Over the weekend, my sister had some friends visit. Of the five total guests, four were men. Untrained, unmarried men. Men who are recently out of college and still co-habitate with only other men. And besides the beer consumption levels and the crass practical jokes that often involve the first man to pass out and a permanent marker, there was the one twenty-something single-guy habit that all women who prefer their bum to remain dry dread: The Always Open Toilet Seat.
There are plenty of rather entertaining anecdotes that I or any number of my friends could share about the training of a new spouse. We women have our faults, but men tend to be the less tidy gender who prefer to decorate with athletic jerseys and use promotional Burger King cups as glassware. They’re charming, they’re adorable, they can reach things on high shelves. But I’ve never yet met one that comes completely ready for household use.
But I digress. The thing about the toilet seat is that when this is first explained to a man, he seems confused. True enough, the seat itself is on a hinge. And putting it down ourselves isn’t incredibly difficult. When I walk into the bathroom with a clear mind in the broad light of day, I am fully capable of putting the seat down on my own. But when I shuffle in crustily through a sleep-induced fog, avoiding the lights so as to not burn my sleepy retinas, I don’t notice the seat up. And I’m not sure if it’s the sensation of falling that jerks me violently out of my sleep-walk or the resulting COLD, wet bum…oh wait, it’s both falling AND ending up with clammy ass that I hate.
Bless his little heart, Dave is a toilet seat champ. Growing up in a household of women didn’t hurt, but fearing the wrath of a woman woken by a violent ass-first fall into the toilet bowl completed the training. My dad, with even more years of similar fear-based training, is like a robot who was created for the sole purpose of closing toilet seats after use. I’ve been spoiled into complacency, but one too many damp cheeked situations over the weekend has led me to speak out, hoping any untrained men who read my blog take notice and save themselves from this particular lesson from the marriage syllabus.
Source.
The Traveling Circus 
“But when I shuffle in crustily through a sleep-induced fog, avoiding the lights so as to not burn my sleepy retinas, I don’t notice the seat up.”Maybe we cannot notice that the seat is down? If the excuse works for you, it works for us.
Amen to that. Aside from the dangers of middle of the night visits, it’s ugly to leave the seat up. Luckily Phil is not only a seat down kind of man, he’s lid down too! Something about poo molecules he said, but he had me at ‘lid’.