Tim Allen’s Face Disgusts Me
Lar 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.
posted by Ms. Lori @ 10:55 AM
17 Comments:
Was the pony-tail guy, in fact, Tim Allen? I mean, could he have been?
And yes, I am a magnet for such freaks as well, Ms. Lori. We are the band of sisters called Freak Magnets (I have actually gone so far as to write a story and title a book Freak Magnet--not a memoir, fiction, but as close to truth as it gets).
Sorry about the pee on your clothes.
There is a lot to be said about little boys understanding the laws of fluid and motion early on. Oh my. That is QUITE a Friendly's story.
I can't see the Shaggy Dog. Tim Allen's eyes in the place of a dog's just FREAK me out.
Myfanwy, as much as I'd love to meet you, I know in my heart we would be trailed by Tim Allen look-a-like freaks everywhere we went, so I shall love you from afar. ;-)
Well, unless we could get really, really drunk...
Stephanie, it was entirely my fault, and my having to parade through Friendly's dining room with a wet, see-through peasant blouse was my punishment. And yes, Tim Allen's eyes set in a dog's face was the stuff of nightmares.
Hey, you wanna get drunk with me and Myf? ;-)
Indeed, I do, Ms. Lori! Let's go!
I would get drunk with you guys, but I'm afraid of the folks you two attract!
Love the dog and pony show going on here. I read this post early this a.m. but didn't have time to comment.
Glad I waited I would have missed all this.
We have those guys around here sometimes although much more in San Francisco. One haunts the parking lot of the supermarket. Turns out he's harmless, just homeless by preference but at first - wow.
You made me smile when I needed it. Thanks.
Zombie standing still
In Friendlies, craving some brains
Found only ice cream
I'll save the limerick for later (lol). What a "learning experience" this seems to have been! I bet your husband appreciated the see-through soaked blouse, though...
D
I'm so there, Myfanwy -- now you grab Stephanie's right arm, and I'll get the other, and away we goooooo!
Ann, I can only imagine the interesting characters hanging around San Fran. And were I to visit one day, I'm sure 80% of them would follow me home. ;-)
Bill, I'm so happy that my post made you smile. Anyone ever tell you that you gots a real purty smile, boy? ;-)
David, you're right about Lar enjoying the wet shirt. Well, until he realized it was peepee. Not so sexy, that. :-)
Wow.. really quite the evening. I can see wanting to hole up in your house forever. :P
Your Friendly's bathroom story was uncannily familiar. My little sister is 6 and last May, I got drafted to be her adult guardian on an all-day school field trip to a castle in Tuscany. It was like 7 in the morning, 18 little kids of preschool/kindergarten age piled on a charter bus with like 8 adults.
My mom lives in Liguria, so the bus ride was pretty long (too long for that age group, I think). A couple hours in, we pulled into an Autogrill, which is like a restaurant/store/rest stop thing. Picture every single one of us making a mad dash for the bathrooms. The women's bathroom was not big, maybe 4 stalls, and when we walked in, there were already ladies waiting, but we all crammed in there with the kids. And since it was Italy, the whole "line" thing was out the window and we were just opportunistically grabbing stalls as they opened up.
One mother came out, and I quickly pulled my sister into the stall. The condition of the facilities was questionable at best, but in my rush (and thinking of the huge line outside), I didn't even think to put paper on the seat. Maybe there wasn't even paper. I don't know, but I had the bright idea to hold my sister over the toilet as she peed.
When my sister let loose, that is when I discovered she is a champion distance pee-er. Seriously.. it shot forward with incredible force, hitting me square on the thigh and then liquid was running down my leg to soak my sock. It was NOT expected and I didn't have much room to maneuver, though I think I managed to get somewhat out of the way to avoid getting totally drenched.
Of course, it was so random and unexpected that I squawked when first hit, then both of us were cracking up and giggling like mad, which, in turn, made it more difficult to deal with the situation.
I think the best part was that that was just the beginning of my day.. I had another, oh, 10 hours or so to go with a pee-soaked sock.
Heh...when my son Zach was born, he was being changed on the couch one day (two fairly new parents here). I was observing...drinking coffee. Until a golden arc sprayed through the air and managed a DIRECT HIT in that coffee...diapers, powder...um....PEE everywhere...lessons learned.
When you take a child that age to the potty, Ms. L....turn the boy facing the back of the potty...THAT works nicely...or carry one of those fold-up seats with you that has the little cone of safety in the front (lol)
DNW
Oh Lori! This left me gasping for oxygen!! Everything about it hit so close to home.
If you ever do venture from the house again, DO NOT GO TO FRIENDLY'S. They have the slowest service of any restaurant in the world. I pretty sure they wait 47 minutes before putting in your order, hoping you'll have slipped out by then so they don't have to bother making your food at all. My theory is that they keep no food in stock, and if they're going to process your order, they have to send Gus out shopping. Why else would it take 90 minutes for a patty melt and 35 minutes for a dish of ice cream?
Alena, thanks for the laugh! Although, sick as I am, it started a horrific coughing fit, but thanks just the same! ;-)
If I ever visit Italy, I'll be sure to bring paper toilet seat covers -- and leave the kids at home!
David, peepee in your coffee? That's hardcore, man. :-0
Jas, I sense an unusual violence in your comment here...You need to come get drunk with me, Jordan and Stephanie!
Ellen, but they have the BEST sandwiches evah! Eh, but I think I will avoid that place until the year 2020, or thereabouts. ;-)
I started to read this entry last night...but it reminded me way too much of my pathetic life...so I had to have a drink...then I dozed off...and so I came back this morning and finished it...but now I need a valium.
Haha.. if you want a real laugh, check out this site. It's mostly work safe, though if someone sees any of these pictures on the screen, they'll probably wonder about your sanity.
First round's on me.
[waving sharp p-p-pointy knife in the air spasmodically to keep the voices from returning]
I was in a supermarket once when a little kid who was having a strop about some toy or other his 'horrible MEAN mommy' wouldn't get him (with his unmoved mother looking on putting essentials into her basket) suddenly stopped dead and said: "OOPS."
His mother went pale, dropped her basket, grabbed him and started running.
"Is there a toilet?" She asked me desperately, pausing beside me. "He's, well, had an accident."
We could tell he had. The smell was quite distinct.
"Over there," I pointed.
"Thankyou."
And off she ran again. As she disappeared inside I heard the boy ask;
"So, can I have the toy, mommy?"
Sorry you had such a rough time, but if it's any comfort you've reminded me how glad I am that the joy of parenting is not mine...?
;-)
Post a Comment
<< Home