Quick weekend update: I lurv my Dad-O. And this weekend we got to officially celebrate it. It was awesome. He's awesome. And my mother is an international recording star. (More on that to come when I have the album cover to prove it.)
On to the rant.
I've said it once and I'll say it again: The bathroom is not a place for chit chat. So wasn't it quite the shock when on my 3rd trip to the bathroom this morning (Don't judge. It's Monday. I have no vacation time. I do what I can to get away.), I run into a conversation between two ladies on the intricate workings of solar energy. Quoi? Seriously?
A. It's Monday morning. My brain can not handle a lecture on solar panels.
B. It's the bathroom. There are breakrooms and emailing for that type of discussion.
Because it would seem strange to just turn around and leave, I proceed to do what I came to do, and the moment the stall door closed, voices raised. I'm terribly sorry that my using this facility for its natural purpose has disturbed you. My apologies, let me treck down to the lobby and use their bathroom so you can finish this conversation. Let me also go ahead and feel bad about myself for using excess papertowels in front of the newly-formed-green-power-girl-group. Are they going to start patroling my bathroom, yanking that second paper towel from my hand, forcing me to put bricks in the back of the toilet tank and sternly lecture me on my ever-growing carbon footprint?