Diary of a Bathroom Adventurer and Aficionado

The average person will spend 29,120 hours of their life in a bathroom.

Prolonged disassociation from the comfort of your home toilet is an inconvenient fact of life. As a girl, I assume I spend more time in the bathroom than most, fixing hair or make-up, talking to someone about how disgusting the middle toilet is, or merely debating with myself on whether I should sit or squat.

College could be defined as a day full of bathroom adventures.

My best friend and I consider ourselves bathroom connoisseurs after 21 years of visiting an excessive amount of toilets. As elitists we decided to do some research, get the dirt on the bathrooms of Sac State.

Bringing our essential restroom reviewer kits; pen and paper, latex gloves, antiseptic, a camera, optional ziplock bags and que-tips (for taking samples) and of course DNA testing kits (expensive, but completely necessary for more scientific analysis), we set out to uncover the best, the worst and the average.

Beginning at the University Union, my cohort and I visited every first floor bathroom we could find. Please respect that we did our research without any judgment on the age of the buildings but purely on the gross-out factor. Think of this as a consumer report or a prevention guide. We judged on smells, colors, chipped tiles, toilet plungers, lighting, air quality and traffic.

Twenty-seven buildings and two hours later, we sat down to analyze our results.

The results boiled down to 14 percent excellent, 32 percent average bathrooms and 54 percent repulsive.

An average bathroom at Sacramento State looks something like Lassen Hall. No automatic, hands-free devices. Lacking that tangy reek. Clean. Wearing down. But with the essential purse hook, necessary to avoid the germ-infested flooring. Average means a combination of feeling safe in your stall and wondering when that pink on the walls or floors was ever an interior designer’s standard.

Standards aside, dignity is lacking in most of our bathrooms. Although I vote to invest in a revamping of our toilets, or even just getting some candles, there were a few bathrooms that inspired my use. Shockingly, the honor of the best bathroom was not given to the newest facility, the Well.

Cleanliness trumps design.


Based on the shelves, the sinks, the height and lighting of the mirrors, the sparklingly purity and the fact that my notes on this bathroom contain three words; love, best and clean, the AIRC is officially Sac State’s finest. The air was fragrant, perhaps the biggest luxury.

Besides this, the location is ideal. The commute to this school is problematic because of the amount of coffee I drink. Couple that with the lack of bathrooms in parking structures and you become quite thankful for the 24 hour availability of the utopian toilets in the AIRC.

My own complaining aside, I feel worst for the environmental studies majors of Amador Hall. Crowed the worst bathroom by our judgment scale, this bathroom is grungy, nasty, putrid and yellow.

There can be nothing worse than a small, mustard-colored space.

The smell was vulgar and sickening, hitting you at the same time you notice that floating scum in the air. Less than a minute was spent in this bathroom before our eyes started watering and our stomachs churning. Soft and tender parts should not be exposed to something so polluted.


But of course, when biology requires it, we sometimes have to venture into the uncharted territory of thin walls and grimy sinks.

Please no touching the door handles, or any handles, to avoid disease.

I also recommend a bathroom study as fodder for picking your major. Think about it, if you have to spend the next four years of your life near, in and touching a bathroom, it should have valid weight in your decision making.

After all, college is all about decisions.

On Kids, Budgets and Fiestas

Today I remembered that our state budget still has not passed. It has been so long that I forgot that we had a problem . . . or a budget.

There are many people we could blame for this unfortunate situation including our governor, our education, our taxes or our parents.

Or Mexico.

The economic meltdown could be attributed to the 2.7 million illegal immigrants the Pew Hispanic Research Center claims live in California.

Of course, the jump to a $20 billion budget gap is clearly the fault of corporate giants and their illegal alien buddies.

And naturally, if you live in between four thin walls without a door or a roof, crammed next to relatives you may or may not like and using a large pail for a bath tub, you should never want to just jump a fence into paradise.

But $13.1 billion in taxes. This is the number the Federation for Immigration Reform believes we pay out of our pocket to support “non-Americans.”

California is obviously trying to ruin our lives and culture, suck our money from us and spen¬d most of it on illegal immigrants. If we just deported all of them, life would be perfect and all our money problems fixed.

Or we would still have a budget crisis and just spiral into a deeper recession after the loss of cheap labor and productivity.

