San Francisco, 1st March 2012
Happened to hear about the cement slides at Seward Street and was intrigued by it. Since I was in San Francisco and it was (relatively) easy to get to, I thought why not?
It seems like around the states, or at least in the Bay Area, there are always warning signs at children’s playgrounds that assert that the playground is for kids only. Either that, or no adults allowed unless accompanied by children. I hated that rule, because they have awesome playgrounds.
When I reached the slides, the same sign was there – but I ignored it.
At the top of the world, uh, slide.
The slides looked awesome. It just happened to be incredibly dirty. A huge pile of soil lingered at the base of the slide, and the slide in general seemed to also be covered in a layer of sand/soil/whatever. But damn, it’s a magnificent slide. Unlike those plastic colourful thingamajigs we have these days.
Standing at the top of the slide, I suddenly felt a bit daring. Not wanting to dirty my pants (I only had 4 pairs of pants for an 18 day trip and I did not want to bother with laundry), I decided to make my way down on my feet. After taking a few steps, I decided it was relatively easy and continued on.
The next thing I knew, I was stuck.
The rest of the slide in front of me was horribly steep (think a 60 degree elevation downwards). I couldn’t climb out of the slide either because it was darn difficult to (the pavements next to the slides were steep and slippery) and … it’s much easier to make one’s way down a slide than up a slide, isn’t it?
Dawdled for several minutes, with my buddy Jesslyn helpfully laughing away at the top of the slides. Eventually decided that the best way out was down.
Clinging on to the side of the slides for my dear life, I attempted to descend the 60 degree steep remainder of the slides. I could feel myself slipping, so I gripped on harder … but it wasn’t enough.
Because the next thing I knew, my feet slipped out from under me and I fell hard on my butt, whooshed down the rest of the slide at top speed and landed straight into the pile of soil.
Only injury sustained was a small layer (or two) of skin ripped from my left hand and a bruise to my ego. Oh, and very dirty pants.
NOW I know why those “no adults” signs are there.
I hate how nature always calls me at the wrong time.
A sudden tummy ache in the afternoon sent me rushing to the toilet. I was initially pretty glad that the public toilet wasn’t too far away from the cafe I was hanging out at.
Until I saw the queue. Only 6 stalls, and 10 people in line.
Do the math. At any one time, there would be at least 1 person taking an epic shit, leaving only 5 stalls usable. So it would take at least two complete turnovers of the remaining toilet stalls to cater to the 10 people in line.
So I waited. 10 minutes later, it was my turn.
I dashed into one cubicle, realized there wasn’t any toilet paper and promptly dashed out.
The next person in line gave me a look.
Another cubicle was vacated seconds later. I dashed in again … only to find that there wasn’t any toilet paper in that cubicle either.
So I dashed out again.
The next person began to look even more annoyed. I began to panic.
At that moment, I really felt as if I was Indiana Jones in search for the illusive dead sea scrolls. Where the heck was all the toilet paper?!
Cartoon credit to FunnyTimes.
Another stall vacated … but it was the type of loo that required you to squat. (And who likes squatting when taking an epic shit?!)
But woweeeee, there IS toilet paper!
So I dashed in, grabbed a handful of toilet paper, dashed out (and past the next person in line whose expression was now a mixture of confusion and frustration) and ran into one of the stalls (without toilet paper) that was vacated earlier.
Then I looked down at my hands at realized that the toilet paper I’ve grabbed wasn’t enough. Uh oh.
At that point in time, the janitor had magically appeared and was in the midst of refilling the toilet paper supply in all the other toilet cubicles. It was perfectly audible. The rustling of the plastic bag containing several rolls of precious toilet paper. Oh, how I needed them! Not to mention that stealth was not the middle name of this janitor, who was slamming the lids of each toilet roll holder after she was done refilling them. (I could feel the walls of my cubicle vibrate. -.-)
A coupla’ minutes later, I knew that she had topped up the toilet roll for all the other five stalls … except mine.
And she was lingering around outside waiting for my cubicle to be vacated.
Stupid Murphy’s law. Why wasn’t the toilet paper there when I need it?! And when it’s finally available, it’s completely out of my reach?! OMGAHHHH.
A young woman and her kid entered the stall on the left of mine, and a flurry of activity could be heard as the kid and her mom engaged in energetic banter (over the sound of running pee).
I swallowed my pride and gently knocked on the wall next to me.
“Um, hullo! Is anyone there?” I called out.
Thankfully, the woman responded. And she passed me generous portions of toilet paper through the gap between the floor and the artificial wall separating us. I couldn’t thank her enough.
Subsequently, I timed my exit … ensuring that the woman and her kid were well out of that public toilet before I left my cubicle.
I walked out and came straight face to face with the janitor’s stony expression. Golly, I totally have no idea how long she’s been waiting there.
Awkward moment, it was.
The next time I take an epic shit, it will be on my own house.
Cartoon credit to ToonPool.
I really hope you guys weren’t chomping on anything – especially anything chocolate-y – while reading this post. Oh, well. I should have warned you beforehand, shouldn’t I? But it’s more fun if I didn’t. (;
Picture the scene. Mum and I are seated in my immunologist’s clinic while the former constantly badgers the (slightly overwhelmed-looking) doctor regarding the side effects I have from the immunosuppressants I take regularly.
“Oh yeah, and one more thing,” mum continues.
The immunologist looks at her.
“Why is Brenda getting hairier? Look at her arms! The hair is getting longer! Is this caused by the medicine too?”
The immunologist looks at me. I simply shrugged and give him my usual ‘mum’s worrying too much again‘ look like I always do when she goes about her usual habit of bombarding him with endless questions every visit.
“Well, yeah. It is caused by the medicine,” the immunologist says. “But, is it any cause of concern to you, Brenda?”
“Well, no!” says I.
“I like being hairy. It keeps me nice, warm and fluffy.”
The expression on my immunologist’s face at that moment was epic. From that moment, I think he’s quite convinced that he’s dealing with a loon instead of a patient with autoimmune problems.
And no, I wasn’t being sarcastic. That’s actually 50% truth. I quite like being hairy … definitely not for the ‘nice and fluffy’ part, but well … it does keep me warmer than usual.