Dear Lady,

Dear Lady,


Thank you so much for your kind offering of toilet paper, but I don't know you and where your hand has been.  You, my new friend from Kentucky, are very sweet, but since we don't know each other you would never know that (shhhh), I  am a germaphobe, and unless I am related to someone, I wouldn't have a conversation with anyone seated next to me in the adjacent bathroom stall.  It's just me.  Call me crazy.  And, no, I'm not planning on running for Congress, or visiting the Minneapolis airport in the near future.  I just have a problem with germs.


Thank you, too, lady from Kentucky, for your pleasant "in line waiting"conversation in the very small bathroom in the Chick-fil-A.  I could tell that you "seemed" normal with your "MONTANA!" sweatshirt, and your concern for your college aged daughter, but, still, I would rather not use toilet paper than accept a pass from under a dirty stall wall.


Lady, you are well intentioned.  It's just me.  I have issues.  I'm still trying to get the image of your hand coming at me from under the wall, out of my head.  


Hugs and Chicken-y kisses,


Careless