Race for the Toilet

I began my blog in November 2014. I advertised it as mostly funny stories to put a smile on your face. And we have done a lot of laughing and snorting. After posts about depression and a brush with death, I made a deliberate effort to deliver some humour this week. When you read this loony story, you may conclude that I have deep-seated psychological issues. Of course, we approach humour as individuals. I might be rolling on the floor laughing at a knock-knock joke while you are thinking, “What’s wrong with her? I don’t see anything funny about that.”This week’s humour depends on how you feel about elimination — if you catch my drift. Bodily functions — we all have them, or we could not exist. However, the more genteel and well-heeled among us do not discuss them, especially in public. Well, I am neither well-heeled nor genteel, so I love to talk and giggle about such matters. If you don’t want to read about poop, you should stop reading NOW.This adventure began on a sunny Saturday in June. The weather could not have been more beautiful. Glenn and I were looking for something to amuse ourselves, but what? We tossed around a few ideas and decided to go antiquing — one of our favourite activities. I did a bit of research and found a few shops in the Annapolis Valley that looked interesting, so off we went.

About half way there, we stopped at a diner called THE TURKEY BURGER for a little break and a bite to eat. This little restaurant, not far from Bridgewater, holds a special spot in my heart. Even though it has undergone several renovations over the years and doesn’t look at all like the original one, it still evokes warm fuzzy feelings. Back in the sixties, Mom, Dad, Francis and I used to stop there on our way to the Annapolis Valley. As kids, the giant milkshakes impressed us the most.They filled our tall glasses to the brim and brought the remainder to the table in the ice-cold, metal milkshake cup. At other establishments, the staff drank or dumped out what would not fit in the glass. And what did I order fifty years later?  A coffee milkshake. Just like the olden days.  We left the Turkey Burger and climbed steadily to South Mountain and then descended to the beautiful community of Wilmot.I was browsing through the dishes when I heard a gurgling sound and felt my abdomen rumble — similar to a volcano coming to life after a millennium of inactivity. Why? BECAUSE I am lactose-intolerant. I foolishly traded ten minutes of pleasure for ten hours of agony — gas, cramps, bloating — BUT WORST OF ALL diarrhea.That meant only one thing. I needed to find a washroom — FAST

I approached the lady running the store and asked where I could find the nearest public washroom. All the while, I was praying that in the true spirit of Nova Scotia hospitality she would say, “Just follow me, dearie. There is one at the back of the store.” I would have settled for an outhouse out back. Nope, that’s not what she said. She told me there was a Tim Hortons just down the road, but I didn’t know which was up and which way was down. I had to ask, “Which way do we turn out of the parking lot? Left or right?” Left it was. I’m sure you can feel my pain because you have had at least one similar experience. I don’t want to go into detail, but I’m sure you understand what I mean when I say I was doing some serious pinching — HARD. I was wishing I had practice my Kegel exercises more diligently during my pregnancies. Too late now. I was running VERY short on time.

Hallelujah!  The Big Scoop Restaurant came into view.  It was closer than Tim Hortons. As Glenn slowed down, I bailed and tore off for the restaurant. I was afraid I would be met with one of those mean signs, you know the ones.There was no such sign. Bonus. I walked into the restaurant where three waitresses asked how many seats we needed.

I wasn’t thinking about chairs in a restaurant; I was in toilet commode, I mean mode, and the situation was deteriorating quickly. (I wanted to say, “A one-holer, please,” but I didn’t.)

“Could I please use your washroom first?” I asked sweetly while trying to hide my desperation.

In the tone of hospitality for which Nova Scotia is renowned, one of them said, “Of course, dear. It’s just around the first corner.”

Relief, sweet relief, blissful relief, pure relief. (At times it was melodious and malodorous relief too.) “Please, God,” I begged, “Just one more thing. Let there be toilet paper on the roll.” And there was. Then the moment of decision came.

• What was going to happen when I flushed?
• What if I plugged their toilet?
• What if it flooded over onto the floor?
• Where was the plunger?

I held my breath and braced for the worst as I gingerly pushed down on the handle.

I envisioned a scene from DUMB AND DUMBER.

I was repeating the kids’ rhyme, “Around and around and around she goes, where she lands nobody knows.” Well, I was hoping for down the pipe and not all over the floor. Everything went down. I could breathe once again.

Now I had to leave the washroom and exit through the restaurant where the waitress was waiting to seat me. I opened the door gently and peeked around the corner —not a waitress nor customer was in sight.   I skipped across the dining room and out the door feeling like a brand new woman. Euphoria replaced my previous worries.

 

Glenn and I returned to antiquing for the rest of the afternoon. Our next stop was at  Robert MacNeil’s Antiques Eastern Canada’s Largest … I found a serving bowl and salt and pepper shakers matching Mom’s set of Enoch Wedgwood Tunstall English Harvest which she collected at IGA. (Apparently, Enoch wasn’t one of “the Wedgewoods.”)We left Wilmot and ascended North Mountain to visit Mosher’s Corner Antiques. Everything on display in the big barn reminded Glenn of time spent at Uncle Jim’s and Uncle Everett’s. He loved the floorboards best of all.  Outside, we could look across the Bay of Fundy and see New Brunswick. Absolutely breathtaking.By late afternoon, it was time to make the long drive home. I can assure you that any antiquing finds that day paled in comparison with the race to find a toilet — inside, outside, one-hole or two.

I have heard a variety of “caught short” stories over the years, mostly from relatives, but I’ll never tell.  I don’t want to steal their thunder (jug). Groan.

 

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