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)

Cold bathrooms after hot showers

I come from the land of cold, the kind of cold that turns nipples into deadly weapons. Seriously, I could cut you.

 
Growing up in Southwestern Michigan, we got bitter winds, huge drifts, and bitter, ugly, raw-knuckled cold, thanks to something charmingly referred to as the Lake Effect. In the morning before school, my mom would turn the oven on and we'd all gather around the open door as we woofed down our Quaker oatmeal packets. After school, I'd hang out with my grandma, sitting over the register doing crossword puzzles on a tv tray while the coal heat warmed my feet. At night, the hot-water heater never managed to provide enough steamy water to keep the tub warm for very long. So mom would heat up water on the stove and pour boiling water into my tepid bath so I could stay in a bit longer. 

That is love.
 
I moved away from sub-zero temperatures to the temperate climate of Seattle. My hot-water heater lets me top off my tub when it starts to cool down. The scalding water never runs out when I am in the shower. Heaven.
 
What's not exactly sent from above is the feeling I get when I step out of a hot shower. I may not live in the Midwest but no matter how much I close off the doors and windows to trap the steam in the bathroom, it's still a figurative cold bucket of water on my shower bliss when my pink heated skin meets the cold air. Even with my towel and robe draped nearby, the rosy glow of the shower fades as my aforementioned nipples become menacing and I get figuratively if not literally steamed. My fogged-up bathroom may not be as cold as a witch's tit (an oft-used phrase by my colorful stepfather), but it's decidedly cooler than the hot spray I was just under. Since I don't presently have radiant floors, a heated towel rack or a man to drape around my shoulders, I linger in the shower, making up new excuses to never get out. "My legs could probably use to be shaved twice," "Now that my muscles are heated, I should really do some stretches in here," "Is there such a thing as too much exfoliation?" "It's okay to be a little late to work today." The list goes on, as does my shower. The alternative leaves me cold.

(Photo: mcincshopcom.ipage.com)

Toilet seat sprinkles

This one is mostly for the ladies, I’m guessing. Without fail, if I’m traveling, running around town, or moving through my day where a public restroom crosses my path, I see drops on the pot. Why, why, why? Do you have a sprinkler head screwed to your urethra? Are you marking your territory in this shithole? Are you blind or just a pissant?

This wet peeve sends me over the edge. As I’m wiping down your golden shower and building a paper barrier between me and your pee spree, I imagine all sorts of retripootion, ranging from forcing you to hose down a Honey Bucket to punching your bladder in the face to an old-school swirlie. Wet blanket I may be, but damn if my seat ain’t neat.

Unflushed toilets

Do what you want in the privacy of your own home. If it’s yellow, let it mellow, whatever. I don't give a shit. But if you are planting your ass on or aiming your junk at a public toilet, finish the job. Wipe up and flush.

Were you raised in the wild? Are you Nell? If not, I suspect your parents didn’t bring you up to leave your waste in a public space. Whether it’s number one or two, flush that shit down the drain. And while you’re at it, check for stray spray. As it says on the bathroom wall of the American Legion in Coloma, Michigan, “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat.” I couldn’t have toll painted that better myself.

For your lack of consideration and rudimentary hygiene, I think a big-ass swirlie is in order. Bobbing for crapples is a whole new kind of poo punch in the face, don't you think? What’s wrong, sweetpee? You look a bit flushed.

Punch Bowl Winners' Circle: Cheap toilet paper

We already know that impossibly compact airport bathroom stalls are punchable (TIWTPITF, Feb. 11). Fast-food restaurants, gas stations and bars everywhere seem to be vying for top honors in some unspoken contemptible crapper contest. But even a five-star restaurant's roomy restroom or the luxurious loo at a squeaky-clean Starbucks might as well be a street-festival Port-O-Let on Sunday night if it doesn't have a decent roll of toilet paper!

Apparently there is a market for tightwad TP. But that cheap-ass, see-through excuse for a personal hygienic helper brings literal meaning to "crap that chaps my hide".

Is it really saving them that much money? In these tough economic times, I can think of much more effective cost-cutting measures. Although I'm not one of those guys who needs to pay for a second seat on Southwest, I'll use up half a roll of that pitiful parchment in one, er, sitting. But pamper me with some of that aloe-infused, huggably soft good stuff, and a few luxurious squares will do the job!
Are these stingy purveyors of paltry processed pulp afraid their customers will steal it to fortify their personal stashes at home? I'd be ashamed to get caught "decorating" my worst enemy's front-yard foliage with their vile vellum, much less foisting it on my own house guests! I've been unemployed for almost five months now, but if it ever comes down to buying bargain-brand asswipe or eating canned cat food, I'm shopping for Charmin and noshing on 9 Lives. Might be a little tough getting it down, but much more tolerable on the way out!

Sorry if I offend your incompetence with incontinence, but in this age of plasma televisions and iPod nanos, this is one area where thick trumps thin. So, while I'm reaching over to the hand-towel dispenser for something that can appreciate my high-fiber diet, I'll take a double punch at you, ribald roll of single-ply sandpaper! You'll wish you had some quilted softness to cushion your gossamer grimace from the Mr. Whipple-worthy whoop-ass I'm about to unleash!

—Kevin Grover

This is from another Kevin, who always has an opinion and a funny comment about my posts.

(photo: thehappyrock.com)

Cell phones in public restrooms

Is your cell phone call really that important that you have to keep the convo going while you're doing your business in a bathroom stall? Really? Do you tell the person on the line that the sound of running water is a faucet and not your bladder? And have some respect for your fellow pee-ple—we might be trying to have a moment of peace away from the maddening crowd (or perhaps we're communing with our US Weekly).

Pry the phone away from your ear, urinate, wash your hands, punch yourself in the face, and resume your call.

Airport bathroom stalls

I've been traveling for the past day and I was rudely reminded of how much I hate airport bathrooms. Unlike most public places, airports usually have an ample number of stalls but like seats on flights, they are getting smaller and smaller.

The door usually opens inward and barely misses hitting the toilet. I then try to push my way in with my carry-on bag and laptop case. How are you supposed to get everything in there if there's no room between the toilet and the door? With a lot of angling and maneuvering and shoving and pushing, that's how. Oh, and swearing.

I am downright thrilled whenever I discover a stall with a door that opens outward. Are airport planners worried that we'll push open the door and smack an unsuspecting woman on her way to the changing table? It beats dropping a Nalgene bottle down the crapper because your backpack tipped as you were trying to twist your wheelie into the stall.

And don't even get me started about automated plastic seat covers. Most of the time, they don't work and sitting on used plastic seems much, much worse than sitting on tissue or the seat itself.

With hand sanitizer at the ready, I'm ready to use the stall as a punching bag. On second thought, maybe it would be better if I just kicked the crap out of it instead.

Admit it: You thought this was going to be about Larry Craig, didn't you?

(The photo comes from the Poop Report. Seriously.)