No one seems to be positive about the impact of illegal immigrants on our state, thus opinions all depend on which side of the fence you are on. Literally.

Teresa Soliz’s children are American. Her husband was an illegal immigrant. The entire family is now stuck in Mexico City, Mexico, after being deported. Legally or not, Soliz wishes she had never left California.

It has been nine years and $6000 dollars in debt later and Soliz still cannot get her family back to this country. In the end, Soliz feels like California has sucked up way more of her money than she ever consumed in public resources.

It really is all about the money. For Californians, it is the money spent on supporting public services that are devoured by the illegals. For the immigrants, it is all about the better living, the better education and the opportunities to actually make more than 19 cents an hour.

Everyone has someone to fault for our money problems and the research is even more muddled than the blame-game.

“The fact of the matter is, yes, illegal aliens do create an extra burden on our economy and also on our budget situation. But, at the same time, that is not the reason why we have an economic downturn,” Gov. Schwarzenegger said.

More people means more taxes paid. The taxes that illegal immigrants pay are often overlooked, especially the sales taxes. Illegal aliens don’t get stuff for free either.

More people in California means a rising gross domestic product. This is the number of goods produced by society, a very beneficial growing point for the economy.

That twelve percent of our $110 billion dollar budget that has been attributed to illegal immigrants is mostly for the education of their children. Education is one of our top budget items, locally and nationally. We can hardly pin all the blame of our debt on the children of undocumented residents.

Oh and those children we are helping educated are technically American citizens. They were born here, just like you.

Instead of blaming a group of people that is shaping the culture of California, perhaps we should bond together for a joint cause: balancing that messy budget.

Our congress could take a moment outside the capital and learn from the best. Buy a piñata. Grab a beer. Go to the park and take a nice siesta.

On second thought, I think congress has taken a long enough siesta.

Miss Phlaglefriendly

Phyloblast? Phaoblaster? Phlalaloblast? How exactly do you pronounce this?

Better question: what IS a Phlagleblast?

I did not realize this question would haunt me when I was driving to school. I did not know I would care that this eleventh annual homecoming event was complete with prizes, scavenger hunts and caricatures. Or that a guy dressed in a lion’s mane had planned the whole festival.

I was focused on school. My day usually starts out with a quick tromp from the parking structure to the bathrooms in the University Union, a break for after my commute and before class. I rarely have time to stop and enjoy the food or the people watching or the colorful decorations.

Wait, decorations?

When I waltzed through the union on Monday I had a rare gift: time. I took a long moment to stand right inside the door and stare up at a hanging monkey, trying to figure out what was going on. It was an hour till my next class. My computer had died earlier in the day leaving me with a cell phone, a pen and intense hunger.

Lucky for me, Phlagleblast is a synonym for free food.

I managed to make a few equally excited friends in line for free Round Table Pizza. None of us could figure out why the food was free (and slightly expected a charge of some type, even if it was just taking a short quiz or filling out a survey), but we were grateful not to spend money on Panda Express or Burger King.

The truth is students are usually poor. The truth is most students are always hungry. The truth is people bond over free stuff.

Sac State’s genius way to unite a commuter with strangers in a school of 20,000 students was working.

My first friends I met in line for pizza. We all kept asking each other, “Is this free? Are you sure it’s free? Did you ask if it was free?”

I will never see any of those people again, but I took some phone numbers and had pleasant conversations and adventures, including asking for a second slice of free pizza and being denied by the stingy food donor.

I felt like I was back in preschool; colorful animals and hanging vines and lots of food and balloons, not to mention friendly people standing and laughing while taking bites of thin slices of thick crusts.

According to a large sign, there was going to be more free food offered every half hour. Muscle milk was next, so I decided to explore other attractions more suited to my interest and body type.

A mister Brian Rodgers was more than pleased to help me out.

The unsigned musician was jamming with his bass, a few avid fans standing in front of him. I decided to boost his audience total to a grand three.

This was probably the best decision of my day. I had another bonding experience with the music of the acoustic funk rock singer and guitar player. I think I stood there making random appreciative eye contact with fellow audience members for over 20 minutes, almost contributing to how late I was to my next class.

Then I discovered balloons.

I have a fascination with balloons. They are happy and youthful and innocent. I met another friend in the balloon line. She tied my balloon to her wrist since I could not take it to my class.

