Do you know what I'm going to do when I retire in only 8 short months? No. That's not it. I'll get right to it. I don't think you'll be able to guess.
I am going to stand outside my own bathroom door and wait for 3 minutes, then rush in and go as fast as I can. For old times' sake, you know.
Sweet Gummi Mary! Even AFTER school, after my duty, after I put my grades in the computer, after I put back up the tornado drill instruction poster that jumped off the wall right before I left, even after writing tomorrow's assignments on the white board...when I went to the faculty women's restroom, it was occupied! At 3:45 in the afternoon!
Okay, so the minute I walked into the teacher workroom to drop off my assignments for pupils other-schoolly assigned in two days, the FWRR was not occupied. Not unless somebody was sittin' in the dark gettin' ready for mischief, because I could see that the light was not showing under the door. I walked on past to the far reaches of that desolate landscape to put the work in the allotted slot.
Two denizens were standing about limply, like so many Salvador Dali clocks, their energy drained, not conversing, not greeting, not goodbyeing. Standing. Like an Elaine Benes mannequin. One was hiding by the fridge, reading a stapled paper. The other, Mrs. Not-A-Cook, stood dazed in front of the mailboxes, a printout in her hand. I trudged across the vast expanse of clutter, not wanting to disturb their reverie.
THE VERY MINUTE I PASSED BY HER, MRS. NOT-A-COOK SPRINTED TO THE FWRR!
In one smooth motion, she dumped her mail, keys, and metal water cup on the paper table, and darted inside, clicking the door lock.
That is low, my friends. She's never even there at that time, preferring to run out the door at 3:10 or perhaps a shaved moment before. I was so discouraged that I left without going. That'll teach her! Of course, by the time I walked all the way to the end of the building, where I park T-Hoe, Mrs. Not-A-Cook had backed out her car and was squealing past me before I opened T-Hoe's door.
I hate it when that happens.
Oh, and on the way home, when we stopped for gas, I let The Pony use my gas change to get some donuts and a soda.
"Wait just a minute, Mom. Don't pull out yet. I have a bottle to throw away."
THE PONY THREW AWAY SIX BOTTLES!
"Are you hoarding them? Why do we have so many bottles half full?"
"I keep forgetting to throw them away. Besides, one of them was a water bottle. It was YOURS!"
Spare me such reasoning.
Dealing with fluids sure can be draining.
3 comments:
Or, was one of those bottles the "fill bottle"--the one that The Pony uses when his bladder gets too full, and he's enroute to school or home, and he's safe and secretive in the backseat?
Boys do surprising and disgusting things...
What joy it will be to empty your bladder whenever you choose! I know what you mean, seems like everytime I start towards my bathroom, a camper enters the store.
Sioux,
NO! They were SPRITE bottles, not Mountain Dew! I can tell the difference in Sprite and pee. The other...not so much.
Kathy,
It's like The Hunger Games in there! Competition is most intense during the 9:04-9:09 passing period. It's a good thing weapons are not allowed on school grounds.
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