My Epic Bathroom Fail

My trip to the restroom wasn't restful

The story I am about to relate to you is true, I swear it. You may not believe me, but I promise it is. And it all started like this…

It was humid and sunny that late May afternoon in 2008. My family had just eaten dinner and, all ensconced in my dad’s huge white Chevy Suburban, we were on our way to Chastain Park for a concert. I don’t remember exactly what the concert was, but I know it was an oldies concert. You know, where groups from the fifties and sixties reunite and go on tour, playing music that your parents remember from their youth and all. I think the concert was sixties psychedelic music, and I cannot even remember which bands played because the night has been indelibly seared into my memory not because of the wonderful music that was played at Chastain Park, but because of what happened in the Chastain Park public restroom.

It was maybe a third of the way through the concert when the urge to go to the bathroom  hit me. I know it can’t have been too far in, because it was still light out. And it was stinkin’ hot. So hot that even your butt sweats, which is never a good thing. I made my way through the crowd to the women’s restroom and discovered, (surprise!), that there was a line. Now, ladies, I ask you, in all the history of human civilization, has there ever been a women’s public restroom without a line? I mean, I am sure that even cavewomen had to stand in line somewhere for 15 hours to pee in a little cave, while the cavemen just zoomed on by them, peeing in a bush or behind a tree, and then going back out to hunt saber-toothed tigers or wooly mammoths. Clearly in matters of urination, as in matters of wage equality, men have the upper hand here.

The public restroom was not very big. It contained maybe eight stalls, one of which was a huge handicapped-accessible stall with its own sink and hand dryer. Now, let’s be honest. I think that, if given a choice of any stall in the restroom, we would all choose the handicapped stall. First, there is just a lot more room, allowing you to comfortably and freely move about. Second, there is so much more space to store your stuff! And if you, like me, have, due to an addiction to crafting, given up any pretense of carrying a proper purse and have just started carrying your knitting bag around everywhere with your wallet shoved in on one side—well, you appreciate the space even more! (Carrying my knitting bag everywhere may prove to be a problem if I ever go on a date again. Though I suppose if I knitted under the table at dinner my date might not even notice!) Anyway, I always choose the handicapped stall in public bathrooms if it is available, unless there is someone in there already.

Before attempting a daredevil stunt, take your pegasus
in for his yearly vision screening

So, that fateful night, when my turn in the bathroom line came, the stall that was available happened to be the handicapped stall. I smiled inwardly at my luck! I would not have to go to the bathroom in one of the smaller stalls with my face stuck into the side of my bag as it hung on the back of the door in front of me. Sometimes, you literally cannot move an inch in those stalls, and death by way of knitting bag asphyxiation was not my idea of the best way to go. First, surely after my death the knitting bag would be seized by the authorities pending a complete investigation of circumstances, making it impossible for the yarn and knitted items inside to be immediately passed on to craft-loving relatives who would love and cherish them. And, second, if I have to die in a public and very visible way, I want it to be because I was doing something awesome. Like leaping over the Grand Canyon on the back of a winged Pegasus who has poor depth perception, or trying to save an elderly lady from being hit by a car as I selflessly throw myself in front of her, and my effort at deflecting the car with my recently attained superpower of making a force field fails or something. I surely don’t want to die with my face adhered to the side of a Vera Bradley bag so large that it could comfortably house a family of four.

Anyway, I went into the handicapped stall and went about my business, admiring all of the clear, free space that surrounded me, and the way my large knitting bag looked like an island in the middle of a silver ocean hanging on the back of the door. After about a minute I heard a banging sound. It was quiet at first, but then it became louder. I was almost done. It was almost time to wash my hands! I ignored the banging. It was probably just a kid kicking something outside the stall.

The banging grew louder, and was suddenly accompanied by a deep voice—like James Earl Jones, only female. The voice bellowed, “Come out now! Don’t you know there are people here who really need to go to the bathroom? You shouldn’t even be in there! Come out!” It took me a minute, but I finally realized that the banging was coming from just outside my stall door, and the deep-voiced yeller was addressing me! I quickly finished up so I could see what was the matter.

