Today I took no chances. I stopped short of rounding up my class for a field trip to the cafeteria just before the bell. But I planned ahead. I put the mayonnaise on my turkey sandwich this morning before leaving home. Sure, it's better when I slather it on right before chowing down, with a white plastic knife, from a small square container with a blue lid that I keep in my mini-fridge. But a spread in time saves whine.
I popped that sandwich out of it's recycled turkey container, slapped it on a paper plate, grabbed the Lays and the water AND a hunk of paper towel, and hoofed it down to the lunchroom. I admit I was looking over my shoulder. AHA! I was the first faculty to arrive! I picked my seat (heh, heh) and plopped down like royalty upon a throne. Chipper showed up next. "Good to see you out here. I totally did not notice that chair thing."
And here came Tomato-Squirter. "Well, look at YOU!" she said, all Buddy the Elf talking to that raccoon in the woods on his way to New York to find his real father. "Sitting in your very own chair!" Let the record show that she staked out her rightful place with cup of caramel-colored indeterminate liquid, and reappeared mere seconds later with a full tray. I explained to those present that while I found Czar Gab likeable enough, I had no desire to sit in his lap and be bathed by his saliva.
Wouldn't you know it? At that very moment Czar Gab appeared in the doorway of the kitchen and in two telescoping strides was upon us. "Good to see you're back!" Czar Gab grabbed the buffer chair, and pulled it back away from the table, and sat down next to me. But not too close!
The Scorekeeper rounded out our Think Tank today. She arrived with lunch in a bottle and a tale of intrigue about a now-missing student, just before the announcement for kids in Jewels's class to report to her room instead of the cafeteria. Yes, my best-laid plans were all for naught, what with Jewels not even planning to eat at our lunch table today. Still, we had a rousing good time, just the five of us, with no beefs at this table of sloppy joe eaters. Near the end-times, I got up as usual to bid my adieu.
Upon reaching my destination of the faculty women's restroom, I made a disappointing discovery. The facilities were taken. TAKEN! More taken than seats at a multiplex draped with the coat of a woman with a face like a frying pan, big wall of hair. What a fine kettle of fish THIS was. Here I had protected my seat, escaped the two-days-ago smell of salmon and asparagus, only to find my pit stop thwarted. But wait. There arose from the interior a whale of a clatter. Like somebody did not know how to work the deadbolt. A novice was inside. Not Jewels.
I waited a polite distance away, over by the open mailbox cubbies. And then she emerged. The Book Lady. Neither fish nor fowl is she. Not a faculty member. Yet not a stranger. A businesswoman allowed into the inner sanctum every two weeks to hawk her wares. I daresay if we had a secret faculty swimming pool room, she would be given a key. Few people know her name. Me included. But here she was, fresh as a daisy, from her interlude with our toilet.
With a scant two minutes before the lunch bell summoned the teeming masses, I darted inside to do my business.
Those fans experiencing no joy in Mudville would have looked ecstatic compared to my emotion upon stepping into that private, hermetically-sealed, concrete-block tomb to relieve myself.
The Book Lady had just poo-pooed. Dropped the kids off at the pool. Pinched a loaf. Restocked Commode Lake with brown trout. Backed the big brown Caddy out of the garage. Sent the Browns to the Superbowl.
The AUDACITY! A faculty women's restroom is not just for any Pam, Vick, or Mary to waltz in off the street and make a deposit. There is a women's restroom right next to it! Our private craphouse is not for any adult who thinks they are too good for the regular plumbing. We are on a schedule! If you don't want to be pooping with high school students, perhaps you should schedule your...ahem...drop-offs...at a time besides lunch. Just sayin'.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom plans. Even Steven laughs.