On Monday, Farmer H and I had lunch with the #1 Son and a friend in his college town. We normally go to a restaurant that serves BBQ and advertises itself as roadkill. Alas, it's only open Thursday through Sunday, so we went to a tater patch. Not an actual tater patch, like where I used to pick up the potatoes after my grandpa tilled up a hill with his hoe. A restaurant/bar that might best be described as a roadhouse. Like a place where John Travolta and Nancy Allen would plot to dump a bucket of pig's blood on Sissy Spacek at Prom. Sorry if you only know the actors in the remake of Carrie. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom doesn't do remakes.
This place wasn't much to look at from the outside, and was a little better on the inside. It had a real fireplace with a fire burning, but of course we didn't sit by it. We had met #1 to give him back his car. We footed the bill for body work after his semi semi-collision last summer. No need to drag the insurance company into THAT affair. We were in three separate cars by then, and agreed to meet up at the tater patch. Friend got there first, and went in to get a table.
Let the record show that the place opens at 11:00, and we got there at 11:07. It's not like there was a shortage of tables. But Friend chose one away from the fireplace, much to Farmer H's consternation. Also, Farmer H parked way down on the end, in the last spot. I didn't mind that. After riding for 1:45, I didn't care to walk a ways before sitting down again.
"I'll park down here on the end, so you'll be sure to be able to open your door when we come out."
Let the record further show that Mrs. HM has aging knees, and must fling A-Cad's door open all the way to unfold herself from the passenger seat. It can be done, but it takes a while, and it's not pretty. If the door is blocked by a car parked too close, Farmer H has to back out until it will open wide. Of course when we left, a scofflaw had pulled in there where there was NO parking spot, making my shoehorning of knees back INTO the car impossible. Until Farmer H backed out.
Lunch was delicious. I had the steak fajita tater, and brought the tater part home for supper. The roadhouse restaurant started to fill up. #1 and Friend had been there before. It's not the kind of place they'd hang out, but it's a good place to eat, and they serve drinks. On weekend nights, they have live music.
Before we started the 1:45 trip back home, I said I was going to use the facilities. "#1, have you ever been in the ladies' room? Is it nice?" I could see the door right there in the main dining area. Not down a hall or anything. Just a wooden-board door with a pull handle and WOMEN on the sign.
"Heh, heh. No. I've never been in the ladies' room. The men's room is okay. I wouldn't say it's nice. It's okay. It wasn't particularly clean when I was there."
Farmer H had been, the men's room being in a little alcove out of sight, but didn't make any comments about it. I think he was still stewing about the fireplace.
By now the dining area only had a few empty tables. I didn't especially want everybody watching me enter the ladies' room, but it was what it was. I had no idea when Farmer H would stop for me if I didn't take advantage of this restroom right in front of me. With lunch's Diet Coke on board, it didn't behoove me to wait.
I opened the door, feeling ten pairs of eyes on my back, not including my own table. Huh. There was no hallway, no privacy wall. You just walked into a room that had two stalls, doors ajar. One stall was a bit larger, so I assumed it was the handicapped stall. Every business place is supposed to have one, aren't they? I use the handicapped stall for the hand rail to hoist myself up off the throne. The knees, you know. So I stepped in, and saw NO RAILS. And the throne itself was barely one step above a hole in the ground!
Seriously. I was reminded of my boys' kindergarten years, when every parent conference night their teacher tried to persuade me to sit on their tiny chairs. No thank you, ma'am! Even though my knees were good back then, no way was I squatting on a step-stool-height chair! Mrs. HM is five foot eight inches, people! She's not a little person by height nor weight. I swear this toilet was half the height of a normal toilet. About a fourth the height of a handicapped toilet. Still. I was in there. I needed to avail myself of the opportunity.
I assumed the throne, and seemed to fall forever before my ample butt made contact with the porcelain. NOW what to do? Oh. My business, of course. But HOW was I going to get up from there? What if I couldn't? Would anybody hear me scream for help? I was sure my men would keep sitting at the table, staying uninvolved. Everybody in that room would see into the ladies' room. See me being hoisted off the tiny toilet. Unless they were sitting over by the fireplace, of course.
Business finished, I gave myself a good hoist. I know physics, people! I knew that my center of gravity had to be over my feet for me to stand. Since I can't bend my knees very far, I have to launch myself forward. I gave it one good try, grabbed the bottom of the stall divider for leverage (thank the Gummi Mary it wasn't built all the way to the ground, but had an opening of approximately 8 inches from its bottom edge to the floor) and teetered for a moment, then stood. VICTORY!
Okay. Maybe I exaggerate a little. But not today. I was relieved that I made it off the toilet!
Makes you want to take a road trip with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, doesn't it?