On Friday night, I went to dinner with friends. Actually it was ladies night and we left our husbands home with the kids. These ladies are all my neighbors. I just happen to have awesome neighbors. We’re a rowdy bunch of desperate housewives that go by the name of Bus Stop Ladies. (Yes, we have our own name and our own bus stop.)
I say this because I do not frequent many trendy restaurants. It was chosen as a bon voyage before I leave New York. Generally at these places you’re greeted by a skinny PYT in 4 inch heels, while another skinny PYT in stealthy flats picks your pockets and steals your husband. One would think a shot of gin mixed with tonic shouldn’t cost the same as a Richard Branson island. Try mentioning this to a “bartender” and you will be corrected; at these establishments they are called “mixologists” because apparently it requires a Ph.D. Who knew?
Ordering beer is frowned upon. Unless it’s a fussy beer.
“Excuse me, doctor, can I have a Keystone Light?”
The doctor looks around for medical backup. “Someone help this woman!”
So we order our pomegranate margaritas because a) limes aren’t special enough for these restaurants and b) it has medicinal purposes. Pomegranates are like berries. Very detoxifying. I’m not sure they would win on a battlefield with tequila, but one feels better knowing there’s a sling-shot chance. Just don’t point this out to the mixologist. They don’t like when you one-up them on their knowledge. The lab is a touchy place. Too much alchemy is being created.
We’re celebrating, so we proceed to toast. And toast. They tell me I’m moving to a state with crazy politicians. Like there’s any other kind. Well, I guess there’s varying degrees. Currently Arizona is in the batshit phase. They may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m confident it can pull its head from its own arse. Besides, New Yorkers tend to forget there are 48 other states. (Connecticut counts as their country house.)
We toast some more. Our laughs get louder. Our volume increases. It should be known my laugh has been described by many as a wicked-witch-of-the-west cackle. It can drop a bat mid-air. Stir brews from miles away. Somewhere a Kansas girl twitches unknowingly. It’s genetic. I was a Salem spawn in a past life.
Now with the outbreak of liquid war, toxins v. antioxidants, stirring inside me, I need a bathroom break. I’m pointed in the direction of a long line of men and women together. Busboy are dodging and weaving around us, grumbling that we’re in the way. I see two young ladies, dressed in black, directing traffic to what appears to be 4 swanky bathroom stalls. They have the doors that fog up like magic when you enter. I see them, I just can’t reach them. I look around, waiting for communal outrage. Actually, everybody’s twisting around, contorting, shaking their heads. For a moment, I believe we are bonding so fiercely that we are all mentally planning a take down of the bathroom traffic controllers. I send signals to the guy two people ahead of me. Can we take ‘em? I ask. Yes, he mentally replies. Then I realize he’s just nodding into his tall, fussy beer, three sheets to the wind. (Wouldn’t have happened with Keystone Light… I’m just saying.)
I’m finally within earshot of the attendant.
“This is the line for the bathroom?”
She nods like a robot. She must answer this question 100 times a night. Her eyes are stone dead. I’m not sure she has teeth. I’m determined to find out. When a bathroom door opens, I get a glimpse of a 500 square foot, single stall. No joke. These stalls hold one person and are the size of a NYC apartment. I gasp loudly. My face is slack-jawed-frozen.
“That’s the bathroom?” I ask.
“Move down,” she says, waving me over. I side-step to the right.
“You mean, these are single stalls?” My horrified face is starting to hurt. I have to rub it back into place. “I’ll take quantity over quality any day of the week,” I say, looking around for an Amen, Sister!
“Move down,” she barks to the woman to my right. The woman is scared. Her foot moves slowly. She slides the other one over with precision.
I stare at my fellow soldier. She doesn’t want to question authority. Luckily she has me.
“What are you? The bathroom nazi? No bathroom for you!”
She doesn’t smile. I’m quite certain the guy who was nodding into his beer just pissed himself. I point this out to the bathroom attendant.
“This guy should get the next condo. He doesn’t look so good.”
She ignores me. Waves me down with her hand. It’s a crappy job. I get that. So I cut her some slack. The woman behind me doesn’t inch closer. I instruct her, “Two steps to the right or NO stall for you!”
She chuckles and moves closer. But still no smile from the attendant. The girl looks really young. Obviously she doesn’t get my Seinfeld reference.
“Seinfeld,” I say. “No soup for you,” I nod chuckling.
“Yeah, I got it,” she said. “People say that every night.”
What?! I’m an unoriginal drunkard? Posh!
I took my time in my mini-condo. After I gyrated my hips for 5 minutes trying to get their fancy faucet to work, I rearranged the furniture, fluffed the silk flowers, answered a couple emails. It took 2 mixologist, 9 PYTs, and 5 Bus Stop Ladies to get me out of there. I didn’t have to worry about the bathroom attendants though. Apparently my fellow comrades staged a coup.