As the lone woman in an office full of men, I often find myself the loser in the War of the Toilet Seat. This war is made up of a series of battles. Each battle brings a new reversal. It’s up. It’s down. It’s up again. No wait, there are five of them and one of me. So that would be: it’s up; it’s up; it’s up; it’s up; it’s up; it’s down; it’s up. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Oh goodness, I hope they wash their hands.
Most of them are married, which begs the question, are they not housetrained? This is not a question I am prepared to ask their wives. From one married woman to another, I know that would come across as an insult. I will ask, “Does he leave the toilet seat up at home?” They will hear, “Why can’t you get him to put the toilet seat down?!?” I would never do that to another woman, at least not the ones who have to live with these monkeys.
So today I found myself pondering the options, keeping in mind that they don’t charge me rent or make me bring my own tp. I don’t want to make too much of a fuss. I want to make just the right sized fuss. I was thinking, I could put up a sign or maybe find a Sharpie and write in big black letters on the underside of the toilet seat. It could say, “Put me down.”
But then I realized that would be a huge mistake. Because then they would all be standing there, hurling insults at the porcelain basin, the head, the john, or whatever it is they call it in their tiny, childlike brains when nature calls, when they play fireman, shake the dew off, check the tires, or send a message. No wait, those last two are for calls of nature when you’re in nature; no toilet required. So what would they say to the underside of the seat while they are hitting the target? I imagine juvenile things like, “Your momma holds potted plants.” Or, “Your daddy cracked under the pressure.”
Hmm…hitting the target…I really hope they have good aim. If not, I can hold it.
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