admin
07-16-2007, 07:50 PM
http://www.bunnyswords.net/stance.gif
as my Mother instructed me much in the same way
This is a girl problem.
This is right up there with the art
of peeing in the woods...
or at least the effort you have to go to,
to not pee on yourself!
My mother was a fanatic
about public restrooms.
When I was a little girl,
she'd take me into the stall,
show me how to wad up toilet paper
and wipe the seat.
Then she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper
to cover the seat.
Finally, she'd instruct,
"Never, NEVER sit on a public toilet seat.
Then she'd demonstrate "The Stance,"
which consisted of balancing
over the toilet in a sitting position
without actually letting any of your flesh
make contact with the toilet seat.
That was a long time ago.
Now, in my "mature" years,
"The Stance" is excruciatingly difficult
to maintain.
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 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 were 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.
That would have to do.
You crumple it in the puffiest way possible.
It is still smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door
because the latch doesn't work.
The door hits your purse,
which is hanging around your neck
in front of your chest,
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 that somehow
sucks everything down with such force
that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser
for fear of being dragged in too.
At that 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 at 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 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 restroom
(rest??? you've got to be kidding!!).
It finally explains to the men
what really does take us so long.
It also answers their other
commonly asked 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.
Received in email
as my Mother instructed me much in the same way
This is a girl problem.
This is right up there with the art
of peeing in the woods...
or at least the effort you have to go to,
to not pee on yourself!
My mother was a fanatic
about public restrooms.
When I was a little girl,
she'd take me into the stall,
show me how to wad up toilet paper
and wipe the seat.
Then she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper
to cover the seat.
Finally, she'd instruct,
"Never, NEVER sit on a public toilet seat.
Then she'd demonstrate "The Stance,"
which consisted of balancing
over the toilet in a sitting position
without actually letting any of your flesh
make contact with the toilet seat.
That was a long time ago.
Now, in my "mature" years,
"The Stance" is excruciatingly difficult
to maintain.
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 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 were 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.
That would have to do.
You crumple it in the puffiest way possible.
It is still smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door
because the latch doesn't work.
The door hits your purse,
which is hanging around your neck
in front of your chest,
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 that somehow
sucks everything down with such force
that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser
for fear of being dragged in too.
At that 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 at 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 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 restroom
(rest??? you've got to be kidding!!).
It finally explains to the men
what really does take us so long.
It also answers their other
commonly asked 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.
Received in email