Menopausal Mother

     I dread using public restrooms on the interstate during a long road trip, but sometimes it can't be helped, especially if I'm traveling with a large iced coffee from Dunkin's. Whenever my husband and I make a pit stop I try to get in and out as quickly as possible because I never know exactly what I'll find behind the stall doors.

     The other day when I was on my way back from a mini-vacation in Palm Beach, I needed to make a potty stop. The restroom was actually quite clean, but it got me thinking....what sort of things does a bathroom stall witness in the course of a day? (Yeah, I know, I think about strange things sometimes while I'm using the bathroom.) I imagine the women's restrooms on the interstate have seen it ALL. What would their daily itinerary look like? If only the stalls could talk....


6:00 a.m. Janitor check-in time: Ahhhhhhh smell that? Bleach! Finally, I've been cleared of the olfactory sorrow left from that busload of teenagers heading back home after a day at Walt Disney World. Let's see if today's travelers do a better job at keeping me from smelling like a fisherman's wharf.

7:32 a.m. Prepare for women who don't read the disposal sign for feminine products: Seriously, lady? Clearly, you didn't read the sign above the metal receptacle where there's already a collection of mummified tampons waiting to be tossed. What are you trying to do, choke me?


9:01 a.m. Poop alert: Uh-oh, she has her headphones on. That means she brought her poop playlist. She's gonna be here for a while.

10:45 a.m. Send out the first daily reminder.:Wash your hands. WASH YOUR HANDS!

11:13 a.m. Tinkle alert: Don't blame me if the seat is wet. That last tinkler hovered above me and sprayed like a cat. You might want to wash your backside with some hand sanitizer when you're done.

12:00 p.m. Lunch break: I don't know what you're smoking but I'd love a hit.

1:01 p.m. 15-minute group therapy: Well, Carol, I don't know who Brad was texting while you were scanning the road for the Fort Pierce exit, but I'm pretty sure Kandy with a "K" is NOT his cousin. Cry and talk a little louder on your cell so the rest of the women waiting in line to use this stall know what you did last night at the Motel 6.

1:15 p.m. Play Potty roulette: What's behind stall door number one, two or three? Take your pick---we're all filthy!

2:04 p.m. Clean up in stall #2: Holy crap, WHAT IS THAT SMELL?? Call the plumber---we have a floater!


3:00 p.m. Naptime: I really look forward to this quiet time in the stall, just before rush hour hits. Shout out to all the ladies with Paruresis. This hour belongs to you, my bladder-shy friends!

5:36 p.m. Send out a second daily reminder: Flush the toilet. FLUSH THE TOILET!

6:10 p.m. Art class: That's a lovely drawing of the male anatomy but my walls are not designed to be your personal canvas. Also, I don't think Kevin would appreciate your SMALL drawing.

7:22 p.m. Pray to the patron saint of air fresheners: The senior citizens' bus just rolled in from the bingo tournament in Vero Beach. Brace yourselves; flatulence is coming.

10:38 p.m. Toilet paper refill time: Honey, you're gonna need a LOT more paper for that.

1:00 a.m. Puke alert: That's okay, I got you, girl. I'm guessing too many Jager Bombs? Here's some advice: Pop two aspirin, chug a bottle of Gatorade and eat a bag of greasy potato chips. You'll feel good as gold in the morning, and no one will ever know you spent your Friday night praying to the porcelain god.

2:44 a.m. Border run: Seriously, you had to have Taco Bell's Steak Rattlesnake Fries?

2:45 a.m. Flush?


2:46 a.m. Flush again: Hello??

2:47 a.m. FLUSH! WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL ARE YOU?

4:30 a.m. Contemplate life's greatest mystery: Why does corn look the same coming out as it does going in?

6:00 a.m. Janitor clock-in: I'm so happy to see you! I've had a crappy 24 hours, dude. Whoa, another busload of teenagers? They're the miscreants of bathroom etiquette! Let's just slap a "BIOHAZARDOUS MATERIALS INSIDE" sign on my stall door and call it a day...

    Welcome to another edition of Fly On The Wall group posting. 13 bloggers are inviting you into their homes today for a glimpse into their private lives. Thank you once again Karen from Baking In A Tornado for hosting these hilarious group posts!

     The past month has been a mixture of joy and sorrow for me. As many of you know, my mother passed away unexpectedly on April 4th. My family has been dealing with the loss as best we can, and  in typical Doyle fashion, using humor to get through the rough patches.

