Men Don’t Have to Sit

Last night I drug the hubs kicking and screaming through the movie theater to see Eclipse. Whatever. He loved that shit.

We inevitably ended up at Walmart. AGAIN.

Tim has to go to the bathroom, so I go, too. I’m clingy like that, except I went to the little girl’s room. Watch out. I’m about to go off.

Stepping foot inside the bathroom is an assault on the senses, one. Secondly, at 1 a.m. kids should be in bed asleep instead of pulling all the damn paper out of the dispenser by the sinks, twirling around like a ribbon dancer, and using the horror movie set public restroom as their own personal wonderland.

Because I couldn’t see past the sandpaper paper towel mess, I almost walked back out, but come to find out there’s no going back once I’ve shown my bladder the possibility of a toilet. So I picture myself with a machete going through the Congo and make my way to the nearest open stall.

Don’t women typically sit down to pee? Because I’ll be damned if there wasn’t pee on that toilet seat. Wishing I was donning full hazmat gear, I unrolled nearly a whole roll of toilet paper (keep in mind I’m making my best effort to touch NOTHING) and wrapped it clear up to my elbows. Then I got some more, wiped off the seat, got some more, covered the seat, and turned to pull my pants down.

The auto-flush sensor on the back of the toilet decided that I was not quite disgusted or pissed off to its liking yet. The toilet flushes of its own volition. Tsunami time. Everything is wet now, including my carefully constructed seat cover. Repeat.

Once I got my timing down as to where to stand in relation to the sensor after rebuilding my paper safety net, my ass didn’t go anywhere near that toilet seat. I semi-stood-semi-squatted to do my thing.

So, at this point, I had the sensor all figured out. After I was done, still covered in toilet paper and a sense of bad ass-ishness (see that pretty new thing up there? The just for me award? Yeah. with my pants around my ankles, I jumped/scurried/waddled/ran away from the toilet as quickly as possible. With an accomplished feeling, I re-situated myself, got my machete and safari hat, and exited the bathroom.

On the way out, don’t think I didn’t notice the sign that says “If this restroom is in need of servicing please turn the switch on.” It was already on, but nobody at the other end of the switch cared apparently. Since I was feeling a little ornery I flicked the switch up and down with my elbow about 17 times.

Tim: “What the hell took you so long?”

I roll my eyes and we shop. The end.