Friday, April 29, 2016
Today I am grateful for Wendy’s Restaurant. They might not be happy about this. . .if they ever knew. . .but they are my heroes.
My body has been a bit out of sync these days from the various set-backs and plot twists with the simple surgery. Some days I can tolerate food okay, others I’m on broth, noodles and pretzels. It’s weird. So when Son-of-Himself told us he wanted to take us out to dinner before he leaves, I was thrilled. . .and apprehensive.
Indian food was probably out for me because of the spices and although Son-of-Himself loves it, Himself would nibble on nan and starve. So no Indian food. Just thinking about the refried beans in Mexican food gave me the bends, so that was out. Steak. . . and baked potato. Yes, I could do a steak at Texas Roadhouse. Himself would be happy, Son-of-Himself would be happy and I would be happy. Perfect.
We had a lovely, early dinner. I ate slowly and chewed my food like a cow in the pasture, masticating it to death before swallowing, just to be sure it would set well.
After leaving, with me driving, when we had just turned onto the main road, I felt it. Ggggrrrrrruuuuuummmmmbbble! Uh oh! “I might need to find a bathroom,” I said, in between their discussion of sports and the pending football draft. But there was no turning back on this road.
A couple of miles down, with not one bloody fast food restaurant in sight. . .grrrrruuummmbblbblbbe. Oh no. I’m in trouble. Big time. Listen is this gross? Of course it is. Have we ALL been here? Of course we have, don’t even try to lie about it. I write about “real” life and this is about as real as it gets. To Hell with “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Medic Alert should make a gizmo that tells you where the closest restroom is! That would be technology in its finest hour.
By now I am plotting my course for an open bathroom like Magellan on a quest. The place where we buy our plants in spring. Can I stop there? But where is their bathroom? I won’t have time ask, or search around. Nope. Keep driving. Grrrummmbl. . .
The elementary school. Cars are still there. But I’m not familiar with where the closest bathroom is and someone is sure to stop me for security reasons and by then it will be too late. I’ll either be dead or mortified.
By now I am shouting at Himself to pull off every scarf and accessory I am wearing, including my hair. Everything is annoying me. Ours looks like a clown car with demented acrobats flailing fabric. I am sticking my sweating brow out the window to catch some rain. Grrruuuuummmmbbbbllemeble. Yikes!
They changed the speed from 35 to 25 and I’ve already been stopped on this road for speeding. I’m doing 45 when people get outta my way and Himself is not chastising me. Smart man. If a cop stops me it will be worse for him than me. . .rumbblegrumbble.
The school district office. No, they have to buzz you in. . .and they might remember me. Buzzer person: Can I help you?
Me: Yes, I am about to self-implode. Could I please use your bathroom?
Implode maybe isn’t the best choice of words. I said, please. No. Keep driving.
Ding-ding-ding-ding, red lights, the striped arm comes down. Are you kidding me? A TRAIN? Is this an evil joke? My distress is such that if I were alone I might have tried to run through to the other side, swerving around the barricade and the cars in front of me like Steve McQueen in “Bullitt”. Breathe. Breathe! No one in the car is talking. No one. This is not the time for repartee. Finally we are in motion. . .too much motion. . .in too many ways. . .
Is there a porta-potty in the park? The field? The construction site? Nope! I know! My nail salon. Oh sure. Leap out of the car and run straight to the bathroom in a place you frequent maybe three times a year. They won’t mind. Salad Works? No, that bathroom is way in the back, I might not be able to knock down all of the people in line to get to it in time and the parking is too far away from the door. I am totally focused and maniacal in my goal.
My only hope, my oasis in the sand, my mecca. . . is Wendy’s. Parking is close. I know right where the. . . GRUMMMBBBLEGRUMBLEGRRRRRRMMMM. . .bathroom is. I fly into the handicapped spot, jump out the door as fast as surgery will allow, leaving the car running and head for my pot-o-gold.
What if the door is locked? I’ll use the men’s room. I don’t care what gender anyone thinks I am. I don’t care if they think I’m an orangutan. I need a bathroom. NOW! What if there is a sign on the door, “See counter staff for key”. I will leap across and yank that sucker off the wall, chastity girdle, sutures and all. I can take that pimply guy at the cash register! Watch me.
The ladies room was open. By the time my rendition of the Halleluiah Chorus was done. . . so was I. Wendy’s Restaurant will never know how grateful I am. Because I can never go back there again.