Two Cents Worth

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At the trail head of our dogsledding adventure were two buildings. One a log cabin complete with wood burning stove and the other a spacious, one-holer sporting a nice toilet seat. On the wall inside the outhouse was a sign that read, "Men and women please sit down. Urine freezes to the seat.” I had to giggle thinking of how men would cringe at that idea. After all, none of you have sat to pee since you were tall enough to reach.

When I got home this email was on my computer and it was so appropriate to the occasion I wanted to share it. It’s called, Public Restroom. Some may already have read it, but share it with your male friends.

When you visit a public restroom there is usually a lineup. You smile politely and take your spot at the end of the line. When it’s your turn your look under the doors for feet and they are all occupied. Finally a door opens and you rush in.

You get in and find the door won’t latch, but it doesn’t matter because you waited too long and are about to wet your pants. If it has a seat cover dispenser, it’s empty. You just can’t (gag, gag) put your purse on the floor and if there was a door hook it’s broke off, so you carefully drape your purse around your neck, yank down your pants and assume, The Stance.

In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You would sit down but you didn’t have time to wipe the seat or even lay toilet paper on it, so you quiver and hold The Stance.

To take your mind of your trembling thighs, you reach for what you discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. You remember the tiny tissue you blew your nose on yesterday that’s still in your purse and thank goodness it’s the one hanging around your neck.

It will have to do. You fold it in the puffiest possible way and it’s still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes the door open – no latch – and hits your purse and you topple backward against the tank. “Occupied,” you scream as you reach for the door with your foot, dropping the tiny, precious crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor. You lose your footing and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT.

It is wet, of course.

You bolt up knowing it is too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every germ and life form known to man. You can hear your mother’s voice, “You just don’t know what kind of diseases you could get.” Now the automatic sensor flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl which creates a mist that covers your butt and runs down your legs. At this point you give up. You are soaked. You are exhausted. You wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and try to slink out inconspicuously to the sinks. You can’t get figure out how to work the faucet with its automatic sensors, so you wash your hands with spit and dry paper towels. You walk past the line of women but are no longer able to smile politely.

A very kind soul at the end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper clinging to your shoe. Where was that when you needed it? You yank the paper from your shoe and plunk it in the woman’s hand and tell her warmly, “You might just need this.”

When you walk out you see your companion, who has long since entered, used and left the men’s restroom. Annoyed he asks, “What took you so long and why is your purse hanging around your neck?”

This explains to men what really takes us so long. It also answers their commonly asked question about why women go to the rest (ha, ha) room in pairs. It is so there is someone to hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door.



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