Sure, it's a day late. But this is a good Weekend Update, so good that this is Part I, and a photo Part II will come later. Happy St. Patrick's Day to those of you who claim to be Irish to get kissed and have a convenient alcoholism excuse.
Capricorn treated me to a meal out on the town on Saturday. Actually, she never paid for anything. We went to an Arby's last month and they messed up her order, so the very large manager (Do they make slim fast food managers? Is the hiring process use reverse weight discrimination?) was apologetic and gave us a coupon for two free dinners.
We redeemed it Saturday, and got dessert so that we wouldn't feel cheap. Except, they decided to give us that for free, too. A $17 Arby's meal, on the house. The effects of the recession have yet to hit the savory roast beef king. And everything tastes better when it's free, so I truly enjoyed my Chicken Bacon and Swiss.
To make it feel like a true date night, we went to the outlet mall next door so we could window shop (I'm writing about my appreciation of a free Arby's meal. What kind of shopping do you think I'm doing?). It's fun, but I get a little weary of sales clerks asking if they can help me find anything when I'm staring at the only rack of men's clothing in the entire clothing store. Little do they know, I'm headed straight for the clearance rack anyway to find last season's mistakes.
Now it's funny story time:
I needed to use the bathroom, so while Capricorn went to another store, I walked down a long, creepy, outdoor corridor with less lighting than a Wes Craven movie.
I have a dislike for using the bathroom in public- not for the sanitation but just because it's awkward. I figured this place would have a big bathroom with lots of stalls to at least create a buffer. Nope. I've seen bigger bathrooms at the gas station, sans the scrawled messages for me to call 555-8494 for a good time.*
I get inside a stall, and the bathroom entry door opens. A young boy calls out, "Papa? Papa?"
"Papa? Are you there, Papa?"
(Pants around my ankles) "Uh, no Papa."
(Door opens. A man ((I hope)) walks to urinal)
I hear the urinal flush. I hear him unzip. I hear the urinal flush again. I hear the urinal flush AGAIN. I am now worried his urethra is unleashing a fury of golden showers the porcelain gods cannot consume. I hear him zip up and then the urinal is flushed a fourth time. I hear the door close. Missing in this water transmission- the sound of the sink and a man with a healthy kidney washing his cesspool hands.
I quickly and finally use the bathroom, but before I'm ready to leave the stall, the main door opens again (mind you, it is late at night and, unless there was a red light and a Girls! Girls! Girls! sign flickering outside, there is no reason for this many dudes coming in so frequently).
I hear walking in what I presume to be all the boys in the Mexican version of "Jon and Kate Plus 8" (Or Juan y Casta Más Ocho). There's a furiously fast Spanish conversation going on around my stall. I say furiously fast because I don't think I've ever heard a slow Spanish conversation.
The boys, I think, are taking turns using the urinal and either talking about sports or their love for flushing urinals. It's unclear.
I finally pull up my pants.
I should have just held it. I should have just held it.
* Oh, speaking of that, tell your mom I said hi.**
** Man, I haven't done a your mom joke in a long time.***
*** But I have done your mom recently.****
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