You know you’re up a shit creek when your kid comes out of a public bathroom after ten LONG minutes and says, “Uh, can you come in here and help me, Mama?” You might as well just take a deep breath, roll up your sleeves, and prepare for the worst. I speak from experience because I dealt with this very same scenario over the weekend when I secured my status as the most unwelcome customer to ever return to a certain unnamed BBQ joint.
We had just finished our lunch at one of my favorite local eateries when my daughter announced that she needed to use the bathroom. And since she recently declared her eight-year-old independence, I sent her into the single-person facility at the restaurant all by her big, bad self. But when she hadn’t come out after several minutes, I got concerned and decided to stand right outside the door. She assured me that everything was “o.k.” when I knocked, but my gut feared otherwise.
Five minutes later, a distraught little head peeked out from behind the door seeking my motherly assistance. (Little did I know that what she REALLY needed was a damn plumber!) I entered to find a VERY full toilet that was on the verge of eruption. Yes, despite the fact that the shitter ALREADY had a huge wad of toilet paper in it when she first sat down, my oblivious little descendant proceeded to drop her own load of Lincoln Logs onto the growing pile of waste. Fabulous. I surveyed my options and realized that I had no other choice but to say a little prayer as I tried to flush it all down.
Surprisingly, most of it actually did disappear. And for an itty bitty split second, I thought we might be in the clear. But my optimism quickly faded as I saw the bowl suddenly rise to the top once again. Water began to ooze out the sides of the seat and onto the floor, and I knew that we needed to get the hell out of there fast. It’s one thing when your own toilet overflows, but it’s a whole other level of gross when it’s a public loo.
We raced out the door with the ick water right on our heels to find an older lady waiting rather impatiently for her turn. I had to explain the situation three freaking times before I finally convinced her to use the men’s. And as much as I wanted to avert all eye contact and sprint like a cheetah right outta there, I did take the time to alert the manager to the shit storm that was taking place in the women’s bathroom. She didn’t say it in so many words, but I’m pretty sure I’m on their eternal blackballed list from now on. So I suppose I need to start looking for a new BBQ place to frequent (preferably one that has a plumber on stand-by….)