I tentatively poked my head out of the stall, like Punxsutawney Phil on February second. Outside my stall sat a haggard-looking woman with one broken leg. She was perched in a wheelchair, and had one crutch outstretched to bang on the door again. A little bit frightened, I tried to shimmy by her, but she wasn’t going to let me leave so easily. “What were you doing in there!?” she shouted. “Don’t you know there are real handicapped people out here who need to go to the bathroom!? You are so rude!” Mortified, and with the eyes of a dozen women who needed to go to the bathroom upon me, I slinked away.

Yes, I was actually using the handicapped bathroom stall when a woman in a wheelchair came and needed to use it! What are the odds that at that exact moment I would be in the stall? Probably about as good as the odds of Anthony Weiner not sending an inappropriate text message. I don’t quite understand the woman’s need to yell about it and bang on the door, though. Also, while I don’t know her whole situation, it appeared that she just had a broken leg, which, while painful, and unfortunate, in my opinion, doesn’t exactly qualify her as “handicapped people.” So, while I recognize her right to use the handicapped stall, and the possibility that she even had a temporary handicapped sticker on her car, I would argue with her reference to herself as a handicapped person because her handicap was temporary. However, when you are in the middle of the public restroom at Chastain Park, in front of an audience, having a crutch waved in your face, and a woman with a baritone like the Big Bopper yelling at you, it is not the time to quibble about semantics!

Well, folks, there’s the true story of my epic bathroom fail. If you take nothing else away from reading this post, please remember that a little discomfort can save you from a much larger discomfort, like having an O.K. Corral-type showdown in the public lavatory. So, carry a small purse, and squeeze on into that tiny stall. Better safe than sorry.

The Trash Compactor Scene in Star Wars

Princess Leia and Han Solo preparing to give Luke
Skywalker a mammogram.

So, I went ahead and did it. I got the mammogram I wrote about last week. I was expecting it to be awful, because I have heard horror stories about women going in for mammograms and emerging battered and traumatized. I got my mom to go to the clinic with me for moral support, because who but your mom would you take with you to get a mammogram? Actually, this gives me an idea. If any of my family or friends ever sets me up on a date, and he doesn’t meet my perfect man requirements, I will take him with me to get a mammogram. Of course, I won’t invite him back to observe the procedure or anything, but just being invited on such an outing should ensure there is no second date.

Anyway, my mom and I arrived at the office around 7:45 AM last Friday, and the location was conveniently close to my house, which was a plus. I was dead tired, as I had stayed up late the night before having a marathon viewing session of episodes of Fringe on Netflix. I am on the fourth season now, and not only do I want to finish the episodes so I can see what happens, but after getting involved in a new series on Netflix, I see it as a personal challenge to get through the episodes as quickly as possible. So, when I got up that morning, I dragged myself out of bed, performed pet care duties, and then pulled my hair back and put on a hat. Oh yeah, and I got dressed. Although I am sure that not getting dressed would have added some excitement to the whole experience, I decided that opting for old jeans and a giant t-shirt would do for the occasion.

Once inside the waiting room, a very nice woman checked me in, and I was not required to give all kinds of personal information about myself, which was nice. I just signed in and gave the lady the piece of paper my doctor had given me. There were two signs in the waiting room that caught my attention. The first stated that the office staff could not look after your children while you got your mammogram, and that if you had brought small children with you, you would need to reschedule. The second said that you should cover your mouth when you cough.

A prophecy of the upcoming fall
of civilization

Signs like these always amuse me, because the very fact that the office had to hang them up shows that they were having a problem with these issues to begin with. I am assuming that only people 35 and over come in for mammograms, and they are old enough to know that the office staff should not be expected to babysit their children. I would also really hope that the other women in the clinic are not walking up to the unsupervised children and coughing in their faces. These signs make me think of product warnings that always seem ridiculous to me, such as the “Do Not Eat” warning on Preparation H, or the warning label included on all chainsaws telling you not to hold the wrong end. If we have to have signs and warnings like these, then our species is probably destined to become extinct within the next 100 years, and then we won’t have to worry about the problem of overpopulation. Maybe everyone on earth will die off, except for me, George Clooney, and Bradley Cooper, and we will be forced to repopulate the planet. It would be a burden, but I would take it on for the benefit of future generations.

