Outback Steak House . . . Really Outback for me

This happened some time in the recent past as it’s been busy here and no time to write lately so I thought I would write something light hearted again.

Outback Steak House, is one of our few chain restaurants here in Alaska so that and Chili’s are one of the better places to eat if not going to one of the many mom and pop eateries. This is Alaska, the Last Frontier, land of few chain restaurants and strip malls. I would prefer my unique hole-in-the-wall Japanese joint but then most of the group would complain as that seems to be the ‘in place’ lately with all you can eat king crab for $19.99. "Crab again? Like, from The Deadliest Catch?" (sigh)

And so Outback Steak House it is. It's the only place we can all agree on this trip. I won't complain. A rack of spicy ribs always suits me fine and I'll do some serious damage at that salad bar. I've already hungrily spied a bucket sized

Blooming Onion.

An aloof, teen-aged hostess seats us and then we are greeted by "Marc with a C" who will be "taking care of us this evening". It reminds me of Lewis Grizzard’s response to the waiter in his comedy bit . . . “Hi, I’m Lewis, I’ll be your customer this evening!” He pulls up a chair and giggles today's "featured items". That's so annoying to me. Don't sit. Don't force your funny on me. Don't perk it up. Keep it simple and friendly. Just give me competent, prompt, professional service and I guarantee you I'm your best tip of the night. Lose the shtick. We send Marc-with-a-C off to fetch us some Oniony appetizers and two-for-one margaritas since it’s still happy hour.

Suddenly a tremor from deep within my stomach: GURGLE. CRAMP. CHURN. CRAMP.

Uh oh. Something is happening in my gastrointestinal tract. Something really bad. Is it my system protesting the vast amounts of grease I'm about to ingest? Or maybe it's the funky sushi I had for lunch. Whatever it is, it's going to need to be dealt with right now. I excuse myself and quickly run to the head.

Discomfort builds as I trot toward the restroom. My pace quickens with each step careful to keep my ‘cheeks’ tight to avoid any accidents. Pain is coming in waves now. Mentally, I'm timing the contractions and trying to avoid any other analogies to childbirth like "crowning" or worse: "my water broke".

I burst into the bathroom. Empty. Ah, excellent. I'm going to need privacy for this. In my frenzy, I dive into the farthest stall and quickly scope things out. I’m thinking it’s pretty darn clean in here. The toilet seat is uncharacteristically devoid of typical male splatter and other repugnancies. Smells nice, too. Good, good, good.

I start unraveling toilet paper by the foot. Once I have enough slack, I wrap it around my hand over and over and over again. Do you do that too? I create a quilted cushiony catcher's mitt. I give the seat a quick wipe. Just in case.

Next, more TP. Hand over hand, I unroll about, oh, three mummies worth. I place it on the seat, covering all plastic edges. I’m somewhat nuts on public restrooms. This is my "packed base" cover. I'm working quickly now as danger lingers. Disaster is imminent if I’m not quick. Then, a few paper toilet seat covers. Three, actually, is this being obsessive compulsive? Faster, faster, now as I’m feeling beads of sweat forming on my forehead, I crisscross the paper seat covers on top the TP base creating soft sanitary strata.

My body is READY. Let's do this! Hurry! Belt. Pants. Down. Sit!

I erupt.

Ahhh, thank you, thank you. Sweet release, WHEW. While I completely defile this throne, I am pleased that this was a freak incident and I'll be able to enjoy my meal without worry of a messy encore. Good. Blooming Onion, here I come.

Then, I hear the door creak open. Dang it. I almost got out of here without -- wait a minute. I hear "clop, clop, clop" across the bathroom floor. Puzzled, I angle my head to get a closer look under the stall:

HIGH HEELS.

Oh no.

Please, oh PLEASE God let her have wandered into the wrong bathroom. Please, I swear that I'll never ask another -- The door creaks again. Is she leaving?? NO! Someone else now is coming in. Then I hear it: two women having a conversation.

OH.

Crap!

I feel my face flush then I courtesy flush. Get rid of the smell, probably too late.

I'm in the bloody ladies room!

At Outback Steak House on a Saturday night!

My world swirls before me as I try to stave off the panic welling up inside. Now there's a flurry of activity in the restroom. The clatter of ladies shoes on porcelain. They chatter about . . . . well I don't know, lady things, I guess.

I quietly finish up my business and - wait.

The conversation disappears out the creaking door. Am I alone now?

I stand completely still and listen.

Silence.

Time to move.

I reach for the handle of my stall to unlock it, and then suddenly someone tugs from the other side! Crap!

"Hello?" asks an older lady's voice. "Is someone in there?"

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

Do I answer in falsetto, like Peter Scolari from Bosom Buddies?? NO. WHAT DO I DO?

I know! I flush again.

"Oh, sorry" she says and enters another stall. This is my moment. The eye of the storm.

I explode out of the stall and make for the door. I reach out for the handle - and freeze. I look to my right and sigh. I have to wash my hands. I don't WANT to. I . . . HAVE to. Moments ago I fouled that toilet so badly that mid-evacuation I offered it an apology. I must wash my hands before I go eat my dinner. I pump a squirt of soap, flip the faucet and quickly wash. I spin on my heel towards freedom.

The door opens with that familiar creak and as I pass through, I hold it open for *another* lady walking in. She says "thank you" and eyes me suspiciously.

I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE. NOW.

I take one step away from the Ladies Room and - BAM.

My friend is standing there in front of me.

He instantly recognizes the panic in my ashen face. I'm frozen in place. He considers me for a long, uncomfortable moment and cracks up. Then he looks at the sign on the door behind me. Then back at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Again?" he asks.

I hang my head in shame and reply, "again".

I guess it’s time again to have my glasses checked for the proper prescription.

It probably won’t help as I missed the sign on the door anyway.

Ice