A little less than a week ago I was in Santa Fe, New Mexico on a mini-vacation. My bride and I flew out on Saturday night and came back Wednesday.
A whirlwind of southwest goodness. We visited good friends. We played. We ate. We drank. We hiked. We biked. We art-ed and shopped and strolled…
It was good.
Mostly. One event in particular was not good. Not good at all!
Southwestern Cuisine and Urinal Deodorizers
We were staying with dear friends with dear twin boys. And one night we went out to dinner at Maria’s, an old time Santa Fe family dining favorite. The twins father was out of town on a business trip, so I got to play surrogate daddy when it came time for a mid-meal bathroom break. One forty year old man and two four year old boys. No problem. We traipsed through the restaurant hand-in-hand. All smooth so far. As we approached the bathroom door the younger of the two started to pull away, but my grip tightened and he looked up at me, resigned. Inside both boys affirmed in unison that they wanted to use the urinal.
Did I mention that they were four years old? This was an adult height urinal, but the first twin managed to liberate his junk from his pants and aimed at the urinal. I slid into the other urinal and took care of my own business. When I wrapped up and leaned over to check on the other twin. He had the urinal deodorizer in his hands! That’s right, he was holding the pink hockey puck encased in a white mesh plastic target and inspecting it. Sniffing it actually.
I barked his name with a mix of authority and panic. His head snapped up to look at me. He was wearing an ear to ear grin. His pants and underwear were around his ankles. The urinal was full from both twins dewatering and heaven only knows how many other diners’ contributions since last flush. He dropped the target back into the urinal and reached toward me. I leaped backward, knocking into an older gentleman who’d just entered the bathroom.
“Glad mine are all grown up,” he laughed, handing the other twin some paper towel to dry his hands. The boy had had managed to climb up onto the counter to wash his hands and was straddling the sink, shaking his hands dry.
“Thanks,” I said, helping the hand washer down to the floor. “Pull up your pants,” I told the deodorizer holder.
“I can’t,” he whined, showing me his dripping hands and walking toward me.
“Don’t touch me!” I carefully grasped his hips from behind and lifted him up onto the counter. He soaped up and splashed around until I felt reasonably confident that he wouldn’t get ill before dessert. But I wasn’t confident enough to hold his hand as we walked back to the table, and he shot off like a wind up toy, zipping through the restaurant and nearly sweeping the feet out from under a waitress balancing two sizzling skillets loaded with fajitas. He dove under the table just before I made it into the dining room where we were seated. My bride and the the twins’ mother were enjoying their meals. Not the time for a bathroom update…
Why no kids? Urinal deodorizers!
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