Okay, back to the mammogram. After waiting only about five minutes, a kindly woman with short white hair came to get me, acknowledged that my mom was there to provide moral support, and took me back to a changing area. Upon hearing that I only had to get undressed from the waist up, I experienced the type of euphoria usually only attained with the use of psychoactive drugs. After having been to the lady doctor recently, taking off only the top half of my clothes sounded fantastic. I did what the nice lady said, and then met her in the mammogram room.

There was some equipment in the room that looked a little like it belonged on the USS Enterprise, and I assumed that was the mammogrammer, or the mammogramatic, or whatever a mammogram machine is called. The kindly lady commented that I was very calm, and that she doesn’t always see calm mammogram patients. Some women come in very anxious, she said, and some even cry. Now, if I were to cry at my mammogram, it would be in mourning of the fact that I am now old enough to need a mammogram, but apparently these women were crying because they were scared. She even told me a story about one woman, who was crying and scared, who actually slipped, fell, and hit her head on the machine, sustaining a concussion and having to be transported across the street to the hospital emergency room. No way did I want my mammogram to be quite that exciting! The excitement of not having to get completely undressed was enough for me.

Then the kind lady started the mammogram. Now, to make the description quite simple, I will use an analogy that many people are sure to understand. Think of the first Star Wars movie. Now, remember that scene where Princess Leia, Luke, Han Solo, and Chewbacca get caught in the trash compactor. Really harrowing scene, right? Well, getting a mammogram is a lot like that scene, except imagine that you were a giant, and big enough that only one side of your chest would fit into the trash compactor at a time, only without Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher watching. And without that gross octopus-like creature that attacked Luke. (For those of you who are real Star Wars fanatics, that creature was called a dianoga, and you can read about it here.)

Now, if all mammograms were witnessed by Mark Hamill and Carrie Fisher, then at least I would have had an opportunity to get autographs on some of my older brother’s old Star Wars action figures, and perhaps I could have turned my mammogram into a moneymaking opportunity. But, if there were a chance of having a scary octopus-like creature attack you during a mammogram, then I would probably be one of the women who hit her head and had to be taken to the emergency room. So, in summary, a mammogram is not that bad. If you have to get one, remember that you will probably not sustain any bruises, but you will probably not meet any late seventies/early eighties movie stars either. Unless, you get your mammogram in Los Angeles, in which case one of them might be your mammogram technician.
Star Wars image courtesy of http://www.businessinsider.com/states-us-china-exports-2010-9?op=1
Chainsaw label image courtesy of http://grahamten.wordpress.com/2009/07/23/insane-product-warning-labels/

The Mighty Station Wagon

Look at that snazzy wood paneling!

I grew up in the eighties and I have, therefore, gotten to observe some of the most unfortunate trends known to man. Tight-rolled jeans, heavy metal hair, and everything in neon colors are just some of the offending trends that come to mind. But did you know that one of the most awful eighties phenomena didn’t occur in the realm of fashion or hairstyles, but rather, in the realm of automotive design? I think you know what I’m talking about. That’s right—the mighty station wagon. The Mom Mobile, the Chuckwagon, the REO Speedwagon—these are just some of the things my eighties consorts and I called station wagons. Yet, in spite of their awkwardness, their ability to embarrass older children and teenagers, and their size being equivalent to that of a great white shark—well, station wagons were still immensely popular in the eighties. You could hardly drive anywhere without seeing one. So, in the spirit of nostalgia, allow me to reminisce about the station wagons owned by my family members.

First, let’s look at my earliest clear memory of a station wagon. I was young, and it seemed larger-than-life. It was my Aunt Lynn and Uncle Scott’s family car. They had three children at the time (eventually they had five), and station wagons were the choice automobile for people who needed to cart kids around. Back then people definitely considered convenience over style. However, even though I think station wagons were unfortunate, I still regard them with a fondness I typically feel only for beloved older relatives who stand to leave me money after they die.

Lynn and Scott’s station wagon was purple. I know what you are thinking. Purple isn’t now, nor has it ever been a popular car color. Nonetheless, I swear, the station wagon was purple. I also think it had wood paneling, because wood paneling was the true height of awesomeness if you owned a station wagon. Maybe the wood paneling was purple too. I can’t really picture it that clearly. I just remember riding around in it during the summer when I was very young, and that it was very, very hot inside. That station wagon also had kind of a flattened look, almost like it used to be a taller car and Godzilla was walking around Atlanta and thought, “Oh my God! That car is so ugly! Allow me to pound it out of existence!” And then stepped on it.

