Tuesday, May 5, 2009

The Sound Off





I know that in my last few posts I have been a little bitchy. Unfortunately there is a brief time each month when my usual saintly demeanor (insert husband's eyeroll here) skews more toward Genghis Khan (insert husband's nodding in agreement here) than Mother Theresa. It's OK, I own it. I can recognize that it is bigger than me and that I must bow to its superior fire power. During these, umm, "edgier" moments, my blog takes on a slightly antagonistic tone, like this Mall Madness or this Home Sweet, Sticky Home or today's post for instance. I am admittedly not feeling so generous of spirit these days. So like an exorcism, the demon attitude must be purged and the more I write, the more I purge and the more my family can stop hiding the sharp implements. It's gotten so bad that my poor husband can't find any of his Phillips head screwdrivers.




So what's on my last nerve at this very moment? Bitches that talk on the cell phone in the bathroom stalls at work. If I wanted to know that your baby-daddy didn't give you money for formula this month or that your sister is being such a bitch about not wearing the purple shoes that you have dictated for your wedding or that you're so totally going to see the new Star Trek movie when it comes out, then I would knock on the stall, interrupt you mid-stream and ask you. Because that's what you're doing to me and I have no say in the matter.




Bathrooms are meant to be bastions of privacy. Their very design makes sound amplify within its walls, so your vapid chatter reverberates and gets all up in my business (ahem, figuratively speaking). And when you're finished with your toliet-bound chatter, please wash your hands and exit the room. Don't stand in front of the mirror, smoothing and patting your hair a thousand times while staring intently into your own eyes. Your 'do looks exactly the effing same as when you walked in, so by my estimation, you just wasted ten minutes of valuable sink time for those of us that actually want to wash our hands and get the F out. What's next, a sandwich and a laptop?




Personally, I find public toilets so gross that a swift exit is imperative. I don't want to hang out there. What's the draw? The bland decor? The foul odor? The constant influx of new people to overhear the crushing boredom of your life?




There, I feel better now. Please be sure to tune in tomorrow when the kinder and gentler Diary returns from her hormonal exile. She's excited about her comeback and has been considering posting about rainbows, puppies and the exciting world of cookie baking.


With hope for tomorrow,


- Diary

8 Your comments, banter and witty repartee:

peewee said...

CLEARLY you've never been into a Nordstrom bathroom. I pretty much wanna take my espresso machine and George Foreman grill in there and set up shop for life!

DG at Diary of a Mad Bathroom said...

Point taken. However, in my nasty little low-rise office building in the middle of nowhere (I kid you not, the nearest building is an abandoned mental institution), the bathroom is not a place for snackin or yackin (at least not the cell phone type of yackin).

Angelika said...

I have to agree that public bathrooms are strictly "get in, get out".

Just thinking about them makes me scrunch up my nose.

I've never had a conversation in a bathroom. Not even my own bathroom. There are limits to my accessibility.

KimberLeigh said...

Ewww. Not appropriate. Talk elsewhere.

crayzemare said...

Ah, I'm not sure exactly how it went but I think it was something like this... "Keesha. zat U sista? I schmelt your aura!"

DG at Diary of a Mad Bathroom said...

Oh jeez. Don't remind me. Sweet mother inappropriate!

Angelika said...

You have a High Five from me HERE

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