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| A painting by Jackson Pollock. I don't know what it is either. |
I have colitis, and I seem to have bad luck in restaurant bathrooms. Not always a good combination.
Having colitis means I spend WAAAAY too much time figuring out what I'm going to eat, how it's going to affect me, and where the closest bathroom is.
I can tell you it's thirty-seven steps from the eggs to the bathroom in Wal-Mart. I know where all the bathrooms are in all the trucks stops, shops, and convenience stores in a twenty mile radius. I know who has a public restroom and who "doesn't." I don't shop at the ones who don't.
There's one particular restaurant, our favorite, I seem to always have bad luck with, though. I don't know what it is. I go in there with the intent to do my business, and something always seems to go horribly awry.
One day, we were eating and I felt the rumble. I quick-stepped to the bathroom, found a stall, and hovered as my momma taught me. Suddenly, the Earth tilted on its axis. Or the bathroom moved. Or my horrible sense of balance kicked in.
Whatever.
It just wasn't a good time to suddenly start falling over, buuuuuut ........I did.
With my pants at my knees, I grabbed the empty air for anything I could hold on to. My fingers found the porcelain lid of the toilet tank and proceeded to knock it off.
Of course.
Somehow, my ninja/fairy-like reflexes kicked in and I twisted my half-naked body to catch the lid with my other hand before it could shatter on the stone tile and I could never show my face there again.
Whew.
Last night, things were not so lucky. I truly may never be able to go back to the restaurant. As we were munching on our sweet and sour chicken, Big Daddy noticed a tapestry above our table. It was a depiction of a tsunami. People were standing on pieces of wood, vegetables, rubble, and refuse, fighting for their lives against the rising water. Their faces were masks of horror, as wave after wave hit them. They were just trying to survive, hanging on for dear life. Who knew it was foreshadowing of what was about to happen?
There I was, stuffing my face, minding my own business when I felt my stomach cramp.
Crap.
Literally.
I quickly walked the fifty-seven steps to the bathroom, I visited the stall, and began doing my deed. A nasty, smelly, bad, embarrassing deed. A deed that had we been at home I would have been embarrassed enough about, being in public is even worse. Because, you see, colitis is all about the embarrassment It's practically a symptom. A gassy, Jackson Pollock painting symptom. And so I did the deed.
A deed so foul, I made my own eyes water. Some poor, poor woman came in, gagged, and left.
Though, in all honesty, I don't know if it was the smell or the sounds.
TMI, I know. But I warned you in the title, didn't I?
Finally, my episode passed (a pun!) and I flushed the toilet.
Now those of you who have seen Ben Stiller in the movie "Along Came Polly" can guess what happens next.
The water began to rise. And rise. And rise.
I backed up in horror, as the Poo Tsunami began to creep closer to the edge. I looked around desperately as though some magical Genie Rotor-Rooter Man would appear from thin air and rescue me from the rising tide.
No plunger. No help to be found.
Crap.
I unhooked the stall door and rushed to the sink. I quickly washed my hands and ran back for a second look. Thankfully, it had stopped about half an inch from the top.
I left embarrassed and ashamed, telling no one. Wrong, I know. And sad. Then, the waitress asked me where I had been. Busted.
*sigh*
I used to love their egg rolls.
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