After I passed the monkeys and food and music and people running around getting stamps and free junk, I realized that this pointless and hard-to-pronounce event was made for people like me: the commuter with no time, rarely stopping and really just needing an excuse to relax, eat and listen to some music.

Oh, and make friends. Jennifer still texts me about my blue balloon she tied to her wrist.







(If you would like to re-create my moment of musical bliss, check out Brian Rogers at: http://www.myspacecom/brianrogersmusic .)

Split Second Saturday

The Second Saturday event in downtown Sacramento tends to draw late night, artsy partiers, becoming more rowdy as the alcohol consumption surges. This Saturday, the event ended with three men wounded and one killed in a shooting right outside the Streets of London bar.

Second Saturday began years ago as a respectable art community event, complete with beach cruiser bicycles and serious art and design fans. This was located at another location then moved to Midtown for safety reasons. Ironic.

Within the last three years the popularity has grown, along with complaints about nightclubs and drunken brawls. This makes it more of a destination for 21-year-olds with no homework and a point of contention for quiet, art-seeking attendees.

Saturday night was well attended by two sets of people: attendees and police. The force was out in extra strength on Saturday in an attempt to keep the event friendly and contained.

The fact still remains, one 20-year old Latino is dead and three more are wounded. Where were the police then?

Reports say that the police were not only in the same area when the shooting occurred but they also heard the gun fire. As of today, no suspects and no motives have been brought to the table.

Police and witnesses say that it is the loiterers that gather in front of the closed shops that are the problem. The shooting was a good two hours after Second Saturday officially closed but the police were still out in force.

I suppose their operating theory was that as long as there are huge drunken crowds there might be potential for problems. I don’t suppose anyone of them expected a problem this big.

Some are blaming the police. Some are blaming Second Saturday. Some are blaming alcohol. Some are blaming night-clubs. Some are blaming young people. Assessed separately, none of those issues are avoidable. Perhaps the problem is the combination.

But the truth is, late nights in the city are never as safe as your Grandma’s kitchen. Is this really an issue that can be fixed?

Taking away Second Saturday would not only subtract business from local vendors, it would also take away the art community’s desire to express itself through local venues.

Taking away alcohol from Second Saturday would make it much less popular, less fun and less of a money maker for vendors and street entertainers.

With or without alcohol, isn’t a killer still a killer?

Either way, I don't think I will wander the streets late at night, whether there is an art event going on or not.

Luckily the police arrived in time to save the three wounded victims who were trying to crawl to safety. The police still don't know if the shooting was a random gun-happy fiend or the result of a drunken brawl.

While police are searching for these answers, so are the business associates. What are they going to do now? They can’t change what happened early Sunday morning, but they can change the future. It has already changed from an art event to a party to a murder headline to a political point.

Maybe we should separate the events, give art walks to the artists and a club or bar to the partiers. That might make everyone happy. Go back to the days of the quiet tourists who want to browse through a local art shop and leave the drinking fest for the bars.

It draws two crowds anyway: the artsy, fartsy and the carouser. Let's get back to serious art and serious drinking.

How to Make a Plan for the Rest of Your Life

Welcome to the next four or seven years of your life: College. Over 3,840 hours spent on an attendance certificate.

This is my life, a full time student and a part time writer. Learning what college teaches best:

1. Things that you need to know.
2. Things that you will never need to know again.

Despite this, college has a formative out-of-the-classroom experience. It is all part of the after-adolescence development period and almost just as painful.

We spend most of our first three to four years at our chosen school, wandering around, completely lost. We don’t have money. We don’t know who we are. We don’t know what kind of person we want to date. We don’t know what kind of person we want to be. Most of all, we don’t know what we want to do with the next 50 years of our life.

But the pressure is on high. Now is the time to make small decisions that will have major effects. And we feel completely unqualified for the task.

Our energy is much too focused on the conversations of the people around us, or fantasizing about that one boy in that one class that we never get to actually talk to. Or maybe just making it through, one class at a time, one paper at a time, one grade at a time. Semesters pass and we loose track of what we are doing.

So we change majors.

We sleep, eat (if we have the money) and try to find a date. We get an internship and bore ourselves mindless.

So we change majors.

We fail a class, waste a whole day on Facebook and spend all our money on a new TV to watch that reality TV show about our career. Then end up changing majors.

I may or may not be speaking from major life experiences.

