 There were two pluses, however. He would get to use his new paint
sprayer -- every guy likes to use new tools -- and we'd be eating at
his favorite restaurant.He still had a frown on his face when we
pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant. I tried to cheer him
up. "Look, honey, they have a special on mocha milkshakes."
I saw a hint of interest, and for a moment his bad day seemed to
take a back seat to the anticipation of sipping a mocha milkshake
with his meal. The specter of his bad day was apparently still in
evidence, however, because the moment that mocha milkshake hit the
counter, he reached out to grab it and had a spasmatic reaction (not
a word, but it hopes to be one someday.).
The sweetly anticipated mocha milkshake was suddenly decorating
not only the stainless steel counter but also my flip-flop clad
foot.
"I can't believe this!" my husband groaned. "I told you I was
having a bad day."
I looked at my foot -- sticky, cold and completely buried in
mocha milkshake. I looked at his feet, which were both clean and dry
with no evidence of collateral damage from the spill.
"I'm just so glad to be included in your bad day, honey," I said
between chattering teeth.
Experimentally, I picked up my foot before it became one with the
floor, shook it a little and thought, "Nope. That's not going away."
As women have done throughout history when something disastrous
happens, I headed for the restroom, leaving a trail of brown, sticky
footprints in my wake. A girl rushed a yellow mop bucket to the
scene of the accident. I heard my husband talking to her.
"What happened?" she asked him.
"You see that clean spot right in the middle of that spill? Well,
that's where my wife's foot was. I'm having a really bad day."
When I got to the bathroom, I wasn't quite sure what to do. I
mean, I've had many experiences with emergencies that required a
restroom visit: Ketchup on a white shirt, diaper changes, running
mascara, broken bra straps and breast-feeding crises. But I've never
had an entire milkshake spilled on my bare feet.
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As I saw it, I had two options. I could -- assuming this was still
possible -- hike my foot up to the sink and run water over it, or
stick my foot in a toilet and flush. If there were more women in
the restroom, I might have chosen the toilet. At least I could've
closed the door and no one would have seen me do it. But considering
my innate distaste of public toilets, instilled in me by my mother
over the last four decades, I found it nearly impossible to consider
that option. As it was, the restroom was empty, though I didn't know
how long it would stay in that condition.
The Rockettes would have been proud of the way I hoisted my foot
up to the sink, slinging mocha milkshake hither and yon. Since I
can't reach down and touch my feet even under normal conditions
without squatting, trying to turn on the faucet with my foot in the
sink was considerably more difficult.
After several failed attempts, I finally hopped on one foot to
where I could lean against the wall, and reached with one hand,
while draping my other arm over the paper towel dispenser for
balance.
That's when two women walked into the restroom. They looked
shocked. I found some nerve I didn't know I had and said, "What are
you looking at?" as if the spectacle before them was an ordinary
restroom event.
These were smart women who knew they should never engage a
lunatic in a discussion about sanity. They disappeared into the
stalls as I hurried to get the mocha milkshake out from between my
toes. I did not want to be there when they came out!
Considering that the day hadn't ended yet, it was not at all
surprising that the first thing my husband accidentally sprayed with
his new paint sprayer was the back of my legs.
As I slowly turned around to face his horrified grimace, he
looked as if he were at a serious loss for words.
"I know," I said. "You're having a bad day!"
[By LAURA SNYDER]
You can reach the writer at
lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
Or visit www.lauraonlife.com
for more columns and info about her books.
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