Give me PEE-ce
Now that I am in my fifties I have discovered things in life that I cannot live without. Netflix , Spanx, hummus and vodka all make the list. Of course I have also discovered things that I could live very nicely without: Dr. Phil, green juice, low rise jeans and tapas (Seriously? Give me a plate of food!) are stand outs on this list. Due to an experience I had this weekend my new NUMBER ONE THING I CAN LIVE WITHOUT is absolutely, without a doubt, I’d rather eat sugar free sherbet than have to deal with: the bathroom attendant. In other words, I have to pee, now get the fuck out.
This weekend I was in Chicago which is awesome. I love the hot dogs. I love the stores. And I love the trendy restaurants. So there I am in one of these awesome places filled with beautiful city dwellers, enjoying my second cocktail when the call comes and I need to use the facilities. Plus it was very windy on the walk over and I’m pretty sure all my hair is blown to the left side of my head leaving the right side just a few thin wisps like a newly born baby bird. I head upstairs to the bathroom and open the door to find a large woman guarding the stalls. On the counter is a variety of perfumes, mints, HAND TOWELS, and a glass jar with dollars in it. Did I wander into the Nordstroms make up department by accident? WTF?
“Hey baby,” she says, “You can go right on in to number five.” WHAT? To make matters worse, I am the only one in here right now, meaning any noises that emerge from behind these stalls are coming from me. She knows it and I know it. I begin to sweat as I take a seat. I open my evening clutch purse, (aka my old Fossil shoulder bag with the strap ripped off) and begin frantically searching for change. Will she take a debit card or do I have to leave there with my hands dripping wet? Is there any way of sneaking a paper towel from the wall dispenser and running out? All I can find is a quarter, a nickel with a piece of gum from 1998 stuck to it and three pennies. I am in hell.
Then I start getting sort of mad, I mean what is she doing that I need to pay for? I can pick up my own towel, and I promise not to use the perfume which I’m sure has been sitting there for years and has turned into some noxious stinky shit that will make me smell like Mrs. Javitz my third grade Sunday school teacher. Frankly, unless I yell “Come wipe me!” I think this should be a free visit.
Then the heavens smiled above me. I heard a huge commotion, giggling, etc. I emerged from my stall to find three girls in prom dresses primping in front of the mirror while the attendant was plying them with towels and hand cream. I made my move. Threw some water on my hands, grabbed a paper towel and ran out of there as if I had just stolen something from a jewelry store. Phew. That was a close one.
I returned to the table looking worse than when I left due to the profuse sweating and the fact that I did not stop at the mirror to fix my feathers. I then did the only thing I could, ordered another cocktail and tightly crossed my legs.
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