The sad part of this story is that Adam's grandma passed away a few days ago. She was really special to him and I know he's having a hard time with her death, especially since it had been about three years since the last time he'd seen her. So, I just want to get the serious bit established before I go any further. Rest in peace, Grandma Apple...
Adam worked a half day yesterday so he could eat lunch and get packed before heading to the airport to fly out for his grandma's funeral. It was a rare treat for Bryony and me to have him home so early, and to get to eat lunch with him. For some reason, I was so giddy that I was drinking club-soda-with-lime by the glassfuls and had to jump up to pee every twenty minutes or so.
On the way to the airport (with me sitting in the backseat to keep Bryony company), Adam suggested we stop for shaved ices (one of his favorite treats here in our little neighborhood) before getting on the highway. I didn't really feel like the sweetness of an ice, but I knew he wouldn't have one if I didn't and he really, really wanted one, so I gave in. You can get two flavors mixed together at this place, so I got my old stand-by--lemon-lime and sour lemon--and Adam got mango-strawberry and sour cherry . Yum, sugar.
About twenty minutes into the 1 1/2 hour ride, my cell phone rang with a number I didn't recognize; I decided to pick up. On the other end of the line was a man identifying himself as an employee from a consulting company I had applied to just days earlier; he wanted to schedule an interview with me. Boy, was I psyched! Then he said something about having candidates "out" for interviews, and I realized he meant in-person. The job is in Nowheresville, California, and while I am willing to move there for employment (it is located on an army base so there are employment opportunities for Adam, too), I had a hard time justifying affording an airline ticket and rental car to interview for a job I might not get. Not to mention the fact that I don't have daycare for Bryony, and since I couldn't take her with me to the interview, I would have nowhere to keep her while I was gone. I asked the guy if they were open to conducting phone interviews and he said no. So, an extremely disappointed Lauren had to decline the interview. I couldn't remember the last time someone was unwilling to conduct a phone interview when they knew I was out-of-state; considering the economic climate and unemployment rate, it seems inappropriate to assume that people can afford to make expensive travel arrangements for an interview. I got more and more bummed once I'd hung up, and I started to get really depressed about my situation--will I ever find a good job? The magic 8 ball didn't seem very optimistic.
I also started to get increasingly antsy as I realized I really need to pee...in a bad way. But we were still a long way from the airport and we couldn't stop because we had exactly enough time to get Adam to his gate. I looked around desperately for some options. My eyes fell on my size-medium styrofoam cup that my mostly-eaten shaved ice had been in. I gulped down the last chunk of yellow-green slush and started to manuever myself in position to "drop trow." Problem was, Bryony's big new car seat was impeding my progress. With my 16-month old looking on, I managed to wiggle out of my clothes from the waist down, hike one leg over the front passenger seat. And yes, my ample brown backside was giving I-35 South quite the show; luckily, we have mesh screens on the backseat windows to block out sunlight, so hopefully they blocked out my "moon" light, too. Well, I proceeded to...ahem, fill up not one, but two cupfuls, the contents of which were flung in bright yellow waves out the back seat window. Adam, after figuring out what was going on, just shook his head and said something about me being a "Wacky Dame." But I felt so much better that I didn't mind.
By the time we arrived at the airport 45 minutes later, I needed to go again. I gave Ads a very rushed kiss good-bye as I high-tailed it to the driver's seat so I could stop at the nearest burger joint to make use of their facilities. Of course, my need to pee caused highway traffic to back up, which necessitated exiting onto the service road. I drove and drove without a fast-food restaurant in sight for miles. Seriously?
Finally, I spotted a Wendy's in the distance and I breathed a sigh of relief. "We're in business, Bryony!" I called to the back seat. After parking, unstrapping Bryony from her car seat and walking up to the restaurant, I opened the door to find that it was the epitome of a fast-food joint--no seating, and no public bathrooms. I almost cried. I asked the employee behind the register if there was a bathroom and when he said no, I just about lost it. With child in arms (pressing on my yet-again-full-bladder) I crossed a busy four-lane street to a gas station. I saw the sign for "Restrooms" and allowed myself a shred of hope. After walking up to the door, and trying the knob only to find it locked, I asked the attendant if I needed a key. He shook his head fiercely and said, "No, no, no. Bathroom is broken!" I almost squatted in his store and peed on the floor. Until you really need to go and someone doesn't let you, you can't imagine the actual humiliation surrounding the issue. Shaking with anxiety and anger, and carrying Bryony on my hip, I marched over to my very last option, another gas station and hoped against hope they'd let me pee. In the process, I also looked at the random shrubby areas behind the buildings to scout out a place where I could squat discreetly in case I ran out of alternatives. Upon reaching the last of my three stops, I looked imploringly at the cashier and hurriedly asked, "Do you have a working bathroom I can use?" Looking from me to my young daughter, he put his fingers to his lips in a quiet hush and nodded. He motioned for me to follow him to the restroom door that had an "Out of Order" sign taped to it. "Don't tell anyone I let you use it, okay?" he asked me, smiling conspiratorily. Who would I ask, I wondered. But I was so thankful to evacuate my poor, poor bladder that I was just grateful that he let me pee. I think I actually released an audible aaaaahhhh! of relief.
Bryony and I ambled back to the car, both of us happy and relaxed, ready for the 1 1/2 hour drive ahead of us. The sun was starting to go down and I wanted to make good time so I didn't have to drive in the dark. I also wanted to get the little girl home before bedtime. Well, the happiness didn't last for long because Bryony started to wail incessantly not long after I got on the highway. I soon found the only thing that calmed her was if I sang...children's tunes from her Disney sing-a-long CD. When I stopped singing, she cried. When I resumed singing she was quiet and listened. Let's just say I belted out some American-Idol-audition-worthy versions of "I've Been Working on the Railroad," "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain," and "When the Saints Go Marching In," amongst many others. I sang until the car pulled into the apartment complex, which coincidentally was also the same time my throat was getting so hoarse I wouldn't have been able to continue anyway.
Not long after getting settled in at home, Adam called from the airport where he was layed over. His first question was, "How was your drive home? Did you stop to fill up?"
Trust me dude, I was more than happy to be empty.
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