Tim Allen’s Face Disgusts MeLar and I took the boy and two of our girls to see The Shaggy Dog last night. Surprisingly, the boy sat quietly throughout, and was perhaps the most well-behaved child under five in the theater. The only time he spoke was when, twice, he whispered in my ear “Mommy, is the movie almost over? I’m tired of watching this thing.” Oh, how I empathized.
Okay enough flick, I suppose. Not horrible, not good. But I will say that my disgust with Tim Allen’s face was confirmed for life. Seeing it on the big screen with the grotesque addition of a lolling dog tongue flapping about was even more unpleasant than I anticipated. Still, the boy’s excellent behavior made it bearable. Afterward, we went to Friendly’s, and thus Hell opened its inevitable gates and let loose the sadistic demons of humiliation, whine, and sorrow (Jeremiah, Doreen and Judi, respectively).
Where shall I begin?
Maybe I’ll start with the creepy leather-wearing freak who’d been standing outside of the restaurant when we first got there. Pony tailed, disheveled, reeking of something akin to moonshine, he was filling up a paper tube with some sort of tobacco product and eyeing the five of us with disdain as we entered the establishment. Odd, but he could’ve been a waitress’s boyfriend, a boyfriend that she hides from family, friends and co-workers, and made him wait for her outside until her shift was over. Understandably.
The place was packed, and we had to take a small booth made for four, not five, but what the heck, I'm used to being smothered. As is usual, the kids quickly grew tired of waiting for service. And waiting, and waiting, and had resorted to flinging the complimentary crayons at one another (and in Brandon’s case, eating them), so I did my “desperately searching service” head swivel, eyes pleading, mouth set into a grim line of hatred thing until the waitress got my drift and shambled on over. Awesome. So the food was on its way, and I finally began to relax with a cup of coffee and two Advil, when the boy announced that he had to go pee. ‘Kay, Lar. Go to it. He took the boy to the Men’s Room, returned thirty seconds later explaining that the boy refused to use the “big” toilets. Double awesome. Oh, and the creepy leather-wearing tobacco man? He decided to take a stroll inside Friendly's, began circling the tables as if searching for something, though vacant-eyed and shuffling like a zombie. I silently kept a close eye on his whereabouts, then became alarmed when he shuffled our way. With sinking gut, I realized that he'd found what he was looking for. Apparently, it was me.
Ever been stared down by a zombie while dining in Friendly's? I wouldn't recommend it, folks.
Five minutes went by, boy was squirming, and I suggested that I take him to the “little” toilets (“Women’s Room), but he begged off, said he could hold it. I'm all too happy to agree, because the thought of walking past the zombie had my heart palpitating.
Another five minutes, more squirming, some bouncing, a tiny grunt. Oh, my god. He’s pissing his pants. So I quickly grab him up as he’s squealing in protest, and with my middle daughter in tow, rush to the Women’s Room. Thank goodness one of the burly Friendly's bouncers escorted the gibbering zombie away to an unknown location, or else I might have pissed my own pants at that moment.
So I placed about fifty pounds of toilet paper on the seat, set him down while holding onto his arms (so he wouldn't touch anything but clean, fresh Mommy), and as a line formed behind us (I’d left the door wide open so I could fit comfortably while squatting), my son whined, shrieked, and refused to piss in the fucking potty. I resorted to idle threats, telling him that he would never again go to a restaurant -- no dice -- that he would never again go to the movie theater -- no dice -- and finally, that he would not have another playdate with Ray, his darling little friend from next door, until Christmas -- EUREKA!
He let loose a torrent of pee-pee -- on my bosom.
I’m not used to wrangling with little boys in the Women’s Room, you see. I forgot that the anatomy of little boys differs greatly from those of little girls, and I was severely punished for my forgetfulness. Plus, I was exhausted, practically hemorrhaging from a particularly bad time of the month (TMI, you say? DEAL WITH IT, BITCHES!). He’d also peed all over his own pants and SpongeBob underwear. And the line kept on growing, as did the whispers and stares and snickers…One kind elderly lady pushed the trash can near me so I could throw the underwear away, and I was grateful for her sweet, sympathetic face as I struggled to re-dress my son in his wet jeans and tie his sneakers, and not kick my daughter really hard for her constant snarky comments and “Moooom! There are people waaaaiting!” which, I realize now, was only her way of dealing with this terribly humiliating experience.
We go back to the table, and my hands turned into murderous claws when I saw my husband’s relaxed, unconcerned face smiling at something my other daughter was saying, eating his nice, hot fries, and really, if there had not been so many potential witnesses in the vicinity, Lar would be a dead man right now.
All in all, though, it wasn’t all that bad for a family night out. We only spent a little over a hundred bucks, the food was great (try the Friendly’s barbeque chicken melt sandwich!), and I gained a newfound respect for myself, my saint-like patience and good humor despite my battle with Jeremiah, Doreen and Judi.
But, as I told the sympathetic-faced elderly lady while frantically scrubbing my hands with soapy, scalding hot water for fifteen minutes straight, I will not leave my home ever again until I have reached the age of ninety-five. Perhaps beyond.