As everyone who knows me knows — I have a certain pet peeve that just fills me with the rage of Zsa Zsa Gabor and Charo’s love child.

When I am making a tinkle in a public restroom — do not talk to me. Do not feel the need to ask me about my day, make light conversation about the upcoming weekend, and look at me in a way that might make the pee stream subside. I will not be nice to you. In fact, you might get a srpay in the face if you aren’t careful.

I was in the restroom here at work. And typically — it’s cool, cuz I work in the school of nursing which is dominated (93% or so) by women. Which means there’s like all of 5 men on this floor who use the men’s restroom. Well — there’s this one old man here (hoary headed and all) whom I’ve never met, who is obviously gay, and who calls me either by my name — or guy.
So here’s me: standing at the urinal, making a wee, thinking about how I’m glad I had a bottle of water and my pee is so clear and clean. The door flys open and in saunters this old man (whom has now been dubbed “Quentin Crisp” by my coworker friends. We don’t know his real name — we think it’s Charles. But Quentin Crsip sounds more fabulous.) So in he comes. “Hey guy …”
He does not quit talking the whole time I’m peeing — and in fact, proceeds into the stall directly behind me. I hear him clanking with his belt, etc. and I’m like “Dear God, please don’t make me listen to an old gay man take a shit.”
I washed my urine-free hands as quickly as possible and litterally ran to the door to avoid the experience of homosexual geriatric defecation.
Disaster avoided.
So I’m walking back to the office and round the corner and almost run right into this woman we’ll call “Joyce” — this very masculine woman (whom we suspect is really a man due to her testosterone-y appearance and pheromone give-off — or maybe she’s just really got it bad with the Muse of Menopause