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Saturday
May122012

iPee

Long before George Costanza announced his invention of the iToilet app on the Seinfeld reunion episode, I had thought of this very concept. Having driven from Los Angeles to San Diego on many occasions, I’ve learned exactly where to stop for a clean bathroom and where not to stop. I have even taken to keeping a Starbucks paper cup on the floor of the passenger seat of my car—for roadside emergencies.

As a woman, peeing is a very big part of my life. It’s something I do often, and something I do well. While drinking three liters of water a day may have something to do with it, I’ve heard that women also have smaller bladders than men—or at least intolerance for a full bladder. Like Peter MacNicol’s character John Cage, the quirky Senior Partner at Cage & Fish on the acclaimed TV series of the 90s, Ally McBeal, I like a fresh bowl. I also like a clean bathroom, one that smells of flowers and candles not bleach and stale urine.

When faced with an urgent need, I have been known to slip into a vacant men’s room to relieve myself in lieu of waiting in a long queue for the ladies’ room. Every time I venture into the land of urinals, I ask myself “who are these filthy, disgusting men?” I think most women would concur that the ladies’ room is much cleaner. Gas station bathrooms are a prime example of why we don’t want to share the loo with men. You can’t tell me women are the ones fouling up the entire playing field. The simple fact is women sit. If we’re scared of germs we use a seat liner. If we’re really paranoid we hover like a spacecraft just above the bowl and get a little quad workout in while we tinkle. We are not the ones missing the bull’s eye. Maybe if men’s bathrooms were designed like an amusement park game where you shoot at the target and the horse races down the track, there would be more accuracy. What a novel concept for a sports bar! Forget comparing dick size, men could just compare the strength of their stream. I’m sure they could somehow translate that into a measure of virility.

A fun little factoid about women is that after we pee, we wash our hands, and after we wash our hands, we use the hand towel to open the door on our way out. Savvy restaurateurs, hoteliers, and such know this and strategically place a wastebasket within tossing reach of the door. Here’s how it works: Open door with hand towel, hold the door with foot, toss hand towel, and depart. We all do this. It’s funny to watch. I would love to put a camera in the ladies’ room and the men’s room and record the behavior. I’d be curious to see how many men wash their hands after handling their dick.  Unlike men, we don’t have to hold our instrument to pee, so the chances of our hands being more soiled after we relieve ourselves than before is slim. Are we assuming that some other woman is wiping her twat with her hand and not washing? Or, since we occasionally use the men’s room, do we assume men are using the ladies’ room? Why are we so obsessed about not touching the door handle on the way out?

 

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