Let me preface this by saying that I am a Virgo, and its against our nature to speak of gross, poopy, bodily functions. I hate bathrooms, mine and public, and toilets make me vomit (which is pretty convenient, if you think about it). I also was partially raised by a very Southern-belle-esque woman who I refer to as “DDG” (Drunk-Dial Grandma). Southern-belle-esque DDGs do not speak of poop, either, even when they get ancient older. They may have cute poo-euphemisms, but for the most part, my family seemingly did not poop except, ironically, behind closed doors. We also did not vomit, “cuz tha’d make me throw up ta’ think ’bout it.”

In the first of a series of “coming out” blogs, I’m here to tell you that yesterday, I went to the bathroom at Friendly’s.

(Well, that was anti-climatic.)

As much as DDG doesn’t speak of feces, I don’t ever go to Friendly’s. I’ve lived in NoVa for six years now and I’ve been to Friendly’s three times, even though its a, well, friendly place to go, has ice cream, blah, blah, blah.  I would love to love Friendly’s, don’t get me wrong. Its just that I will never get the traumatic video of my virgin Friendly’s visit out of my mind.

We had been in NoVa for like 3 minutes, maybe, upon moving here and my boys were hungry. There, glowing like that fish that tried to kill Marlin and Dory in the moonlight, was Friendly’s. It was perfect. The husband, Talker, Enigma and I walked in and were immediately freakified amused by the circus decor on the walls. Quickly turning to the ice cream counter, I could not help but notice the older lady working the scoop… because (and don’t hate me for this) she had the biggest hunchback I’ve ever seen. Wow, welcome to Northern Virginia.

We moved along and were seated amidst the circus murals and red, plastic booths. The kids’ twisty straws came out of the woodwork in anticipation of drinks and slowly, our server approached our table. He may have been dragging his leg behind him.  The server (I’m calling him Floyd) gave us the regular introductory spiel, punctuating each and every word with a very loud inhale of Friendly’s air. He [breath] was [breath] talking [breath] like [breath] this while continually wiping the sweat from his brow and Claude knows where else about, it seems, to die before our very eyes before he got to our drink order. Please indulge my visual of a sandy-haired, chubby man who was breathing like he’d just been fucked by a blender, dripping sweat all over his little note pad upon which he was writing down the food I was surely not going to even attempt to eat. Northern Virginia is not fun. Send me back to Miami, please, and don’t forget the platanos.

But, my kids were starving and regardless of this man’s imminent death, we remained still, hoping not to be sweated upon. Did I mention the drive from Miami to DC is about 19 hours long? The hunchback ice cream scooper was, by now, cackling at my need to flee the premises, and, I kid you not,  I watched an 8-foot tall, 50-lb. woman woman walk across the back of the restaurant. I suddenly understood the circus theme. It was as if a traveling carnival from the Depression era stopped west of DC to earn some cash at a chain restaurant specializing in ice cream. All that was missing was the fortune teller.

(For those of you who know I read tarot, I’m kindly asking you to shut up.)

A few years ago, I ended up back at Friendly’s with a slight touch of PTSD, but ready to brave the circus elements for my friend and her three kids. Ironically, while the most bizarre things happened TO this friend as she traveled through NoVa, that visit to Friendly’s was truly nothing to blog about. So there. It was normal! Huzzah!

The third time’s a charm, right? Yesterday, in a fit of feeling bad for telling Sunshine she couldn’t have ice cream until all the snow melted (“I’ll NEVER get ice cream,” she said, pouty, as we drove through the 6-foot tall piles of snow in our neighborhood), I took she and Dozer to Friendly’s. The staff all seemed to be fairly normal, in their slow, chatty way (I’d like to eat my waffle fries now, please) so I breathed a sigh of relief and happily planned to order some weird “campfire” ice cream creation that the girls would love. Then, suddenly, Sunshine had to go to the bathroom.

Breathe, Melia, breathe. Its ok.

I had not noticed the elderly lady sitting to the left of me had gone into the bathroom first. I would have waited until she came back so that the bathroom was empty, both girls could go and we could get back to our food. Instead, we opened the door and walked into…

“Ooooooh. Ahhhhhh. Uh uh uh uh. Uhhhhh.” *pant* *pant* *pant*

We couldn’t just walk out of the restroom, because 4-year olds have absolutely no understanding of just how much better it would be in that moment if they went back to the table and peed their pants. There would have been a meltdown, on a bathroom floor (and my subsequent death by revulsion), so we shuffled into the ONE stall open (not even the big handicapped stall) and I did my very best to just keep them focused on the task at hand.

“Ahhhhhhhh. What is that? Ohhh. I need to get that fixed”

OHMYGODJUSTFUCKINGKILLMERIGHTHEREANDNOW.

About that time, Dozer had taken notice and was trying to peek under the stall (ARE YOU KIDDING ME?) at the moaning, elderly woman who was either masturbating or needed another bran muffin (twitch). When I pulled her up, I noticed… (breathe)… the woman wasn’t even sitting; her feet were pointed toward the toilet!  What the fuck she was doing? There were no sounds (twitch) of bathroom engagement, not even a colostomy sound (don’t ask how I know) (twitch). She was just standing there in her orthopedic pantyhose with swollen ankles making the most horrible sounds and statements that have ever come from a bathroom. EVER.

Sufficiently freaked the fuck out, I went back to the table, poked at my waffle fries and ordered ice cream to go. Fast. We went home and I  curled up in a fetal position for a few hours. My DDG would have died before she created such a scene in a bathroom, that’s all I’m saying. Bless that woman’s (maybe she was an elderly man?) heart, but for the love of cheese, please don’t ever let me go back to Friendly’s again.