Time passed, though, as time tends to do, and eventually Lynn and Scott decided to purchase a newer vehicle in which to haul their kids and their nieces and nephews. This time, I remember the station wagon they purchased was definitely not purple. I don’t remember the color, but I do remember that it had that snazzy wood paneling, and that it didn’t look like it had been stepped on by King Kong. Right after they bought it, my Uncle Scott invited my brothers and me to go for an inaugural ride in it. He picked the three of us up, and we joined his three kids in the back of the wagon. No doubt there was a fight to the death over who got to ride in the seat that faced backward in the very back of the car.

Scott took us all to Dairy Queen, where, instead of ordering ice cream, we ordered from the less popular brazier menu. I remember that there were lots of hot dogs. Back then we used to love to take food to the local community airport to eat and watch the planes take off. Scott took us there, and when we got there we got out, and he folded down all of the station wagon seats to make a large flatbed in the back of the car. He rolled down the back window and all of us kids sat by the window eating our food and watching the planes. I guess Scott was either sitting in the front seat or standing back by the back window. Whatever he was doing, I hope he was enjoying an adult beverage, because anyone carting the six of us around sure would have deserved one!

I ate a couple of hot dogs, and suddenly started feeling ill, and then, well, I threw up all over the inside of the back of my uncle’s brand new station wagon! My cousin, Brennan, getting a good eyeful of the vomitous mess, then threw up too. And so went the inaugural ride in the brand new car.

My parents also owned station wagons. The first I can remember is the dark teal blue one my dad drove. Of course it had wood paneling, and dark wood paneling at that. I think dark wood paneling added a sophisticated, Mad Men-like coolness to the image of the discerning station wagon driver. Now, here is the most awesome part about my dad’s station wagon—it ran on diesel fuel! So, whenever we went to the gas station we had to find that special pump that dispensed diesel. I remember enjoying the smell of the gas anytime my dad filled up. Something not so awesome about my dad’s station wagon was the thick silver wire that protruded from the edge of the seat in the back, cutting my brothers and me up every time we rode in the thing. My dad would constantly cut the wire, but, no matter how often he cut it, more wire would appear and poke through the seat. It was as if the car had developed sentience and was hellbent on making mincemeat out of the legs of small children.

My most vivid station wagon memory is of my mom’s tan wagon with accompanying tan wood paneling. The monochromatic color scheme lent an air of sophistication to it, so much so that Coco Chanel herself might not have felt out of place driving it. My mom actually drove that thing up until 2002 when she got a Ford Explorer, which she still drives today. I recall fondly being embarrassed in high school when my mom would drop me off in the station wagon, and mortified the day of my senior year when I had to drive it myself because I had to transport a large art project to school.

Riding in a station wagon always made me feel like I was doing something fun, like going to the beach, or going to Six Flags or something, and station wagons play a large part in many of my most cherished childhood memories. I was 24 when I bid a final farewell to the station wagon—a cultural fixture that had been a constant in my life for two decades. The station wagon—Gone, but not forgotten. Thanks for the memories!

Image courtesy of www.mclellansautomotive.com

My Picker is Broken, Part I

Why is this what I always choose?

Today’s post is the first in a multipart series called My Picker is Broken, in which I will parade around for you like a prized show pony my laughably horrible taste in men. The first time I heard about anyone having a broken picker was on The Dr. Phil Show. A woman on the show was wailing about her terrible relationship problems when Dr. Phil looked her in the face and said to her in that tough love, no nonsense way, that we all have a relationship picker, and that hers was clearly broken. I am not sure why I was even watching Dr. Phil. Somehow, in the early 2000’s, my dad started watching The Dr. Phil Show in the afternoons after he got home from work. I tend to think that he began watching for the same reason we all rubberneck at traffic accidents when we drive by them on the highway—they disturb us, yet we can’t look away.

