Angelina Jolie, The Chosen One, and Adventures in the Loo
I’ve adopted so many bathroom stalls in my lifetime I’m like the Angelina Jolie of public restrooms. I’m sure I can manage to look hot and wholesome in one fell swoop, and apart from the height difference we’re practically twins right? ….right? So maybe I have a bit more cellulite than she does, and maybe the boobage isn’t quite so perky.
BUT! She has big lips… I have big lips. She has luscious long locks… I have frizzy, curly, brown ones that I can totally rock out if I tried. She’s been known to carry her ex’s blood around her neck and I’m – well – I’ve always been just a little bit weird. Somehow we both managed to get laid and even landed husbands! So we’re totally twins… but I digress.
Going into a new restroom is like speed-dating for toilets, creating a list of maybes, possiblys, hell-nos, and a few good ones. The Chosen One will be clean, well-stocked, preferably near the back end of the restroom, and bonus points if the handicap stall fits the bill (if only for the extra breathing room). Sinks get the same once-over.
And just like that, I’ve added another notch on the restroom belt.
Every school, every restaurant, every hotel – heck even the darn Walmart has a nature call favorite; a ‘one-minute-stand’ if you will. Like a drunk-dialed booty call I gravitate to the same stall every. single. time I use this restroom. If said stall is occupied I end up leaving with naught but a modicum of dignity, having called on a sub-par ‘C-List’ stall.
The restroom by the high school cafeteria was 1st stall; in the history hallway … 3rd one in. The mall – last one at the end; same for train station and Walmart. Middle stall at Lonestar. Casino – 2nd on the right or last on the left. This last conference? 3rd from the end. I could go on but it might get a little personal – so I’ll spare you. You’re welcome.
She collects babies like they’re the newest WebKinz; I collect porcelain bassins not unlike a gaggle of drunk sorority sisters. A map depicting her humanitarian efforts would make a great ‘Where In The World is Carmen San Diego’ episode, while searching for blackheads on the landscape of my enlarged pores is like a Where’s Waldo gone bad.
See? Practically twins. We may as well have been born holding hands.