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Friday, March 21, 2003 I admit it -- I'm ignorant, at least when it comes to this particular question. Ignorant, clueless, all that. So I'm asking for help: Please, can someone explain to me what it is women are doing when they're in the bathroom with the door closed going through half a roll of toilet paper? Are they eating it? Are they wetting it and making little sculptures that they flush guiltily down the tubes before opening the door, returning to their pretense of normal life? Are they acting out some mysterious rituals we males never find out about? Or making big TP spliffs that they light up and enjoy, carefully venting all smoke and odors before letting anyone else use the facilities? I genuinely want to know. It can't simply be for reasons having to do with going to the potty -- what on earth would consistently demand such massive quantities of paper for post-activity clean-up and restoration of order? So there it is, one of many questions I've pondered lately. I've been living on my own, I tend to have my patterns of usage when it comes to the different aspects of home life. Plenty of women have played feature roles in this life of mine, both as sweethearts and as friends, and I have seen this particular mystery crop up time and again. I've wondered, about it but it's never been a question so urgent that I brought it up for discussion. Recently, however, two different males have spent some time here as houseguests -- a friend from Ireland spending a long weekend, another friend relocating from Pamplona to Madrid. Both of whom have used enormous amounts of toilet paper in very short time-frames, the first time I've witnessed that on the part of male humans. Makes me wonder what exactly is behind it all, and why it has suddenly expanded from a gender-based phenomenon to something perniciously bilateral. So I pose the question: what in hell is up with this? ***************** On a completely different theme: How you can tell that ham (jamón, here) is one of the major food groups when it comes to the Spanish diet: there are cafeterías and restaurants devoted to it. Entire chains of them. Here in Madrid, one can dine at: -- El Palacio del Jamón (the Ham Palace) -- El Paraíso del Jamón (the Ham Paradise) -- And the largest, most ubiquitous of all: El Museo del Jamón (the Ham Museum). It's not just a food, it's an object of adoration. They have palaces for it. They have museums. There is a *#^%!!! paradise of ham! (It's Paradise!! And it's full of ham!!) They sell more than ham at these outfits, of course. Each one has what is essentially a deli counter, with an extensive variety of meats and cheeses on display. Each has a counter from which friendly Spanish gnomes serve up café, beer, tapas, bocadillos (sandwiches on baguetes) and more. Some even have dining tables or a separate dining room tucked away out of sight where ham worshippers can retire for a quiet fix without being molested. All have squadrons of big waxed pig's legs hanging above the counter or above other prominent, scarily extensive areas of the premises. They do good business, these places. And why shouldn't they? At the very least, the food is decent; often, it is genuinely tasty. I have yet to meet a Spaniard who, when given the opportunity, hasn't waxed poetic about Jamón Serrano, about it being one of the few things they couldn't live without. We humans -- we're a wacky bunch. rws 1:01 PM [+]
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