My Bathroom Walls

                                     

Today I smelled pee when I walked into our guest bathroom.  I guess the technical term is "urine" but I always think of horses when I hear that word. Who knows why?  Oh, I do because when I was 19, I worked in a pharmacy and the drug Premarin is made of pregnant mare's urine.  Weird the things you remember, right?

And now, back to the bathroom.  I found a diaper in the trash and so I emptied that and washed out the wastebasket.  But, even then, there was an odor in the room that I found less than appealing.  Granted, we are not receiving visitors during this season of Covid19, but still a stinky room is a stinky room.  

I cleaned out the toilet bowl, washed the ceramic exterior and, just for good measure, I also washed off the floor.  I was pretty cocky about my great cleaning skills and my wise use of my time ~ after all, I could have been indulging in my secret obsession: Dragon City (my video game of choice that's rated for ages 4+).  Then I looked up at our wall. Sometimes, when the sun is shining just right, you see things in your house that you were never meant to see.  This was one of those times.

The entire purple wall, up higher than my waist, was shimmery with little dried golden droplets. I washed them off immediately which left behind a gajillion little white spots.  Apparently pee is a potent color remover.  [Note to self, if I ever run out of nail polish remover and I'm in a real pinch for time ...]

My first impulse is to repaint the wall but two-thirds of my grandsons (whom I am finding guilty as being the culprits without benefit of a trial) have yet to obtain double digit age status, so, as they say, "What's the point?"

  

Sweet Savannah?

Savannah may be a city that oozes southern charm, but one thing in short supply is available bathrooms.  Hospitality doesn't seem so hospitable when you have to go and all you see in every direction are signs that say, "No Public Restrooms."

St. Paddy's Day in Savannah is legendary and the population swells to three times its normal size.  I arrived one week later and the city was clearly recovering from its collective hangover.  I have zero idea where the beer swilling Irishmen or their Irish-wanna-be friends relieved themselves during their big fun (want me to guess?) but I found myself walking square after square in search of the golden fleece -- in this case, a toilet. 

While I searched, I cursed that sneaky waiter at the outdoor cafe who kept surreptitiously filling my water glass until I had probably unwittingly consumed several gallons of liquid, far in excess of what my tiny bladder would normally accommodate.   Come to think of it, he had an Irish lilt to his voice.  My suspicion is that he had a personal St. Paddy's Day ax to grind. 

Soon I found myself standing in line inside a gourmet market/petrol station waiting for the opportunity to humiliate myself by asking the guy cashiering for the restroom key.  Just as my turn finally arrived --and not a moment too soon--a young girl breezed in and said, "Excuse me.  Could I please have your restroom key?"  And he gave it to her!

I peeled out of line and followed the girl with the restroom key into the store's underbelly.  This market was one of those snobbish, upscale places where they sell chocolate candy bars for six bucks a piece.  Even the help was able to size me up and with one arch of an eyebrow make me feel I didn't belong there.  Well, the joke's on them because their store isn't all that attractive back there in the loo line and the restroom, even though you had to use a key to access it, wasn't any cleaner than the average gas station's.

Beggars can't be choosers though and I was truly grateful that they allowed me to use their facilities, albeit grudgingly.  I bought a candy bar on the way out.  It was surprisingly tasty. 

Maybe you really do get what you pay for.