Dear Mrsatroxi,

Atroxi and I did something we almost ever do, which was to go out Friday night. Which isn’t nearly as exciting as it sounds. Unless dinner and a tiny bit of shopping are truly your idea of a rousing hedonistic good time, and, in that case, you have my deepest sympathies.

Anyway, dinner. I guess there was some kind of a fall formal dance thingy going on, because the area restaurants were plum full of teenage girls in frothy sparkly dresses and boys uncomfortably tugging on bowties and cummerbunds. Hooray. We all know how much I adore the common teenager. But, it was ok. The restaurant we chose has lots of, I guess you could call them wings, and us old folks were seated far far away from the young things. Thank you, very smart hostess. But then, of course, I had to avail myself of the facilities. Which meant a trek of five miles, fighting my way through pastel chiffon, Britney Spears scented air and boners. But! I prevailed! I was fine! I locked myself in a stall with a sense of deep personal triumph.

Which was instantly soured by the conversation going on in the stall next to me.

Now, I need to explain that I have a Thing about bathrooms. A Personal Rule, if you will. My Golden Rule of Bathrooms is this: Thou Shalt Not Talk in the Stall. Very simple and very easy to do. Or, rather, not do. The stall is sacrosanct, the holy of holies, personal private and devout, and just like you don’t spit in the wind or tug on Superman’s Cape, you don’t talk in the pisser. Ok?

So, I was grumpy right away, but it got worse when I realized she was on the phone. On the phone, peeing and also pissing about how her date had asked for separate checks. And, then, of course, she flushed. On. The. Phone. Now, see, I don’t care if she was talking to her mom, her best friend or her gynecologist. The only telephone call that should be made from the toilet is of the “help I’ve fallen and can’t get up,” variety. “My date is cheap,” can wait for later.

Still whining, she wandered out, I presume she stared in the mirror for awhile, and then…and then…worser and worser…she didn’t wash her hands.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I was so disgusted by this point I could barely stumble out of my stall. I ran the water until it was scalding and scrubbed my hands up to the elbows for ages, praying all the while that no part of me would touch anything the Queen of Filth had breathed on. Somewhat recovered, I slipped out into the dining room…and started looking at shoes. (You would have done the same thing, so shut up.) But! I was stymied! Apparently there had been some Sisterhood of the Payless Shoes pact, because the ones in groups were wearing matching footwear. Discouraged, I fought my way back to our table and wept the tale of woe onto my love’s shoulder.

Now, I know I was an icky little kid. I also know that we all have had moments in our life, personal hygiene moments, if you will, that we aren’t proud of. And I know she might have been so worked up over her date and the dance that she just forgot to wash. I’m not so judgmental as to forget that. But the telephone thing? That could have been helped. So, those of you out there who unashamedly do that? Stop it. Right now. It’s unhygienic. It’s embarrassing. It’s disrespectful. It’s gross!