Today I had my favorite monthly committee meeting --honestly, it's a great group of fun folks, tho' our task (to review the paperwork for new courses) is mind-numbingly boring and often completely inane. . .
Actually, you know, these days, inane often seems just fine to me. Sheesh, I find in these my waning years that I aspire toward inanity.
But anyway, my monthly committee meeting means I get to use my favorite LSU restroom. I love this restroom. For one thing, it's clean and it always has paper towels--a fine and wonderful thing in this era of maintenance budget cuts. But even better are the signs in each stall: "Ladies, Please do not throw feminine items in the toilet." (It really says "toliet" but let's cut the underpaid and overworked janitor a bit of slack.)
It's the feminine items that gets me every time. I fight to restrain myself from chucking aftershave and jock straps, fishing poles and football jerseys, Weber grills and Playstations, down the commode.
Feminine items. Yup. Nothing speaks femininity quite like a used tampon.
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