Sometimes Dr. Phil has interesting things to say, but too often his show smacks of Jerry Springeresque sensationalism, only without Jerry’s awesome bald bodyguard Steve. And without anyone getting hit in the back with a chair. And without anyone getting a paternity test. So, kind of like Jerry Springer only without any of the fun parts.

So, Dr. Phil told the wailing woman that her picker was broken and, though at the time I didn’t realize it, I would eventually come to adopt this sentiment as my very own. I am guilty of liking the “bad boys,” even when perfectly nice, normal, sweet, attractive men are close at hand. Often, I think the allure of a “bad boy” is in the hint of something forbidden he offers: dark good looks, a penchant for dangerous activities like riding a motorcycle or playing extreme Frisbee, and a hint of some sort of underlying charm or goodness. We always think that these men will change, if only they find the right woman. Clearly, in our fantasies of early infatuation, the right woman is always us.

In my case, however, the “bad boys” often just ended up being duds. So, if I were on The Dating Game, it would go something like this:

ANNOUNCER: Bachelor Number One is a 32 year-old Harvard-educated lawyer for a non-profit organization that fights for the humane treatment of animals. He is a world class cellist, operates his own organic grocery store, and volunteers twice weekly at the local retirement home. His best friend is George Clooney who he invites to his house often. In his spare time, Bachelor Number One enjoys lavishing the woman in his life with praise and gifts, and printing his own money, which is used as legal tender in 49 out of 50 states.

ME: Hmmmm…

ANNOUNCER: Bachelor Number Two is a 34 year-old high school drop out. He has not had gainful employment since he ran that lemonade stand when he was eight. He lives in a shed out behind his parents house, and gets around the city on a recumbent bicycle he built from trash he found outside Wal-Mart. Bachelor Number Two enjoys binge drinking, amateur night at the Pink Pony, and his once weekly bathing ritual.

ME: Oh!

ANNOUNCER: Now, Ms. Broome, who will it be? I know it’s a tough choice, but you have to make a decision. Do you choose Bachelor Number 1, or Bachelor Number Two?

STUDIO AUDIENCE: Bachelor Number One! Bachelor Number One!

ME: Chuck, I pick Bachelor Number Two!

As you can see, I do not always think logically when it comes to men. The first time I remember such illogical thinking coming into play for me was at the sixth grade dance in elementary school. There was a perfectly nice, geeky boy I could have danced with, but I had my eye on Shane, the blonde who had just returned to school from a three-day suspension. While no romantic dalliance ever occurred with Shane, (doesn’t that name just sound like the name of a delinquent?) my illogical preferences continued to plague me throughout my school days.

And, not only did I end up liking duds, I attracted them too. Also when I was in the sixth grade, there was this boy named Ronnie. He lived around the corner from me, and was in my class at school. His nose was constantly running, and he never wiped it, and he was not the sharpest tool in the shed. Perhaps, after several more years of growth and development, along with the adoption of proper hygiene rituals and some additional schooling, Ronnie would have turned into a fine young man. However, at the time, I thought he was “grody.”

Ronnie, as it so happens, also had excellent tree-climbing abilities. My mom and I would often go out walking through the neighborhood for exercise in the early evenings after eating dinner. Ronnie was somehow able to discover this ritual, and we would often see him as we walked by his house, perched in a tree in his front yard, watching as we passed. He would hang off the side of the tree like a ship’s lookout searching for land. And, as we moved past his spot, he would not speak to us or anything, but would just watch creepily and stare down at us from within the branches. So, not only was he a dud, but a budding stalker too! Thankfully, I did not somehow decide that he was an excellent choice for me to “go steady with,” but the image of his eerie countenance peering from among the leaves haunts me to this day.

I don’t know whatever happened to Shane or Ronnie. Hopefully they grew up to be productive members of society and outgrew their youthful foibles. I especially hope that Ronnie no longer watches women from up in trees, as that sounds like the beginning of an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. I wish I could tell you that after sixth grade I liked only nice, sweet upstanding young men, and that no creepy stalkers were ever interested in me again. Unfortunately, though, my bad taste and ability to attract creepy guys continued into adulthood. The bright side to all of this is that, if looked in the right light it all seems very funny now. And hopefully, if I ever decide to date again, I will choose Bachelor Number One instead of Bachelor Number Two.
Image courtesy of iStockphoto