Don’t Give A Squat!
When Wifey has to visit a public restroom, she usually finds a line of women, so she just smiles politely and takes her place. Once it’s her turn, she checks for feet under the stalls like a pervert, and most times every stall is occupied. Finally, a door will open and she’ll dash in, nearly knocking down the poor woman leaving the stall. She gets in to claim the porcelain and finds the friggin door won’t latch. It doesn’t matter, the wait has been so long that her body’s sprinkler system is about to purge! To better set the mood, the dispenser for the modern “sterile seat covers” (invented by someone’s Mom, no doubt) is empty. GOD! She would normally hang her purse on the door hook, if there was one, but there isn’t, so she quickly drapes it around her neck, (You don’t put $50 purses on restroom floors!), she then yanks down her pants, and assumes the “STANCE!”
In this position, her aging, toneless (God she should have gone to the gym!!!) thigh muscles begin to shake. She’d love to sit down, but she certainly hadn’t taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it, so she holds “The Stance”. To take her mind off her trembling thighs, she reaches for what she discovers to be an empty toilet paper dispenser. In her mind, she can hear her mother’s voice saying, “Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have known there was no toilet paper!” Her thighs shake in spasms now. She remembers the tiny tissue that she blew her nose on yesterday….(the one that’s still in her purse.) Oh yeah, the purse hanging around her neck, that she now has to dig deep into while trying not to strangle herself at the sometime. She finally finds the tissue and then crumples it into the puffiest shape possible. It’s still smaller than her thumbnail.
Someone pushes her door open because the latch doesn’t work. The door broadsides her purse, which is hanging around her neck in front of her chest, and she and her purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. “Occupied!” Wifey screams, as she blocks the door, dropping her precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a mysterious puddle on the floor. She then loses her footing altogether, and slides down to squat on the dreaded toilet seat. It is wet of course. She then bolts up, knowing all too well that it’s too late. Her bare bottom has now made contact with every imaginable germ and life form breeding on the uncovered toilet seat that SHE never covered with toilet paper –not that there was any, even if she had taken time to try. During all the commotion, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused, that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a rogue fire hose against the inside of the bowl spraying a fine mist of water that covers her butt and runs down her legs and into her new $70 CROC‘s.
The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that she grabs onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in. At this point, she gives up. She’s soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. She’s e-x-h-a-u-s-t-e-d. She finally tries to wipe with a gum wrapper she found in her pocket and then slinks out of the stall from hell while the next tenant goes by her like a Green Bay line-backer. Wifey, inconspicuously, heads to the sinks. She can’t figure out how to operate the damn faucets with the techno-sensors, …..so she cleans her hands with spit and a dry paper towel and then walks past the line of women still waiting. She’s not smiling. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from the heel of her squishing CROCs. (Where was that when she NEEDED it??) She yanks the paper from her shoe, plunks it in the woman’s hand and tells her warmly, “Here, you just might need this”.
As she exits this rest haven, she spots me, as I have long since entered, used, and left the men’s restroom. Annoyed, I ask, “What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck and why are you wet?” I will not print what was said, in respect to Xanga’s guidelines.
This dab of a blog is dedicated to women everywhere who must deal with public restrooms (which has nothing to do with rest!). It finally explains to us men what really does take women so long. It also answers our other most commonly asked question, why do women go to the restroom in pairs? It’s so the other gal can guard the door, hang onto her purse, and hand her Kleenex under the door! Different kind of bonding than just standing next to a guy taking a whiz.…….