I have to tell you, I considered writing this in the bathroom because, quite frankly, I do my best thinking on the toilet. (At least that's what I tell my boss when he wants to know where I've been for the last twenty minutes. Make 'em laugh, they forget you're slacking.) In the end however, I decided it's just getting too hard to hold the desktop computer on my lap and type at the same time anymore.

Do you think it means something that I have a recurring dream that I have to use a public restroom and when I get there, the toilets are all out in the open? Is this how men feel when they use the men's room? After all, the guys are just lined up like a herd of cows come milking time. There's no modesty at the urinal. Basically, aren't urinals just a row of porcelain buckets stuck to the wall? This just seems like a waste of good porcelain to me. No, I say, save some money and just grow a big bush in the middle of the floor. They'll figure it out.

Sometimes at home, when I finish washing my hands in the bathroom, I like to get my hairdryer and blow-dry my hands instead of using a towel. Why? Because I find those hand blower machines in public restrooms to be so much fun to use. (She said, sarcastically.) Forget those stupid things. No matter how many sinks there are, there's never more than two blowers. I understand only having one towel machine. Towels, you grab and go. But by the time that hand blower gets my hands dry, I have to pee again. Who else out there gives up halfway through and just finishes wiping their hands on their pants? You know you do.

Let's face it. Public restrooms are yet one more area where women have a decided disadvantage in life. You go to a nightclub with a capacity of 300 and for some reason, the bathroom is ten by ten feet square, with only two stalls. The door of one stall opens up dangerously close to the sink and you have to squeeze past five people in line to get out. I don't want to be that close to people. I certainly don't want to be the person pressed up against the wall to let someone pass by, especially after I've just made note that they did NOT wash their hands.

Speaking of stalls, are these really very private? For one thing, there's a good amount of space on either side of the door. Whenever I make that long trek down to the next available stall, I can't help but get fleeting glimpses of women as they do their business inside those little cubicles. I don't try to see this, mind you. It's just inevitable if you still have good peripheral vision. I'm a little paranoid about this, so I try to get the stall at the very end. But even if I do succeed at this, I still feel really exposed if my pants drop down far enough to the floor to be visible to the woman in the stall right next to me. The door and side walls should go all the way down. Who decided that privacy only matters once you get more than twelve inches above the floor? What color underwear I'm wearing is my business, thank you.

And who's the person who can't tell the difference between an open door and a closed, latched door? Sometimes, I'm just sitting in the stall, minding my own business, and BAM! It's like the S.W.A.T. team just hit the door with a battering ram. I don't care how badly you have to go, there's no need to knock the door off its hinges. It's already a little disconcerting to know that the only thing that stands between me and life-scarring embarrassment, is that flimsy, little lock on the door.

Think about it. Two tiny screws and a piece of metal that's supposed to slide into a corresponding slot. How does that get so horribly out of alignment? I can rarely ever get that darn latch to slide into that slot. I have to lift the door and tilt it 2 degrees to the right and then maybe it slides halfway in. Just when you think you've got it latched, the door starts to slowly swing open while you're peeing. Now you have to balance yourself so you can put your leg up against the door, just in case battering ram lady is outside gearing up to hurdle into your stall. It's not so bad if the door opens in. Every once in awhile you get the one that opens out though. In that case, you have to actually hook your foot underneath the door. It's so hard to concentrate on doing two things at once.

Someone explain the automatic toilet to me. Is it weight activated? Is it heat activated? Is it voice activated? Why does it flush while I'm still sitting on it? Am I inadvertently saying the magic word? If there were a magic word, wouldn't you think it would be "flush"? I would think it would take its cue from a sudden loss of pressure on the rim of the seat. It shouldn't be that difficult to tell the difference between me sitting on you and me not sitting on you.

Then there's the automatic faucet. You see where the water is supposed to come out, but there's no lever or button or knob of any kind. It's like that bad dream you have where your phone has no buttons or your car has no steering wheel. How long do you usually stand there and stare at it before you figure out what you're supposed to do? Yes, dummy, the water just comes out by itself!

Okay, like I totally don't care if, like, Susie likes Tom or if, like, Jim sucks or if Larry is a total, hot, bitchin' babe, you know? Permanently etching things into the wall is, like, totally awesome and all, word up to your mother, yo, you sick dawg, peace out. Who kissed who is definitely monumental and all, ya know, and like, awesomely dope. In some cases, it could actually be a public health service to know that Mark has herpes. But seriously, who cares? I have no idea who these people are whose names are scribbled all over the walls in the bathroom. Give me last names, addresses and some sort of photo I.D. Then maybe I'll appreciate it if, like, you know, Joe is a good kisser. You know?

Beware of the gas station restroom. Admittedly, they have improved a great deal. Most now have a fully intact toilet seat and running water. One time though, I used one that had a mirror right across from the toilet. Imagine my shock when I sat down and sitting right across from me was...ME! Trust me, it wasn't my good side. Mirrors in bathrooms are definitely a necessity. However, the gynecological view is totally unnecessary. I watch a lot of cop shows. Believe me, the thought that it was a two-way mirror crossed my mind.

Work isn't a place we fair any better. Does anyone else have that wonderful strawberry scented bathroom spray? Let's face it -- we all know what it's for. I'm sorry, but there's no delicate way to put this. Someone needs to poop at work, and this spray is supposed to cover the smell. But what exactly does strawberry spray plus poop equal? STRAWBERRY POOP! They're not fooling anyone! It's like a man's comb over. No matter how much hair he manages to stretch across his skull, everyone knows there's nothing but a shiny patch of skin beneath it. Who walks into the bathroom afterwards and says, "Mmmm. Strawberries. That takes me back to warm memories of my grandmother's homemade shortcake." Maybe if grandma baked in the barn. All bathroom spray does is make me not want to eat fruit. And I don't need any more reasons not to eat healthy. If someone ever develops broccoli and cauliflower bathroom spray, I'm totally doomed.

By far, the worst situation at work is the dreaded: "Oh my god, I just walked into the bathroom and it wreaks. What if the next person to use it saw me come out and thinks I have some lower intestinal disease? What if the scent is clinging to me when I leave? It's entirely possible. After all, sometimes the strawberry poop odor wafts across the hall and into the office while I'm working. I could be walking around half the day, wondering why people are giving me such a wide berth when they pass me in the hall. What an utter social disaster it would be if people thought I liked to wear disgusting, cheap perfume that smelled like untreated sewage."

Unless you have the bladder capacity of my gas tank, you're going to have to use a public restroom; it's a given. So, if everyone could just follow a few, simple rules, it wouldn't have to be such a bad experience. Wash your hands. I'm sick and tired of shying away from the bar nuts all night. Push gently. You don't need a running start to open that stall door. Most importantly, if the need arises, try to stop spraying that spray if you notice that flies are dying in mid-air and plummeting to the floor. That's not too much to remember, is it?

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© Beth Wiesemann. No portion of this article may be reproduced without the author's permission.