By staff writer Simonne Cullen
December 3, 2006
Do you have any idea how many rolls of toilet paper girls go through in a week? The marketing research department at Quilted Northern does I’m sure. It’s something ridiculous like ten rolls. That’s like a roll and a half a day. And you know only about half of that roll is actually used for legitimate wiping.
Why is everything in a bathroom white? Why not black or navy blue? That way when you have to use someone else’s bathroom you won’t be so incredibly grossed out that you debate holding in your pee just to go back to the party, converse for five minutes before you excuse yourself, and go outside to pee on a bush. You know your bathroom is a filth bucket when your peers would rather take a chance pissing on unknown shrubbery than in your toilet. Because you guys only wash your bathroom when the scent of mildew overpowers that of the shampoo.
“It doesn’t sound like a good idea, mixing booze and hot curling wands together, but we somehow manage to pull it off.”
In an apartment full of women, I promise you there will be serious drain clogs. We shed more than sheep dogs—every single one of us. We shave more on our bodies than you guys so it’s only a matter of time before our drains start spitting up our own discarded hair back at us. The super in our apartment is so annoyed with our room, he’s had to pull out three hairballs the size of a baby’s head from our bathroom sink since we moved in. And what’s sicker than that is we’re all pretty sure he kept them.
Both of my roommates have never lived with anyone before. I know that the first year takes some adjusting, but I am pretty sure that neither one of them has ever changed a roll of toilet paper in their life. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sat down to tinkle, only to realize that there was no TP available and had to waddle across the bathroom to get a roll. At first I just asked them kindly to change it. Then, when it happened the fifth time, I started using my loud angry voice. After the fifteenth time (seriously), I just waited for them to walk through the door and started pelting toilet paper rolls at their heads until one of them changed it.
That’s the worst chore, having to fetch toilet paper with your pants wrapped around your ankles, trying not to let even a drop of pee hit your underwear. It’s even worse when you think you’re done peeing, but then a little extra hits your leg and starts to travel down your thigh, so it becomes a race between you and your own urine to see who gets to the toilet paper/pant leg first.
Three girls to one bathtub/shower equals one big hairy mess. Until now I always thought that girls used the same razor for all their body parts. But if you look in our shower at this very moment you will find a plethora of razors. Some with the soap attached, some disposable pink ones, a Mach Three Turbo, and a really sharp one with a handle like red gummy candy. Are we running a cocaine ring? What’s the point of all these razors? Apparently, the disposable one is for the underarms, the Mach is for the legs, the gummy candy is for the crotch, and the soap-attached one is for leisurely days when the body needs a moisturizing treat. Listen, shaving is not an art form and your body is not a canvas—pick one razor and be done. I’m always scared I’m going to step on one when I enter the shower in a groggy morning haze.
I can’t imagine what it’s like for you guys shaving your face every other day. I imagine it’s about the same kind of material that us ladies have going on in our nether regions, only it’s coming out of your face. Ever cut yourself with a razor? It’s pretty painful, but you just can’t ever manage to stop wanting to see the wound bleed out a little. There you guys are shaving your face when you knick yourself. You flinch, but then discover, “Hey it kind of looks like I’m in a horror movie.” And even though it’s gross and completely unsanitary, you stay there in front of the mirror acting out scenes from Shaun of the Dead. Twenty minutes later you realize you’re incredibly late for class over a small cut.
Ladies, on the other hand, when we cut themselves shaving we have to call for reinforcements—usually the toilet paper. Our cuts never stop bleeding. You could sit on the toilet applying pressure for two hours, only to finally remove it and discover that not only has the wound not stopped spilling blood, but you’re naked and surrounded by three hundred pieces of bloody toilet paper.
And women always knick themselves on the worst part of their leg to put a Band-Aid. It’s always some place that a Band-Aid can’t stick, like behind the knee or right above it, around the ankle or just below it. Then every time you move your leg it starts to bleed again, so you end up wrapping gauze around it with clear medical tape and throwing on black pants in 90 degree heat (in case there’s a bleed through).
Girls will do anything in the bathroom when they’re getting ready. Pre-gaming and fixing our hair at the same time? No problem. Sure, it doesn’t sound like a good idea, mixing booze and hot curling wands together, but we somehow manage to pull it off. Which is funny because we’ll always stumble out the door and yet never seriously burn ourselves.
Curling iron burns are an absolute nightmare. They hurt annoyingly for an hour, but mostly because they end up looking like hickey marks on your neck. It turns out to be the mother of all social wounds because everyone asks who gave it to you. Then you have to insist to your boyfriend that you gave it to yourself, and you men never seem convinced that a curling iron can do that. Other girls look at you like you’re in 8th grade while you’re reapplying foundation to it in the bathroom to cover it up. And you only burn yourself sober, never when you have a vodka lemonade in your free hand. So my question is, why can’t that free hand ever manage to change the toilet paper roll when it’s empty?