I am not going to get all descriptive and biological here—but you should SEE our ladies’ room at the office today! Were these women raised by WOLVES? I mean, Jesus H. Christ on spike heels, CLEAN UP after your filthy selves!
I am going up to the 20th floor to use their ladies’ room, I just can’t bear the sight of the one on 16. And the poor maintenance woman who has to clean it up really deserves a healthy raise . . .
If I catch those women in action, swirlies will be administered!
Yeah, and what the hell’s up with those couches?! Had to enter a ladies room on an emergency call which involved a total building search. It was a real nice couch. What for?
Long after I was done with that call, I was still scratching my head trying to figure it out. I can’t even remember why we were dispatched to this call. All I remember is that damn sofa. It looked like something from my Mom’s house.
Well, I guess some things are best not known, if you’re a guy. 
I’ll flush while you hold 'em.
Where I’m working now is not so bad, but three offices ago some bitch would sneak cigarettes in the stalls and LEAVE THE ASH ON THE TOILET PAPER. Ugh!
Personally, I believe any decent individual wipes off the counter after hand-washing, so the next poor soul doesn’t get water spots on their clothing. The half of the staff I share the washroom with now apparently doesn’t agree with me, but as they manage not to leave paper on the floor, I’m not inclined to be very fussy about it.
Bluepony—The sofa is there to catch us appalled society dowagers as we faint at the state of the ladies’ room!
Scene: Ladies’ room in the Wrigley Building on Michigan Avenue, 10th floor, 4:00 p.m., yesterday.
I was in a stall, heard someone else come in and exclaim over a “present” that had been left in the next stall. She went to the next stall, did her business, and left, presumably leaving the “gift” for someone else to deal with. People, when you stumble across an unfortunate leave-behind, FLUSH THE MOTHERFUCKER DOWN! Don’t leave it there for the next person to find!
Here’s my beef.
Don’t like to sit on the seat (wuss! - wipe it with toilet paper), fine. BUT DON’T PEE ON THE FREAKIN’ SEAT AS YOU PLAY HOVERCRAFT AND THEN NOT WIPE IT OFF.
Gross!
Worked with a Hovercraft before and hated having to use the restroom after her.
Magdalene,
We call that “leaving a mud cat” down here in the South! It’s a frequent joke around our station and it really pisses off the patrol supervisors and lieutenants. Done at the right time and place, it can really be an upsetting experience, and an amusement to those of us on the watch that are not the victims.
::: pushing sofa towards Eve :::
And with that, I really have to get out of this thread!
“mudcat”? And here I was trying to avoid the use of the word “floater” out of respect for Eve’s delicate sensibilities.
So, let me get this straight - you know people who leave these on purpose?
I’m no Miss Manners, but allow me to say:
There is really no excuse for not flushing the toilet. Where are you from that it is not a reflex to flush the toilet as soon as you stand up? In that moment before opening the stall door, did you “forget” that something enormous and repulsive just came out of your ass?
Eve,
Isn’t this why high heels were invented? (Or at least their ancient ancestor, pattens?) So you stay well above the icky stuff? Just think, stylish AND practical.
Finagle, you could always accompany Eve to the loo and gallantly throw your cape across the puddles.
[fanning herself with lace hankie while Magdalene holds smellings salts under her nose]
Today’s trauma, Finagle, would not have been helped by high heels (which of course I was wearing!). It was more along the lines of what BunnyGirl described . . .
[collapses again on sofa]
Oh, dear! Magdalene, hold those salts.
[pats hand] Eve, honey!? Are you okay? [patting hand]
mag, I think you provided someone with a new sig. I would ask, but I just changed mine in honor of JDT.
The non-flushers and seat-tinklers are just a small step lower than the non-hand-washers, the dish washers, the hair-leavers, and the slobs who can’t pick up the paper towels that they couldn’t manage to shove in the trash can… For the last 3 days, there have been 2 knives left in one of our two sinks. The sink on the right is the favorite of the after-lunch cleaner-uppers - it barely drains for all the food residue dumped into it. Alas, I can’t go to the 20th floor as this is the only ladies’ loo on our end of the bldg. And it’s a single level bldg.
Oh, did I mention the automatic air freshener that shoots a shot of pseudo-peach scent every 15 seconds? ick.
We have two bathrooms, both of them co-ed one-seaters. One of them does have a urinal in it, though. I avert my eyes and head into the stall like the delicate flower I am.
Here is what gets my goat. We often bring treats (cake, brownies, etc) into the office. Treats are summarily devoured by 11 a.m. and the generous person can then take her little cake pan home to be washed. Inevitably, however, someone always insists on washing the cake pan–crumbs and all–in the bathroom sink. Thanks to this, our sink is perpetually clogged. I ask, can’t you put the damn saran wrap back on and wash it when you get home? Will the little crumbs truly get so dried-on that the cake pan will be a total loss if you wait? How about this plan, at least: scraping most of the crumbs OUT before you fill the pan with water?
I never do this, but one day I found that the person who ate the last carmel pecan roll took my pan in there for me and filled it with water, leaving it to soak. So I could wash it up later on during my lunch break. Fuck me! This is why I have a dishwasher at home! Argh!
I don’t know why some women’s restrooms have couches, but as a nursing mother, I cherished them. I did NOT enjoy nursing standing up, or nursing in a toilet stall. Being able to breastfeed my baby on a nice couch was relaxing.
Man, you gals are pigs! Now that I know how disgusting you are behind closed doors, I don’t think can bear the thought of fucking your kind any more. Thank you for changing my religion.
Jesus—someone quick tell Dinsdale some horrific mens’ room stories, so we can get him back to plying us with candy and flowers for our fair favors!
Lynn, was that YOU who kept sitting down on me after I’d fainted?
Dinsdale, just remember, none of the ladies in this thread perpetuate these horrors! We are beautiful, delicate creatures whose poop smells like flowers.
No go back to plying Eve with sweet nothings and champagne, before she faints again.
Forgive me, but I am not about to eat candy or anything in this bathroom, and I’m afraid my tender blossoms might wilt in this atmosphere.
Here, let me help you up. Lean on me. Do you need to be carried? Yes, that IS better!
Now, now. Lie back. Allow me to assist you in loosening the top button or two. Please, take your shoes off. Would it help if I undid your stockings?
Oh, who put Perry Como on the CD player?
Why yes, lily-of-the-valley is one of my my favorites. You like?
Damn, those bulbs must be out! You don’t mind candles, do you.
I must apologise I have nothing other than Godiva. And a complete array of non-alcoholic restorative beverages (Yeah, and plenty of booze for you, maggie. Belly up to the bar!)
(Now really I have to get out of here before I spend my 1000th post in a polluted woman’s bathroom, tho it is hard to imagine any better company.)