Well, a sleepless night for me gives you the pleasure of potty humor of late. As is the case on two Sundays a month, we took our son to Monkey Joes today. FYI, it’s a place with a big room full of bouncy things for kids. We’d spent the morning in Daffin Park and by the time we got to Mr. Joe’s, I had to pee like a carriage horse. I leave the boy with his dad and race for the bathroom – even before allowing the guy in the ref shirt to put a paper ID bracelet on my arm. Got to pee. Got to pee. I bust through the door with a smiling girl money named Moneky Jane and through the stall door directly in front me me. I’m all but undoing my pants in the middle of the (thank God) empty bathroom, and fail to realize that I’d entered a child-size toilet. I mean little, like the kind tiny Hobbit women use while staring at their hairy feet. When I am through, I am relieved beyond measure. The joy, however, quickly turns to disdain when I’m faced with giving a foam soap dispenser a hand job for a puny amount of suds. Seriously, what is it with these things? I’m giving it all I got and I don’t have enough lather to wash a mouse’s hair. Then what happens is you get used to the force and repetitive gesture required to get the foam soap, and you end up having regular soap dispenser fire anti-bacterial shaz over your right shoulder.
