I wanted my 100th post on The Ravenously Disappearing Woman to be special. So yesterday, with Father’s Day just around the corner, I began writing a very poignant piece about my Dad. After reading it over a dozen times, I decided that it was way too dark and deep. I’m deep, but dark usually isn’t one of my descriptors. Then, earlier this morning, after a bit of cajoling from a fellow blogger, I shared a true story, that I’ve told only a few times, in person, to make my friends laugh. This story is lacking the vibrant expression and the graphic description that I might use if I were telling it to you at a corner table in Starbucks. It also contains some (okay, lots of) bathroom humor which some may find offensive. Although, it’s been my personal experience that 3 year-olds to PhDs enjoy a good “accident” story now and again.
On December 26th 2009, we were travelling to visit my aunt and grandmother. On our way, we stopped at the only place available to have lunch; McDonalds. I normally wouldn’t choose Mickey D’s because my system CANNOT tolerate fried foods of any kind. I also hadn’t been made fully aware of my lactose intolerance, though I had made a general correlation. Trying to save on calories, I ordered a cheeseburger kid’s meal and hungrily ate it all. It had probably been a year since I’d had anything fried and it tasted like heaven. About an hour down the road, my heavenly meal turned hellish and I began to feel “distressed.” The problem was, that we were in the middle of nowhere and the mountainous roadways had no safe place to pull over. Even if we did pull over, the thought of taking care of something like that along the road horrified me. It was decided that I would have to make the best of things until we reached the Sheetz convenience store on the outskirts of our destination.
For about 20 more miles, I was able to distract myself with the combination of my iPhone and the mountain scenery. I only had ten more miles to go when my oldest daughter said something that made me laugh. For one split second, I let my guard down, and disaster struck. Car windows were rolled down, and uproarious laughter occurred. We were probably the only van on the highway with windows rolled down in below freezing temperatures, with five occupants laughing like drunken hyenas.
Finally, we reached the Sheetz store. I rushed to their single, unisex bathroom to assess the damage, and was relieved to find that it seemed manageable. I quickly formulated a recovery plan that involved throwing away a certain garment and spot washing another. I was delighted to see that the restroom had one of those high-powered hand dryers, so my spot washing became a bit more extensive. After all, I was visiting family.
With my remaining garment scrubbed fresh and clean, I made my way to the hand dryer. It blew out a sharp gust of air for about ten seconds and then whirred to a premature stop. I repeated this process over and over, until I realized that it’s duration wasn’t making a dent in the wet spot on my drawers.
By this time, a line had formed outside of the restroom and several people had knocked to check the occupancy of my sanctuary. I confidently informed them that I’d be “out in a minute.” However, minute soon turned to 20 minutes, as I continued pressing the dryer button. Standing there in only a cardigan, tank top, and black leather boots, I was laughing until tears rolled down my cheeks at the thought of my ridiculous scene.
Finally, the manager knocked on the restroom door. “Ma’am. are you alright?” she yelled. I held it together long enough to weakly say, “I’m fine..I’m…a..just feeling a little sick.” Her next statement took me aback. “I’ll call an ambulance!”
“That’s totally not necessary!” I retorted loudly as I scrambled to put on my still wet jeans, exited and rushed past the frustrated, but relieved line of cross-legged people outside the door.
When I returned to the van, the kids were still laughing, and my husband was doing his best to maintain a false sense of decorum as he awaited my instructions. It was freezing, my pants were soaked, and we were already 10 minutes late for the get-together at my grandmother’s house. After leaving the convenience store, I directed my hubby to the good, old Dollar “G” for some needed supplies. I found a lovely pair of men’s, old school, elastic-ankled, black sweat pants and a six pack of cheap, fruit of the loom underwear that was close to my size. In the home goods aisle, I grabbed a roll of paper towels and my daughter couldn’t resist picking up a can of “Linen Fresh” Febreeze, aiming it toward my backside, and opening fire. I removed the can from her hand and placed it in my cart; it seemed appropriate for the situation. At the checkout, with saggy wet pants, laughing like I was on crack, and buying an “I just crapped my pants kit” I imagined my scenario as a vignette in a low budget comedy film, and snorted back the urge to laugh even harder.
Back in the car I made my kids swear an oath on their cat’s life that they wouldn’t reveal the shenanigans that had just happened. Though it would nearly kill them, they promised to keep my “accident” a secret. We spent the next ten minutes coming up with a reason for our lateness and my wet pants.
When I arrived at my Grandmother’s, I greeted everyone with quick hugs as I acted out the story of how a clumsy move had caused me to spill an entire large Sprite on my lap. In the safety of the laundry room, I put on the fresh undies and sweatpants, and tossed my jeans in the dryer. After sitting on a roll of paper towels for the remainder of the trip, they had lost some of their moisture.
After about 20 minutes of visiting with my family, the dryer buzzer went off. I scurried to the laundry room to find that my aunt had beaten me there. She was holding my freshly dried jeans to her face and inhaling deeply, as I walked in. “I’m not sure which it is,” she said, “your laundry detergent or your fabric softener, but your pants smell wonderful!” I just about lost it, because I knew she was smelling the Febreeze that my daughter had sprayed me with.
I found out later that the manager at Sheetz store was most likely ready to call an ambulance because a month prior, a man had a heart attack in the bathroom and was unfortunately found dead after customer complaints that the restroom had been occupied for too long. I feel badly for worrying her.
My family visit was successful, and my kids somehow managed to keep my pants disaster a secret while we were there. However, when we got home, I heard curious laughter from their bedrooms, and phrases like, “Don’t you dare tell mom, I told you!” as they inevitably shared my story with their boyfriends; who are now my present and future son-in-laws!
So there you have it, my 100th post. It has absolutely nothing to do with the theme of my blog, or anything going on in my life, however, it is a testament to my silliness and I hope it made you giggle just a little!