So I overflowed the toilet.
Stupid Ramada crapper has four ounces of water in the bowl but four gallons in the tank. It didn’t push my recycled Longhorn Steakhouse meal through quite fast enough and overflowed. (Only clean water, thankfully.) Long story short: the bathroom now looks like the shower scene from Planes, Trains and Automobiles. I’m John Candy, and poor Mikey is Steve Martin. At least I saved us a couple shower towels.
No, I didn’t call maintenance. Brian no doubt remembers how that went in Atlanta in ’99. I’d rather you all laugh at me instead.
I have no doubt this is karmic payback for my snicker when yesterday’s fat woman asked a baggage thrower if her little bag would fit in the overhead compartment and he instead looked at her enormous hips and raised an eyebrow. Or for when I said a silent prayer to every god I could think of that she didn’t sit next to me. Or for when she and I got stopped on the little bridge thing spanning the gap between the causeway and the plane, I felt it tilting beneath my feet, and I calmly stepped back in case she took it overboard.
Hmm. That’s three inappropriate moments. I guess the crapper at the next hotel tonight is in for a wild ride.