Ahhh, Wendy. My Wendy. Every woman needs a BFF to tell you how much she hates you when she thinks you look good. This is so satisfying. Especially when all I can see are the parts of me that are falling apart, and for whatever reason–cataracts?–she can’t.
Anyway, yesterday I was desperate to get out of the house to be with friends. I convinced myself, and my 6-year-old son, that we were done with the stomach flu and it was time have a playdate!! Four adult writers–and two little kids– out to hear Kristen Hannah speak at Powells Books!! After that, lunch at McGraffs!! No more vomit!! Yay! Time to get dolled up! Roughly translated, shower.
I remember this one time, when I was a kid, my entire family had the stomach flu. My mother, sick of being housebound, managed to convince my dad that it was time to go out to dinner. We were “well”, dammit, Jim! (my dad’s name is Doug, but whatever). Anyway, we get to the Chinese restaurant and my sister has to throw up. So, my mom, clearly in denial, says, “Carolyn, please take your sister to the bathroom,” and proceeds to order us all these hurking combination plates. Being that I was still suffering, I was probably not at my most patient. Especially considering I was 10 and she was 8. Okay, so in the bathroom there is one stall available. And, I was crowded in there with her. And the more she throws up, the less ‘good’ I feel, until we are both on our knees, fighting over who gets to puke into the public toilet. Since that day, Hoisen sauce still makes me think of toilets.
All this to say, I now have complete sympathy for my mom. Yesterday, my sweet son was submitted to multiple humiliations because of my premature need to get out of the house. I knew we had a bit of a problem when his French fries arrived and he didn’t fall into them face first and devour them in his usual style. “These make me want to BARF!” he announced. I laughed, thinking, oh, look how he’s showing off for Wendy’s daughter, also age 6. So, of course, I have to eat his fries. Then, he had to go to the bathroom. NOW. Wendy’s daughter came with us and found it both fascinating and hilarious that my son had to use the Ladies Room. When I finally got him into a stall, he…stalled. Couldn’t get his shoe off. Not getting the shoe off, means not getting the pants off, which means not being able to climb up onto the toilet…in time. Oops.
I was tempted to flush his underwear down the toilet, but hey, that would clog the plumbing and besides, that’s what those sanitary paper protectors are for, are they not? And so, I return to the table, an aromatic package sticking out of the top of my purse, polluting its contents, spreading the love, so to speak.
Thank God I’d taken the time to get all dolled up.