  Whatcha up to? You need a hand with that?"  Depending on which cat it is, they may either pace back and forth butting their head into my shins or try to climb into my lap.  Sometimes I allow this, but more often than not they try for the lap when I'm just trying to run in, pee real quick, and get outta there.  And they want to be on the lap for a long time. They hunker down like it's the coziest seat in the house, meanwhile my left leg is going to sleep. One of them likes to get into the bathtub and chase her own tail while she waits for me.  They're like bizarre, furry little bathroom attendants.  I keep waiting for the day when they start offering me towels and put a little dish out expecting me to tip them.  I don't know what they get out of it.  I think for the cats, all bathroom activity has to happen when we are together in the same room.  This probably explains why one of them always has to come take a dump right when I am in the middle of trying to clean the litter box.  

No matter how much attention they are getting from me, once they hear the toilet paper rolling it's like and air raid siren and they bail right the F outta there.  Not sure what they think is about to happen.  They're probably off to report to my husband that I'm using too much paper again.