     On a lighter note, one of the highlights from earlier in the month was my trip to Dayton Ohio for the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop conference. I had one of the best times of my life meeting many of my online blogger friends and taking educational courses to improve my writing skills. Since I don't fly, I convinced dear ol' Hubs to drive me again this year, just like he did for the last conference in 2014 (you can read all about it HERE). Being trapped in a car together for 19 hours spurred many an interesting conversation and quite a bit of binge eating. When I wasn't napping or stuffing my face with Pringle's chips and peanut M&Ms, Hubs and I enjoyed the scenery around us. I received some strange looks from people at truck stops when I climbed out of the car with my purple hair, but all in all, we had a great time.


     If you had been a fly on the wall in our car during the road trip, here are some tidbits of conversation you would have overheard:

"You know you're old when you have to drive with a knee brace on."

"I think the GPS is drunk. It keeps getting us lost. It needs its own GPS."

"How am I supposed to eat this gooey sandwich while driving at the same time? It's like trying to hold a sloppy joe behind the steering wheel. Half of the goop ends up in my lap."
"Well, at least you'll have some leftovers on your shorts for later in case you get hungry again."


"Why is it that when we leave the state of Florida, all the radio stations only play oldies music?"
"Because we're fossils who still remember all the lyrics. Most of these singers are already dead....someone must be trying to tell us something."

"Can't you drive any faster up this mountain road?"
"I'm driving a Prius, what do you expect? It's like driving a car powered by hamsters. When someone asks me if it's a four cylinder, I tell them, 'No, it's a four hamster.' And right now, I think one of them just died going up this mountain side."

"I'm an emotional drinker, and you are seriously stressing me out during this road trip. Oh look! A pub!"
"Good to know I won't need to call 911 now."

"We need to lay off on the bean burritos. This car can only handle so much gas. "
"At least it's not just one of us doing it. My farts are responding to your farts."
"Yeah---we're sharing fart emojis."

" We need to get an RV and take more road trips. We could retire early and live off our savings."
"That sounds great, but what will we do for money the following week?"

"Sometimes there just aren't enough curse words invented to meet my demands after a day like today."

"What do you mean I'd be lousy at camping? I'm an outdoorsy type of guy."
"Only if your tent comes with a large cooler full of beer."

"My legs and knees are so sore and stiff from sitting in the car for five hours, I can barely stand. It's a good thing no one is trying to rob us at gun point right now, because I wouldn't be able to run. I'd just hand over my wallet and tell them they're welcome."


THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GO OUT OF TOWN AND YOUR FOUR-YEAR-OLD GRANDDAUGHTER GETS AHOLD OF YOUR MAKEUP KIT

   
My folks were always avid travelers in search of new adventures. Once the last school bell rang in June heralding the beginning of summer break, our suitcases were packed and loaded into the station wagon. When I was young, these vacations involved long road trips that led to some "interesting" experiences which I am convinced is why I need anti-anxiety medications today. These special adventures into hell included spider-infested trails through a citrus grove; sleeping on a freezing mountain top in a tar paper shack with no heat, bathroom or running water; vomiting over the side of a boat (wouldn't that be considered as homemade chum?) during a fishing trip on rough water, and sleeping by myself in the backseat of a rental car when my siblings tricked me into believing there were nuclear reactor size scorpions under my cabin bed in Zion National Park.
     Once I entered adulthood, I swore that I'd never subject myself (or my children) to these summer break horrors. But history has a way of repeating itself, so I've compiled a reminder list of 10 things I will NOT be doing this summer.

1.  Get on an airplane. Most flights from my hometown circle out over the Bermuda Triangle first. I don't want to end up on a sequel of Lost or have my picture plastered on the side of a milk carton.

2.  Fall asleep on the beach only to wake up hours later looking like the main entree at a Red Lobster restaurant.

3.  Wear all white to an outdoor barbecue party. Juicy ribs + rum runners = hot mess disaster.

4.  Get into a canoe with my daughters who are just as clueless on the water as I am. Pocahontas we are not, and I already know this tender, white meat would make great alligator bait.

5.  After a camping trip, attempt to neatly fold a double air mattress back into its original box. Fuggedaboutit. Ball that sucker up and toss it into the back of the closet.

6.  Visit a Jurassic Park exhibit with life like dinosaurs roaming the grounds. I don't want to be mistaken for a pork chop or a pu pu platter for two.

7.  Go to an outdoor Judy Collins concert just because the tickets are free. Shock therapy would be
more entertaining.

8.  Vacation at a southern resort where the mosquitoes are the size of vultures with a vampire's appetite for blood.

9.  Participate in a sea cow rodeo. That's just wrong on so many levels.


10.  Zip line over a wide canyon, especially if the cord has been recycled from an old clothes line or used dental floss.


     The next time you get extra tickets to see Neil Diamond in concert at the amphitheater or feel like riding the waves on a bucking sea cow, don't bother calling me. I'll be asleep on the beach next to a bowl of melted butter. Lobster, anyone?