Post Number Four - The Log Log Blog

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS GRAPHIC CONTENT RELATED TO BOYS AND THEIR DISGUSTING LACK OF MATURITY


Okay, the Log Log. I promised I would tell about it. I'm telling. Count this as a final warning. If you are at all squeamish or already have an idea of where this is going, please stop reading now. Go back and read an older post. Or wait until I write a newer one. It will be equally entertaining and (probably) not nearly as nauseating.


Oh God. Here we go.

So Morganne and I are roommates. So far so good. We live in a small but successful residence on the Memorial campus. Our room is well decorated. The Spice Girls, Chuck Norris and George W. Bush (mockingly, of course) are all represented on our walls. Above Morganne's bed is a photo of David Beckham. Above my bed is a photo of JFK (I put him there 90% as an ironic juxtaposition to Morganne's choice of men, and 10% out of earnest admiration). My "I OVA'D IB" shirt is hanging on the bulletin board beside my bed. If I were to work it out in percentages, I would say that our room is 25% girly, 35% freakin' awesome and 40% dull-and-impossible-to-hide residence style. So as rooms go, ours would seem to be at the average or even slightly-above-average excellence level. Notice that I said 'seem'. That's a nasty little word there. Seem. That dog seems friendly. That ride at the Ex seems like it won't fall apart underneath me and sever important limbs. That old man at the bus stop seems like he's not a rapist. Hitler seems to have good plans for the future of Germany. Well my friends, I hate to be the one to burst your little security bubble, but unfortunately, things are not always as they seem. Welcome to the real world. My world.

The downside of our dorm room is its situation within the house. Our room is in the short wing. That's good. Our room is on the second floor. That's good. Our room is directly across from the boys' washroom. That is grievously bad. At first we thought that the worst that would come of living near the bathroom would be the sound of running water early in the morning and late at night. Yeah, like the sound of water could keep Morganne "the Snooze" Foley awake. Then the Snooze thought "hey, maybe this is a blessing in disguise - boys do actually shower sometimes, and when they do, they walk down the halls in their towels." Listen to me: NOT WORTH IT. There are very few towel-clad boys, heck, very few towel-clad men in this world who would make living across from this bathroom a worthwhile experience. Believe it or not, my disgust has nothing to do with any sights or smells that could potentially emanate from this room. It has to do with my jarring and complete realization that our elementary school taunts were actually correct - boys really are a lower type of life form.

One night Morg and I were sitting in our room, happily watching every variation of My New Haircut we could find on YouTube when pieces of a conversation (in solely male voices) began to waft through our door. "...must have been a foot long..." "...did you hear him?..." "...it was like giving birth!...". At first Morganne and I were indignant that boys would even dare to compare any of their experiences to childbirth. Sure, neither of us has never actually had a baby, but it's our God-given right as women to complain about it. But then, the realization slowly began to dawn on us. Childbirth. The bathroom. They were boys. "Oh, sick!!" cried Morganne. "I cannot believe that they are discussing that!" But they were. They would take breaks from their conversation to cheer on their buddy who was working away in the bathroom. We were more than mildly nauseated. We did not leave our room until we were sure they were gone. There was no way that we wanted to be unwittingly drawn into that conversation.
'Okay', we thought. 'That was super-gross but it was a Friday night, they were all drunk, this definitely won't happen again'. Really, you'd think that by now, after 36 years of interaction with boys (18 years for me and 18 for Morg) we'd have some idea about just how seriously the Y chromosome inhibits their mental functions. This was not a one-time occurrence. This was not a two-time occurrence. The hallway just outside our room became a veritable forum for the description and comparison of that which the boys were disturbingly proud of having produced in the washroom.
It turns out that although the boys on all of the floors in our rez have similar discussions, the boys' room across from our room is special; it is the location of "The Log Log." Yep. I know. I am both grossed- and freaked-out too. It sounds like the kind of thing that some immature male screenwriter would have invented for the next teen sexcapade summer blockbuster (think "American Poo"). But what scares me the most is that, having been acquainted with the boys in this rez for almost 3 months, I can say that I have absolutely no doubt that it actually exists. The Log Log is not an urban legend. I can 100% picture a little hilroy notebook sitting by the sink, each page formed into a table, filled in with messy boy-scrawl that gives qualitative, quantitative and definitely detailed descriptions of ever major event that has ever occurred in that washroom.

Sigh. The Log Log. Just another reason why one shouldn't get married.
Heck, that's another reason why one should be gay.