My daughter called this morning and we chatted on her way to work. Next week is her birthday and we always go on a shopping extravaganza. Last year, we were on a mission. Though it rarely gets below 60 degrees, she is a coat fiend. We decided to travel to a mall 150 miles north of us and check out their selection.
Because the trip would be long, we stopped and had breakfast. She ordered a frappa, crappa, concoction that I knew would upset her stomach, but it was her birthday so I refrained from saying so. Sure enough about ten miles outside of town she starts looking for a restroom. Ten miles further on, we finally find an off ramp and go in search of the illusive gas station, fast food place, basically anything with a bathroom.
We find the scariest gas station I have ever seen in my life. I was afraid to turn off the car let alone let my daughter go in there. “B. let’s keep going.”
“No, mother, I saw the sign the next rest area is 20 miles away. Come with me.”
I turn off the car, club it, lock it and rush to the door wanting this over with quickly. Naturally, she pushes me ahead of her. With the tip of my shoe I nudge the door open. It’s pitch black. Daintily, (and not because that’s my style, but I refused to touch anything in that place) I feel around for the light switch. Using my fingernail, I flip the switch several times. Nothing. Crap!
“Honey, the lights don’t work. Let’s keep going.” I’m pleading at this point.
“No, just use your cell phone lite app. Twenty miles, mother. that’s at least a half an hour. I won’t make it and I’m not using a tree!” She charges into a stall.
Now mother nature has a warped sense of humor where I’m concerned. When I’m scared, I have to use the restroom and believe me I was scared. So when in Rome… I enter the stall next to hers and debate with myself over closing and locking the door. Two factors were paramount in my mind, a quick get-away and not touching anything, so I decide not to latch the door. It’s pitch black, no one can see anything anyway.
As I’m doing my business, something drops into my hair, my perfectly french braided hair. I shriek, cell phone goes flying as I use both hands to slap and swipe every strand of hair on my head to make sure the cockroach, because I’m convinced it’s a cockroach, is out of my hair.
My daughter is now screaming like she’s being murdered. I hear her scrambling around. I don’t know if she is fighting someone or what the hell is happening. My only source of light was flung heaven knows where and I’m in the total dark.
The roach that was in my hair, drops to my leg. That’s it, I freak the eff out. I try to stand and ram my head into the stall door and fall back on the toilet I was hoovering over.
My leg is now on fire. It’s a certain brand of fire that I’ve felt before. It wasn’t a cockroach, it was a scorpion. Oh eff me. I brush the nasty thing off my leg and feel it fall into my panties. Yes, my panties! Well, let me tell you, I have never shucked out of my clothes so fast in my life.
As I reach the door, bare from the tummy down, my hair looking like a rat’s nest and with a bruise forming on my face, my daughter opens the door demanding to know what’s happened.
Oh, if she could have seen the look I sent her… Fifteen minutes later, we are back on the road. I’m not pantyless and furious. We completed our shopping trip and she found the coat of her dreams (it has sat in the closet the entire year, but I’m not bitter or anything).
This year, I have two demands. No frappa, crappa, latte mess and we must stay within ten minutes of a bathroom with functioning electricity.