Bathrooms without hooks

Fucking men.

That's what I think every time I go into a public restroom and can't find any trace of a hook for a coat or handbag, as in "Fucking men who design these bathrooms with no regard for a woman's needs."

And what I need right now, aside from relieving my bladder, is a hook to hang my stuff on. I'm not like George Costanza—I don't strip down to do my business—but sometimes I am wearing a long coat that would be better served hanging away from my backside.

You know what I'm talking about.

Then there's my purse and laptop bag. I would rather not set my luscious Kooba bag or quirky Orla Kiely on the Petri dish of a floor that clearly hasn't seen a mop since the OxiClean guy died.

Here's where I start blaming men, who traditionally don't have extra baggage (literally, at least) or clothing that needs to be hung up. Dudes don't think about the convenience factor of a hook. These are the same guys who have designed stadium bathrooms with an equal number of stalls for men and women. Um, when are you going to learn that chicks need more stalls so we can get back to the game or totally rad reunion concert just as quickly as the XYs of the world?

So architects and building planners of every gender, when you do figure out a better ratio of bathroom stalls for women to men, throw a hook in each one, please? I've got a few hang-ups.

(photo: insidemyshoebox.com)

Desserts in jars

I love Anthropologie, I do, but I don't want to eat there.

These days, restaurants—so precious that I want to squeeze their white-washed and reclaimed wood cheeks—are squeezing all sorts of tasty cakes, crisps, puddings and brulées into Mason and Ball jars.

Adorable.

But what looks like a saccharine craft project becomes another kind of project, as I try to scrape, pull, and otherwise extract all of the tasty goodness out of the jar and into my piehole with a spoon or fork that doesn't have the same curvature. Serve my molten chocolate cake with a spatula, if you insist on stuffing it into a jar better suited for jam.

Let my dessert breathe on the plate, so I can breathe a sigh of relief.

(The idea for this post comes from a friend with the last name, ironically, of Mason.)

(photo: cynthiashaffer.typepad.com)