Okay, I think many of you will enjoy this account of one type of generic experience, found on a website by a friend yesterday. It's one reader's reply to a blog article re a story about what our moms may try to teach us femmes about how to survive visits to public toilets. The long (and hilarious) blog comment was quoted without attribution. Might try to identify it later.
=== The blog comment my friend read and sent ===
(The topic was "Rest room?")
Posted: July 15 2006,18:48
Another gem from my cousin:
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
firehose that somehow sucks everything down with such force that you
grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in to
o. 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.
=== End of blog comment ===
- requoted by Andrys
Topic Closed
Scuss Me! 
) that has crushed ice in the bottom...I understand it prevents splatters. 
