Why Do Women...

(This giggle was sent to me this morning by my sister. Thanks, Val.)

When you have to visit a public bathroom, you usually find a line of
women, so you smile politely and take your place. Once it's your turn,
you check for feet under the stall doors. Every stall is occupied.
Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman
leaving the stall.

You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has
been so long you are about to wet your pants! The dispenser for the
modern "seat covers" (invented by someone's Mom, no doubt) is handy, but
empty. You would hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, but
there isn't - so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your neck,
(Mom would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!), yank down
your pants, and assume " The Stance."

In this position your aging, toneless thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd
love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or
lay toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance."

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you
discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can
hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the
seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!" Your thighs shake
more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the
one that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, the purse around your neck,
that now, you have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same
time). That would have to do. You crumple it in the puffiest way
possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail.

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. The door
hits your head, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of
the toilet. "Occupied!" you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your
precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, lose your
footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. It is
wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late.
Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life
form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper - not
that there was any, even if you had taken time to try. You know that your
mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're certain her
bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, dear,
"You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get."

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so
confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose
against the inside of the bowl that sprays a fine mist of water that
covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes. The flush
somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the
empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. At this
point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet
seat. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in
your pocket and then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.

You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic
sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk
past the line of women, still waiting. You are no longer able to smile
politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a
piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you
NEEDED it??) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's
hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this." As you exit,
you spot your hubby, 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 is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with a public restrooms
(rest?? you've got to be kidding!). It finally explains to the men
what really does take us so long. It also answers the age-old question about why women go to the restroom in pairs. It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse and hand you Kleenex under the door!

If I'm going to get my "Woman's Card" revoked for spilling a secret, I blame Val. Take hers !