Last week a high school senior asked me to help her figure out her plan for the next four years. Her question was simple enough: “How did you pick your major, Leia? I am so confused. I don’t know what I want to do.”

I have drastically changed majors three times. It was stressful, I cried frequently. A black cloud of indecision and insecurity has hung over these last three years of schooling. I have absolutely no advice for this girl, a mere three majors behind me. She should probably accept the fact that she may cry more than necessary.

Being a girl comes with a certain catch; you cry a lot. At least I did. I cried about my major, my stupid job, my slim paycheck and how impossible it is to stick with “plan A.” Over 50 percent of freshman change their majors. Hello seven years and $20,000 of debt later.

Only a semester ago I was wearing scrubs and studying organic chemistry in LA. Now I live in Sacramento and spend the majority of my time on the internet thinking about life, love, the pursuit of happiness and things to write about.

Life changes faster than a freshman changes majors.

Yet those relationships that stuck through the tears and the changes of personality and geography, those are the friendships that have been the most beautiful and influential. Whether I am going to be an architect, a writer, a nurse or a singer, I still have these places and these memories and these people.

Sometimes I think that we all just need to calm down. I am going to stop trying to figure out the rest of my life. I can barely make the first step. Let’s focus on that. My goal is to graduate and beyond that, the future is a dim adventure.

But I digress. This column isn’t about me. It’s about college, the painful and enlightening experience that has nothing to do with the 3,840 hours you spend in class, learning something interesting, something you don’t want to learn or absolutely nothing.

In the Beginning There was School

The pivotal points in history all come down to a choice. To be or not to be? Jerry Brown or Meg Whitman? Paper or plastic? My current dilemma at Sac State seems equally important; how should I spend my 16-units?

With the 16-unit limit for freshman, sophomores and juniors, the picking and planning of classes just increases in difficulty. How many three-unit classes and how many one-unit classes does it take to make 16?

The unit cap is only helpful to those last to register, or the slackers that want to be forced to take the least amount of units possible. But it kills the overachiever. Suddenly, my dream of taking 21 units and graduating a semester early bites the dust.

Those go-getter genes in me make me believe I can manipulate the situation to my best advantage. Seven semesters later, I still haven’t figured out that everything cannot succumb to my plan for the world. My first few semesters at college were spent trying to figure out the system. Now, my last semesters will be spent trying to manipulate the system.

In three years, there has never been a semester where my class schedule went according to my first plan, or my second plan, or even my third plan. It seems like it should be such a natural progression, like growing up or driving to work or making a baby. Instead, I spend most of my first week dating around, trying to find the class that works perfect for me and realizing that I am not omitted from the 16 unit limit, or from the pre-requisites, or any of the wait lists.

This week, I changed almost all my classes the night before they started. This week I sent out more than 20 e-mails to different professors. This week a teacher lectured me for being sick from “self-caused stress.”

I had high hopes when I began the week rested. I was ready to jump into the world of the day planner. Then the reality of the syllabi, the exam schedule and the lack of sleep set in.

On Monday, I was up early: changing classes, meeting my first deadline and writing e-mails. Tuesday comes next: conducting my first interview and noticing signs of sickness. Tuesday afternoon finds me auditioning for a vocal jazz ensemble on a whim. Wednesday morning I am on interview number two. Wednesday night comes and I am making an excel spreadsheet to plan out all my classes. Thursday morning, change classes. On Thursday afternoon the lab computer breaks. Suddenly, I realize there is nothing in the house to eat for dessert.

Science has never failed the world with its accurate conclusions; what goes up must come down, what can go wrong will go wrong and stress causes illness.

Yet, somehow it all works out in the end. This excel spreadsheet I have now is not on track with my original plan, but it is 16 units worth of classes that I need to graduate. The trick to being a good student is being organized and understanding that you cannot always manipulate the system.

The other trick to school is accepting the fact that you are permanently exhausted for the next four months. Pulling 12 hour days at school by being an overachiever, standing in line at the registrar, showing up to professors’ offices, doing homework early, auditioning for music classes and learning how to write a column is all a part of this college experience our parents reminisced about.

Apparently, our parents only remembered the after-finals-week parties. College is a lot of work.

For me, Thursday night is the beginning of freedom; the classroom section of the week is over. Once more it all comes down to a choice. Facebook or Twitter? Sushi or Pizza? Movie or TV?