INSTILLED

'No, Shirley, I'm not going in there. If you have to go, go ahead. I'd rather pee in my pants. ' 'What's with you, Flo? You got the curse or the crud or something? '

Not wanting to make waves, start a general interrogation or sound like an idiot, I simply tell her I'll be waiting for her on the bench near the fountain. She gives me what I consider a disdainful acceptance. I keep my back towards the ladies' toilets as I'd rather not see who goes in and who comes out, sometimes with a strand of toilet paper hanging from the woman's slax.

Today I can't help but smell the toddler's messed Pamper as her mother forcefully drags her toward the pit stop.

This attitude is not new to me but has been in remission for years. My mother instilled it in me from when I could first walk, pull down my panties. Strange that today I felt David put a stone in his sling shot, wham it at Cloth and slay him fast. My mother was a killer when it came to personal hygiene and I was her student, or unexpected victim.

She bought, or inherited, a child's white porcelain  potty with tiny pink rosebuds painted all around it. It became a crown under my bed, way up on the 3rd floor of our row house. The small bathroom was on the first floor where I couldn't go at night. Before I said 'goodnight' to my parents, Mother listened for my little tinkle, then carried it to the basement, emptied it someplace and brought it back to me. This was a routine

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