Last week, during the drive down to Boston for my appointment, The Boss and I decided to stop for a stretch break. We had been driving for a what felt like a couple hours, had amassed 100 miles on the odometer, and both of our legs were feeling cramped. Besides that, I was starting to feel like my bladder was organizing some other organs together to form a mutiny.
We discussed briefly the need to stop for a little while. We were quite a bit ahead of schedule, so stopping for an hour or so wouldn't be a problem. At this point we were headed southbound on Route 129 in Lynnfield, Massachusetts, so our choices were plentiful.
"Where would you like to stop?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't care. Just some place where I stretch my legs and walk around a bit," The Boss replied.
"Okay, well, do you just want to take a stretch break, or would you like to find a place to poke around for a little bit? Maybe get something to snack on?"
"Umm... I don't know."
The Boss has a habit, as I'm sure most women do, of not always expressing what she truly wants, even when asked directly. I'll admit to getting frustrated by it, but I find that if I ask some follow-up clarification questions, I can better judge what she wants. And when The Boss is happy, I'm happy (if you catch my drift).
So we continue driving down the road, and I'm calling out suggestions as I see them. She declines each one, but I'm starting to pick up something in the tone of her voice. I don't have enough time to think about it before we slam heavily through a pothole the size of Europa and my bladder sends me a message.
Hey. This is your Bladder. Remember that time you held your piss for too long in the second grade, and you made an ass of yourself by tinkling in your pants? Yeah. That's going to happen again if you don't get yourself to a fucking urinal... pronto.
Just then, The Boss' face lights up. "Look! Right there!" She points. "A Christmas Tree Shop!"
She turns to look at me, excited. "Can we go?"
"Sure," I said, in a decision powered solely by my now-painful need to urinate. We were hurtling down the road at 60mph, so the entrance for the store came up quickly. I hit the brakes and pulled into the parking lot.
I feel the need to mention, at least for the sake of rescuing my masculinity, that under normal circumstances, I would never so readily agree to enter the haven for cheaply made products where just about everything has "Made In China" stickers emblazoned on it. I mean, I love a bargain just as much as the next person, but I have to the draw the line somewhere. Besides, like the title of this post says, my judgement was clouded.
So, we park the car and enter the store. The Boss grabs a basket and I make a beeline for the restroom. As Murphy's Law would have it, it's on the opposite side of the store from the entrance. Also? It's right in the middle of the cosmetics department, which for a guy, is awesome. And if you must know, the business of expressing my bladder went as expected, and I used the "two-shake clean-up" technique before zipping back up. I washed my hands (with soap!) and left to see what items The Boss had found that she just could not live without.
Throughout our wanderings in the store, we encountered a blind woman who was looking at the framed art. Yes, you read me correctly. A blind woman. Looking at the art. Well, to be honest, she kept asking her companion what each piece looked like.
"Well, Bertha, it's a rose. Roses are red."
"Ah, okay. Mmm hmm."
They were kind of hogging the aisle, so we left for a different part of the store. There really wasn't anything else that happened during the rest of our time in the store that is worth mentioning.
Oh, except that someone decided it was a good idea to drop trou and take a big steaming shit in the middle of the store. As in, on the tile floor. In the middle of the displays of canvas storage cartons and summertime water toys.
Just in case you missed that, someone TOOK A SHIT. ON THE FLOOR. It smelled absolutely HORRIBLE. I mean, all shit smells bad, but this was like the epitome of stink. If there was ever an Olympic competition for the smelliest poo, this would have won the gold, silver, AND bronze medals.
It should go without saying that we left as soon as possible. Like, we smelled the shit, heard what happened (someone said it looked like an elephant had passed through), and POOF! we were done shopping and headed for the checkout.
And I thought we'd see stuff like that in Boston. I guess the real weirdos live in Lynnfield*.
*My apologies to any of my readers who live in Lynnfield, MA.