At times, the last thing that I should obsess over is a minor detail.  Details are small and do not deserve the respect or attention of "the bigger picture".   Why?  Because they're small. 

Small, like our bathroom exhaust fan, a square on our ceiling that whirrs a constant, obnoxious noise that ought to be shot-- er, silenced-- by a revolver.  

                                                       

Believe me, a detail like this deserves to be shot.  I hate our exhaust fan.  And, really, it's not at fault.  On our bathroom wall is a single lightswitch installed by a fellow human many years ago.  Flip it, and it both brightens our tiny, cool space with light and burdens the ears with a sucking war against the foul scent of human excrement.  

Well, we're "regular" folks.  But c'mon; neither Chris nor I take a shit everytime we use our bathroom.  Sometimes we pee and wash our hands, bathe, freshen, shave, touch-up our hair, insert or remove our contact lenses, floss, brush our teeth or turn on the faucet so that a still water runs for Milo to drink from because he dives into every hydrating opportunity with gusto (yet looks really cute while doing so).



                             Slurp



So who's the genius who thought up this dual-purpose system?  I have no clue.  But I do know that It deafens us to any outside sounds.  Well, except for the pfft-pfft of Milo's clawless paws as they slide up and down the door.  He misses us when we're in the bathroom.  And most of the time, he sneaks his way in to shower us with affection.  



                                  Hey, baby


It's strange, I know.  Why the hell would any living creature want to join another in the bathroom while he/she pees or takes a shit?  What could a bathroom possibly offer in terms of feline entertainment?



                                        



Our bathroom is far from an appropriate location to bond in.  But Milo insists on remaining at our sides-- especially mine-- at all times. 

Did I mention that the best conversations often sandwich a closed door?  With the exhaust fan going, however, Chris and I often find ourselves repeating "what" and "huh" until one of us is ready to explode.  I don't enjoy repeating myself more than once.  Maybe twice.  By repetition three, I feel like an idiot.  And, more importanly, I feel as though I'm missing out on the vital component of a verbal exchange beneath the little fan of horror.

At the very least, the exhaust fan seems to benefit guests.  We'll never know what they're doing in our bathroom because the noise drowns out their activities.  And because we'll never inquire about them.  But it  feels good to know that the comfort of privacy is experienced in this tiny room when it is needed the most.