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Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Pinky and the Stink


I’d always imagined that when I ever wrote the post you are about to read tonight... it would be my final post. The reason for this would either be because I had finally run out of my silly stories or because you would all be so horrified you’d  immediately cease and desist reading Pinky Poinker once and for all.

However, the theme of the story flows on so well from yesterday’s post (about how my sleep attire has gone to the dogs over the duration of my marriage) that I have deemed it necessary to regale you with this anecdote regardless.

The adage, “A single woman goes out to dine and a married woman goes out to eat” has a gristly grain of truth in my life. While still in the initial glow of new love I would sit in a lady-like fashion, nibbling on a lettuce leaf and sipping a wine when on romantic dinner dates with Scotto. 

These days it’s more of case of, “Extra sour cream please and don’t hold back on the cheese. Another bottle of wine while you're out there too please.”

A favourite gastronomic interlude for Scotto and I is Mexican, where as an aficionado of fiery hot food I will order an extra-large serving of “suicidal” dip and selfishly pour the entire bowl over my meal. 

If you happen to be familiar with a certain Johnny Cash song, “Burning Ring of Fire” you can probably guess the consequence of scoffing down this chilli concoction which invariably hits me like the proverbial brick sh#thouse the following day.

We were staying in Brisbane a few years ago and elected to go out to dinner on the concluding night of our holidays.

“Do you have any really hot sauce?” I asked the annoyed waiter.

He returned with a small dish of chilli sauce especially created by the chef.

“Well it’s okaaaay,” I drawled, “but do you think the chef could make it a bit hotter. I like it really hot.”

Unsmilingly, the waiter whisked the dish from the table and returned with an equally mild condiment which I pretended was perfect. In truth, it was probably the exact same dish and the chef had merely informed the waiter to tell the stupid show-off woman to get lost and if she wanted hot sauce to go to hell.. or Cactus Jack’s.

The next morning we checked out of hotel and set about shopping in the mall until our afternoon flight home. After about half an hour of wandering around I began to feel the familiar molten gurgling in my stomach and my dire situation hit home; I was going to have to use a public toilet. 

I don’t do public toilets. Firstly, because there are germs, secondly, I’m scared of finding a pubic hair on the seat and thirdly, because they usually stink.

Fretfully kissing Scotto farewell, I slunk into the public toilets in the Myer Centre. 

Joy oh bloody joy! The restroom was empty, spotless, pleasant smelling and… did I say empty?

I’m not going into any detail over what occurred during the ensuing twenty-five minutes, but conjure up visions of a volcano, red-hot, flowing lava and a major eruption and you’ll get the drift.

Over the time I’d been ensconced in my own private hell the toilets had been gradually populated with what sounded like the crowd of thousands who’d gathered to hear the Sermon on the Mount.

Liberally spraying perfume from my bag around the cubicle I bravely steeled myself to face my unwitting audience. As I opened the door two little boys holding their mother’s hand attempted to push past me to get into the gas chamber.

“AHHHH! I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” I cautioned holding both hands up in the air like a spoil-sport bouncer. “I had too much Chilli last night and it wouldn’t be very nice.”

The sardine-packed restroom patrons stood glaring at me with expressions of revulsion and outrage. Two teenage girls at the sink ogled me curiously, giggling and sniggering as I washed my hands in humiliation. 

No one dared to enter the newly vacated cubicle which had apparently become a bio-hazard site. I’m amazed nobody called the cops on me.

“So how was it?” queried Scotto as a pale and disturbed Pinky materialised after her lengthy absence.

“Not good Scotto, not good. Honesty is clearly not the best policy.”