Tuesday, May 14, 2013


I loathe having to get up from a restaurant table to go the bathroom but I can't hold it any longer!

I caved.

“Jaque, where’s the bathroom?”

I knew that even though she hadn’t paid it a visit, my sister would know exactly where the bathroom was.  She always has both feet on the ground - a mega-planner, an i-dotter, and a t-crosser.    

My mom, sister and I celebrated Mother’s Day the old fashioned way: a slow walk through a crowded, 102 degree, 10,000 square foot designer showcase home; lunch at famed, chain brewery BJ’s (that’s right: pizookies-a-go-go); and an unexpected, prolonged trip to the Men’s Room. 

Well, not all of us participated in that last part.

“It’s riiiiiiight,” Jaque leaned back in her side of our semi-circle booth bench and extended her right arm and index finger to the right, “THERE!”  She pointed up a long ramp that ran straight through the center of the restaurant, past the bar.  “I scoped that out as soon as we walked in.”  She declared, quite proudly.

“I was counting on it.  Thank you.”

I was out of our booth and heading up the ramp in no time, though I did steal a moment to establish eye contact with a possible Blasian sitting at the bar.

I took a quick left at the top of the ramp, saw the familiar, blue and white bathroom sign, and walked through the door.  Didn’t break stride for a beat.  It had been a long morning and true to form, I had waited until the last possible moment to relieve the mounting pressure in my bladder.

The bathroom was empty.  I took stall 2 as my own, closed and locked the door, quickly installed an ass-gasket atop my throne, and was flushing and fastening the top button on my white jeans (it was their maiden voyage of the new season) in no time.

I paused and stared at myself in the mirror over the sink after washing my hands. 

Look at me.  Ugh.  Why didn’t I bring my purse in here with me?  I am so freakin’ shiny and pink from that jumbo sweat box of a crib.  I need my powder!

I started fluffing up my hair.

How is it possible that my entire mop of hair isn’t sticking to my head after enduring that moisture?  It has to be all of that new volumizing product Lisa (aka Manners Mom) got for me.  I should write her a thank…

The door started to open over my right shoulder and I saw an elderly man in a plaid shirt trying to push himself through with a walker.

Poor, old guy.

I gave him a broad smile.

“This is the Women’s Room, sir.”  I told him, confidently.   

I returned to the mirror and my fluffing, truly amazed that my massive amounts of fine hair seemed to be holding up through such conditions.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the old man slowly look over at the blue and white sign on the door.

When did I last get my color done?  It hasn’t been that long, has it?  It seems like it’s getting close, though.  I hate to do it too often.  I really need to attempt to curl my hair again.  I bet I could really make it big now.  It’s been so…

The bathroom door was now opening completely and the same old man was making his way in, just ahead of a new man.  A younger, quite handsome man in a navy blue polo.  

I gave the younger man a knowing smile; so nice of him to help retrieve his dad, I thought to myself.  I suppose that’s what you do when your parents get old.

“It’s ok, Dad.  Go on in.”  The younger man nodded to his father and motioned toward stall #2.  The stall I had just vacated.

The younger man looked at me and smiled, not an ounce of WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN HERE registering on his face.

He must be confused, too.

I smiled back, “This is the Women’s…”

I caught a glimpse of the blue and white sign on the door as it swung closed.

Those are pants?!?  That says MEN!?!

“OH!”  I practically screamed as I began my slow death by complete and utter embarrassment.  “THIS IS THE MEN’S ROOM!” 

I couldn’t get to the door handle fast enough.  I swung it open and ran back down the ramp to my sister and mother.  Apparently, my smile was an immediate tell.

“What did you do?”  Jaque started.

Of course the blow by blow of my sojourn to the “Ladies Room” was met with fits of laughter that sent them both doubling over in our booth.

“Didn’t you see a urinal?”  Jaque and her freakin’ logic, yet again.

“Actually, now that I think about it, I think there may have been some urinals but I was thinking about bidets after what mom said.”

Over lunch, my mom had been talking about recommending my brother get a bidet for potty training my niece.  Carol is full of excellent parenting tips for young children.

“That makes no sense, Lizzie.  Why would there be a bidet in the Men’s Room?”

“Well, I realize that now, Jaque. But I was in a hurry!”

“Is that him?"

"No, Jaque."

"Is that him?"

"No, that's not him, Jaque."

"Is that him?"  Jaque kept asking as different men crossed the restaurant.

“No, that’s NOT HIM.”

But of course, as the three of us got up, gathered our purses, and made our way to the exit, our eyes locked for a moment across the crowded restaurant.  Why I couldn’t just keep my head down, I don’t know.

Nevertheless, I smiled at the handsome man in the navy blue polo.  Though it was a far less confident smile.

It was a smile that said:

“That was SO NOT the WOMEN’S ROOM.”

Totally worth my pants literally sticking to my legs, the gammy pits, and my sweat mustache…possibly even worth the ill-fated trip to the Ladies Room - the Pasadena Showcase House has raised more than 18M in gifts and grants over the years for organizations including non-profits that support music programs and music education for local youth.

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