Only in Mexican Restaurant Bathrooms

Caution: PG 13 for Potty Humor

Overhearing the terminal cancer diagnosis conversation in the bathroom at Villa Grande may have seemed awful, but it was just another notch in my bad-luck bathroom belt.

Many moons ago, I’d accidentally trapped myself in the bathroom at El Matador. This was not entirely user-error—that darn cubicle was designed like one of those live-traps for vermin, unwittingly luring in hugely pregnant women and keep them there forever!

The stall door swung inward, so making an entrance wasn’t a problem, but when it came time to exit, there was not enough room to pull the door past my belly.

Minutes ticked by and my panic escalated.This was becoming an emergency. If I’d had my phone with me, I might’ve called 911. It would be the kind of call dispatchers would relate to their families, I knew, but freedom seemed worth the expense of pride. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my phone or my purse with me, because everybody knows how cramped the restrooms at El Matador are.

At one point, I considered giving up. Maybe I could just wait for Mia’s dad to worry and come to check on me. Double-unfortunately, he’d just gotten a new cell-phone (The original Motorola Razr had just hit the market!) Depending on how much battery power he had left, it could be hours before he noticed that I hadn’t returned.

It would have to be a solo rescue mission.

There were too many germs to even consider sitting down to plan a strategy, so I stood.

And thought.

And stood and thought.

This was a complex physics problem, and as you know, I never passed college algebra. Finally--finally!—I knew what to do.  Carefully, I hiked up my dress over my belly. Holding the gathered fabric with my left hand, I used my right hand to swing the door toward me. Then, I straddled the toilet and began inching my way backward until I was practically against the wall. Pinning the door to the side of the stall with one hand, I used the other to adjust my dress while I tried not to think about all the germs I’d just touched.

No amount of scrubbing in that restroom sink could wash away my embarrassment, but at least I had my freedom.

***

I guess I’m just really lucky, because a few weeks ago at El Guapo, my life was blessed with yet another awkward bathroom opportunity. I noticed—too late—that there was an informative sign above the toilet:

Show off your womanly strength!

Push the flusher all the way down!

That part was typed.
Actually, I think it was Word Art.

Beneath it, someone had handwritten an extra tip:

And make sure to hold it down for at least ten seconds!

Directions were made to be followed. I cheerfully complied (again, wishing I’d brought my phone—I would have loved a picture of that sign!) and I opened the stall door to leave.

Turning to double-check that everything had gone accordingly, I saw that my flushing attempt was unsuccessful. I’d already made eye contact with the lady who was waiting in line to use it next, so I smiled sheepishly and stepped back into the stall to try again.

I repeated all the same steps:

The flush.
The hold.
The semi-exit.
The double-check.
The sheepish smile.

And, sadly, the return into the stall.

After the third try, I knew that the outcome was not going to change. What was the protocol for this type of situation?

It was obvious that I owed the next customer an explanation and possibly an apology.

***

“Oh, God. You didn’t!” Russ said when I got back to the table later and told him about the ordeal.

“I had to,” I explained. “Otherwise she might’ve thought I was a weirdo.”
“So you just saved her the trouble of wondering by confirming it?” he asked.

***

In retrospect, I guess I did. Here’s what I’d told her:

“Sorry about that,” I'd said apologetically. “You see, there’s this sign in there. It says,” I leaned back in to the stall and called out to her, “SHOW OFF YOUR WOMANLY STRENGTH! PUSH THE FLUSHER ALL THE WAY DOWN! Which I did, but it didn’t work. There’s this extra suggestion that was added at the bottom about holding it down—well, I guess you’ll see for yourself in a minute—but that didn’t seem to help, either. So I’m not sure what to do, but I’m very sorry, and I want you to know that I really did try. You know I tried, right? Honestly, if we were at home right now and this happened, I think I’d be telling my kids ‘Just add to it until we figure it out’. Because that’s how we used to flush the toilet when I was a kid during power outages--you know, manually, with a bucket of water from the pool or whatever. So, my advice is: just add to it.”

After all that, do you know what she did?

She rolled her eyes, gave me a dirty look, and sighed loudly and dramatically.
Then she said, “Never mind,” and left!
Obviously she'd never heard of 'if it's yellow, let it mellow.'

So who’s the weirdo now, right?

Nothing like this has ever happened to me in a non-Mexican eating establishment. Superstitious people would probably recommend avoiding the whole dining genre after the string of misadventures I’ve had, but I enjoy Mexican food, and here in Texas we have a never-ending supply of restaurants at which to embarrass myself.