A couple from TikTok, Shelby and Dylan, shared a video in 2020, where they were talking about the difference between Americans and Canadians.
“What in the world is a washroom?” Dylan asked. “And what are they washing in there? Oh, it’s a restroom. The only thing I wash in there is my hands,” he then continued.
Then Shelby asked, “Do you rest in a restroom?”
“That’s a good point. They both don’t make much sense,” Dylan said.
As the Mirriam Webster’s Dictionary explained, “water closet” is a noun which describes, “a compartment or room with a toilet” or “a toilet bowl and its accessories.”
In short, it means “WC.”
In Reddit, a user asked to other users, “Why is a public WC called bathroom if there is [no] bath?”
A Redditor commented under, “Americans might similarly ask: ‘Why is it called a WC (water closet) if it isn’t even a closet?”
“In Russian it’s ‘a room without windows’ even if there actually is a window,” then a different Redditor shared, “In Esperanto, it’s necesejo, or ‘necessary place’”
What do you think? Let us know.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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