who would do that?
Being a bad hostess and also behind posting I will post a story from the Seattle days to make it up to you.
Who Would Do That?
Last night I went to meet a girlfriend. Her name is Laurie and she jets all over the world for free because she works for an airline. [Don’t ask how annoying it is to pay four hundred dollars for a ticket a friend of yours gets for seventy-five dollars.] But she comes back to Seattle and holds interventions to get me out of this small room where I spend time with a hostile computer, and drags me out into the world. Which is when we go to Pesos.
Pesos is Laurie’s favorite place. It is a little Mexican restaurant/bar at the bottom of Queen Anne Hill. And nobody who works there is even Mexican at all which is strange to me but the bartenders are nice and cute and the drinks are good and there are steak tacos for two bucks. We go to Pesos a lot. We were going to Pesos before I even moved here. The bartenders know my name and say hello.
I was meeting Laurie and a couple friends. And I should have known it was a sign from God when a plastic hose in the toilet tank at home came loose and lured me into opening the toilet lid to find out why the toilet tank was leaking water from the top instead of the bottom when bottoms leak and tops don’t leak and it was not overflowing. The toilet immediately sprayed me and the entire room with water. And at that moment, I should have known. But I was not thinking, Oh this is one of those messages from God moments that means be careful of bathrooms. I was thinking, Oh fuck me, I have to shower and get dressed over again and I am going to be REALLY late. So I dashed all over getting together for the world and trotted to Pesos without a bit of foreboding.
And we were there and everyone was chatting and having a good time when I had a feminine emergency moment. Which you don’t bring up, you just look for a gracious moment to exit the conversation that does not look like you are cutting someone off dead [and this can be tricky because you just do want to cut people off dead and run] and walk at a gallop for a bathroom hoping your pants will survive.
Which I did. At a gallop. And slammed into the bathroom, lunged for the first stall, and it was okay. I made it. I could wear these pants again.
[If you are a guy and don’t know what I am talking about and can’t figure it out, well, um, I am trying to be delicate here and you are out of luck and explanations.]
Anyway. There I am. Breathing relief. Truth, justice, and the American way have prevailed. And so have my pants.
And then I notice the toilet.
The toilet is wrong.
And the sounds.
The sounds are wrong.
No one was in here, when I made the save the pants dash. But they are now.
There are certain laws of the universe. One is, women pee sitting down. Another is, this law of physics dictates how that sounds.
And I know, standing there, listening to the wrong sound —
I AM IN THE WRONG BATHROOM.
I stand there a while.
Staring at the wrong toilet.
Listening to wrong sound.
Waiting for the guy to leave.
He has to leave, right?
Only apparently this guy, who was nowhere in sight when I got here in the first place to even clue me in I was walking into THE WRONG BATHROOM was I guess drinking fifty thousand gallons of beer to insure he would be here right now —
For a long time.
But he does finish. Finally. Whew! Saved! Only —
Just when he leaves, two more guys show up.
And I guess every guy in Pesos that night was drinking fifty thousand gallons of beer just to be sure he could be here now because each time one guy leaves, two more show up like some crazed version of the magician’s apprentice and basically it is turning into a convention in here and —
Sooner or later, someone at my table will notice I have been gone too long. And come looking. Or someone will notice the feet under the door are too small and, um, in four inch heels. And then there is last call. . . .
I had to get out.
So. I did the man thing. I stomped out and tried not to look at “the other guy’s” penis. [Don’t look startled, girls know about mens’ room etiquette, it is a running joke at quilting bees.] And I am not even going to tell you the expression on mens’ faces when a woman walks out of a stall.
I have been going to Pesos for years. I should know where the bathroom is.
But here is the thing.
THEY SWITCHED THE BATHROOMS.
I am not kidding. They did. They changed plumbing, changed signs on doors, and presto. New mens’ room. New womens’ room. Okay, those bathrooms are side by side. There is a difference of maybe four feet of wall space between them. Who in their right mind would do that?
Your chagrined and baffled,