More restroom troubles

We just moved into our new office building on Friday and I am loving it. Everything is new and organized, we’re located in my favorite part of town, and there’s enough extra space in my office to have at least 5 Riverdancers of average build up in here doing a little jig.

But for some reason the universe has decided to play a joke on me. Though our office is perfect and beautiful and new and splendid in every way, the ONE item that is missing is the most important of all…

The women’s restroom door handle.

As you know, I have ongoing issues with public restrooms, so this doesn’t really surprise me. The men’s restroom has one. The kitchen has one. Every small office has one. So what’s a girl to do after a latte and 2 bottles of water?



The Public Restroom Experience

Public restrooms are my own personal hell. It seems that every time I use one something filthy, loud, or just plain weird scars me and makes my next visit that much more terrifying.  I never seem to be let off the hook when using one, either. I’m actually starting to think there’s someone planting these scenarios and cracking up at me in some hidden one-way mirrored room somewhere.

In all my public restroom quests, I have found the most frustrating experience to be starting a new roll of toilet paper. Why can’t Mr. Janitor just be a doll and tear it apart for us when he adds the new roll?

And to those huge plastic covers: I shake my bloodied fist at you. They serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever, except to keep you from retrieving a decent sized chunk of paper and practically maiming you in the process. They force you to spin and spin and spin the gigantic roll from the tiny opening at the bottom until you think you’ve found the loose end… but then you grab, pull and one long skinny piece starts unraveling.

What the heck am I supposed to do with this?

So your public restroom experience is prolonged even further, frustrated panting, grunts and banging are heard from your stall as you struggle to pry your hand free of the plastic cage, and the poor innocent person beside you is scarred for life.

It’s a vicious circle, I’m telling you.