If you’re using a public restroom, it’s because you gotta go. The term public restroom is loosely defined as anywhere you can acceptably drop the drawers and let out a self satisfying exhale of letting it go.
Swanky department stores to weekend strong porta-johns that could use a bit more ventilation and blue water, they all qualify.
Whatever spectrum of potty exposure you’ve put yourself in, when you gotta go, you gotta go. (If it’s bad enough, wooded areas or between open car doors will suffice).
Nothing makes my bladder boil more than when you swing open that door to sweet freedom and find the seat covered in hover piss.
When you’ve made eye contact with a toilet and there’s no line between you, the loosening of the muscles has already begun. You’ve seen the end of the rainbow. The light at the end of a long tunnel that was your clenched rocking crotch has been calmed by your sight reassuring your bladder that relief is imminent.
Until you see the hover damage done. It interrupts your moment causing you to reclentch that crotch while you scramble to construct a decent toilet paper wad that guarantees a fast cleaning without direct stranger urine contact to your fingers.
You know That feeling. Unless you’re one of the guilty and just rehovering over the hover. Leaving me a double mess next time.
Big ole mess. Signed with love, Your fellow woman. Your girls. Your Pink power. Your Me toos. The ones who want to stand up and never sit down. Oh hey girlfren. Yeah. You. You pissed all over the seat. Floor. Walls. Who knows.
But you know.
You left that for me.
Thanks for looking out for your fellow under appreciated, discriminated, lower paid, sexually objectified, woe is me female team member. Makes me want to use the men’s room.
I have decided we won’t be unified until you stop pissing all over the public toilet seats.
Why? Two reasons.
- Respect. At a bare minimum, if we truly respected one another as we claim chicks should do, you know, cause we’re all chicks- then you would respect the fact that another chick is gonna be coming in hot and needing to get some much needed relief of epic hoo haw proportions.
You don’t respect me.
You wouldn’t do that at home and I bet if your man did, you’d be chitchatting with your girl friends how you ripped him a new one for it. I’ve heard enough stories including my own with raising sons to know that teaching aim etiquette is a thing. But it’s learnable and also doesn’t happen. Because respect. Even dudes can do it well and show respect. Many public bathrooms aren’t gender specific.
But hover spray is only a girl thing. You know it when you see it. Guys can’t physically create this great female divide known as spray and go.
So you know what you’re doing out there, ladies. And you probably didn’t take your pink rally hat off long enough to do it to us fellow ladies who have to clean it up for you.
I leave it better than I found it. Every. Time. Don’t believe me? Bet.
Cause I gotta clean it twice anyway. Once while I’m dancing and bitching that some hypocrite left me a sprayed seat with dribbles for days, then again after I sit on the seat and go.
Yeah you heard me. I sit on the seat and go.
Then, especially in portable potty land, I go an extra step- I take the hand sanitizer all over toilet paper and clean the seat before – and after- I go.
You’re welcome. You C you next Tuesday anyway.
Why? I want to make America great again. I want women to actually be authentic with one another.
If I’m gonna be proud to be a part of this segregated group you all created called women then I guess the first action would be to quit shitting on each other. Literally.
2. Trust. Imagine if women trusted one another. Imagine if women had each other’s backs. I don’t mean standing on a podium and insisting we already do. Haha. Yeah right.
We can’t even trust that the woman who pissed before us was clean enough to share a seat with. So you gotta hover over it, fearing a massive butt shaming of herpes infested crotch poison is secretly laying all over the throne.
So what better way to display that middle finger to your soul sisters than spraying your pee infestation all over it – a leave behind to remind me that your ass is more precious than mine.
Thanks girl. Wink wink at yeah. Fist pump.
I want to live in a world where if we really are united, we trust that we take care of our junk responsibly and can actually trust one another to share the stool. We can all sit down and calm the heck down.
In the grand scheme of things, wouldn’t you like to assume that the fecal debris and germs all over the doors, faucets, and towel dispensers is already pretty sketch? Why leave your urine all over for me to deal with?
Trust. Respect. Those two things must occur at a rudimentary level called sharing a toilet before we ever move a mountain.
Otherwise women as a righteous movement of supreme divas will keep me shaking my head, laughing at oxymorons as I continue my reality of stall opening surprises without any faith in early unclenching until I see my butt will be touching. Thats what I call the true statement of what I really must mean to our ovarian storage species.
Dang gum cherry pickers anyway. Believe me. I see you. I’ve even had hoity toity prim and proper stereotyped cougar ladies make eye contact with me, during that unnecessarily awkward moment of toilet exchange, until you realize it was awkward cause that bleepity bleep left me easily two toilet paper handfuls of pee wiping and flushing ahead of me. You suck. C’mon. Really?
If you’re still reading, it’s safe to assume I keep a mental tally of hover Mother’s. By far the worst culprits are date night restaurants and movie theaters. Americans trashing Movie theaters – that’s a whole ‘nother rant right there. Ridiculous. Embarrassing.
Here’s what I noticed ALL week at Sturgis. You know, the rally in South Dakota that includes more than 400,000 bikers, boobs, booze, national parks, sight seeing, historic monuments, sweat, August heat – I gave Sturgis a new slogan- “where the only shade is man made”.
Between staying in Custer, riding city to city and rest stop to rest stop- even into the heart of the party Sturgis rally- I drank and went potty a lot.
I saw women of every size, color, dress code, and age. I saw silver haired mamas jamming to live music, questionably young ladies washing bikes in bikinis, painted chests, lots of bling, no bling, overly conservative to overtly crazy – and I didn’t deal with one dribble. Not one dribble. Either none of us hover and have respect/trust, or we hover and clean it up.
With every stereotype of women represented and mutually respected at a biker rally, I can’t even tell you how many public toilets I used. Seven days out and about morning til night… 50 public toilets? 60? Twice in woods with Kleenex. How is that possible that I did not encounter one pee explosion?
I’m guessing when I’m home my chances of choosing what’s behind door number one and finding a piss palace is at least one in three.
After realizing I hadn’t dealt with one, even experiencing pleasant porta potties- I paid attention. I know I’ve been de-sensitized over the years of constant seat sanitizing so I wanted to make sure my new theory was legit.
Yep. From the compost closet stools of the National park to the porta potties baking in the hot 90’s sun to the restaurants and wineries – dry seats. Tidy rooms. It was like a vacation. Those are my girls. The Ladies of Sturgis came together. Cougars and all.
Thank you ladies. For shared respect and trust. Especially in a place where swamp ass was clearly unavoidable.
Your genuine care for leaving it better than you found it was noticed and reciprocated.
Maybe there is hope for us yet.
Thanks for reading.
Avid potty user. Defender of the clean.
Random funny thing, I was at this women only event about professionals and media stuff yada yada and I’ll be darned if every time I went to the bathroom I was cleaning up piss. How ironic is that!?