Labor Day marks the traditional end of summer, but I defied custom with a poststop-wearing-white (that means you too, Miley!) outing to a "resort" hotel pool. The destination was a copycat version of Las Vegas’ notorious "Rehab" pool party. The exact locale shall remain nameless because what happened there was not their fault, except for maybe an unfortunate bit of geography and tragic timing.

The weather was cooperative and my husband was actually home, so I gamely donned my bikini with intentions of soaking in some vitamin D and imbibing a few low-sugar cocktails laced with tequila. We had grand ideas of singeing sun, hot bods and cold drinks. In reality, the sun was scorching. The bods – eh, not so hot, except for our cocktail waitress and a lone "beachgoer" that sprang the song "Bubble Butt" to life. But, important things important – the cocktails were chilled nicely and we had a whole private cabana to ourselves complete with a mini fridge and Direct TV.

Apparently, the universe had other intentions than I envisioned for my afternoon.

As luck would have it, our cabana had some squatters in it when we arrived – a family of four portly vagrants all resembling Mama June from "Honey Boo Boo."

They had clearly smuggled and guzzled their own bottle of rail tequila into the club, against the no "BYOB" policy. The warehouse store sized bottle sat three quarters empty, stowed crookedly in the sand.

Instead of placing us beneath another four-poled domain, the management insisted on gently kicking the intruders out by reminding them that cabanas were "rental only." They loudly grumbled as they snatched up their belongings and moved to the white plastic, "free" loungers directly in front of our cabana. I gulped as I noticed a Rorschach from their sweaty bodies left behind on the fabric cushions of our chaise lounges.

As I watched his belly lead the way away from us, I marveled at the feat of physics achieved by the tequila-soaked husband as he was able to balance vertically and simultaneously walk forwards. Naturally, he proved to be quite friendly and chatty, asking to keep his bottle of hooch in our fridge and, in the spirit of honesty, letting us know that he had gathered some extra towels for his group that he put "on Cabana 1."

He hoped we didn’t mind, adding his wife had requested the purple solid towels we were laying on, but the clubhouse would only give him the striped version. He then quipped that his betrothed was used to making do, as she "had to deal with it for three years while I was locked up in prison."

And the awesomeness continued for the next three hours.

Grandma never quite broke intensely staring at me like an extra on "Breaking Bad." The family’s oversized toddler incessantly screamed like a brat each time his sugar fix ran out. The formerly incarcerated husband somehow made his way into our cabana several times to philosophically chat about tattoos, his broken computer and the possibility of smoking a bowl together – all of which we politely endured and declined in order to not create any further waves in our afternoon by the pool.

When they finally departed, they left us with a full view of the poolside shower, unfortunately situated right in front of our cabana.

Almost in chorus as we breathed a sigh of relief at our newfound privacy, a middle-aged woman emerged from the pool. She looked innocent enough wearing an ill-fitting black bikini whose elastic was ravaged by chlorine. Her head was encased in a painfully tight black vinyl swim cap that made me wince from imagining the friction of removal. Still, she seemed harmless.

Suspicion arose as I noticed she clung to a huge clear plastic swim mask and snorkel dripping with pool water. As I stared in wonderment at the idea of snorkeling in the resort pool, all the sun and fun of the day was overshadowed as I began to witness the woman indulging in a full body cleansing at the poolside shower.

Please note the descriptive word – poolside. As in very public, in full view of everyone to see. Also, please revisit the term "full body cleansing," as in not a smidgen of a part meant to be private was left confidential or un-sudsed.

She used a hotel-issue white washcloth and bottle of complimentary shampoo, moving her swimsuit left and right, away from her body to accommodate her hand, which was clutching the soapy rag. The bath became an offensively choreographed dance as she stretched the swimsuit bottom forward to shove her hands between her legs and rub a dub dub. She then reached around back, snapping the Lycra fabric away so she could reach what looked like her entire arm betwixt her cheeks. She crescendoed, moving upwards, sliding the stretchy triangles outwards to get that washcloth going in circles.

I abruptly and completely understood the term "whore’s bath" and swore never to use a hotel washcloth again.

I could barely contain my mixture of emotions as I hissed in a combination of insane laughter and horrified screams to my husband, "ARE YOU WATCHING THIS!!??"

So, I ask you, dear OnMilwaukee.com readers, as you reflect on this last summer and look forward to the next … Just how much showering is meant to be done at beach or in pool open-air showers? Is soaping up appropriate? What about using an implement like a sponge, loofah or cloth? How much clothing can be removed or pushed aside without offending?

Last time I checked, those showers are for rinsing sand off your feet or sunscreen off your skin before submerging in the pool – not for a full body soap fest complete with undercarriage detailing, wax and polish.

Regardless of your viewpoint, the lesson here is: think twice before using those hotel washcloths.