And since the food and drinks were free, we know I stayed far longer than an hour….it should have been called “happy evening” or “happy 3 hours of indulgence.”
Does it get any better than that? Not for this girl. I headed to the bar for the happy hour, and wore one of my favorite dresses from the Liz Lange maternity collection.
I was ready to get my drink on in my comfy, flowy maternity dress.
I arrived at the bar and discovered I wasn’t the first one there, which was shocking, as I’m usually first in line for these types of things.
Someone saved me a seat right next to a bucket of beer, so I snagged it.
I ignored the suggestion that the perfect spot at the table for me would be next to the alcohol. I was sure it was just a coincidence.
We sat around and chatted as I drank the beer. However, although I like beer, my true love is vodka, and I didn’t feel comfortable cheating on him with beer, even if it was a Michelob Ultra.
I like to drink Michelob Ultra and pretend I’m one of the people in the commercial who drinks Mich. Ultra after biking or running, even though the only strenuous exercise I did was walk briskly to the bar.
Either way, I worked up a sweat.
Although I enjoyed daydreaming of an alternate lifestyle where I chose clothes based on their cuteness and not on their ability to hide my flabby arms, I decided I had enough Mich. Ultra and wanted to switch to my true love…vodka.
I made the switch and wasn’t sorry. Soon, the drinks were flowing like water and I was relaxing after a long week.
I walked over to speak to a friend when I looked down at the table and saw there was a plate of mozzarella sticks sitting on the table in all their glory.
I decided to punish the owners of the food by devouring the fried cheese. It was the best way to teach them a lesson. I put away the remainder of the mozzarella sticks, and casually walked away.
As if everyone in the bar couldn’t figure out that the stumbling girl in the maternity dress just downed the rest of the fried food.
Like it took Nancy Drew to solve that mystery. The fact that I dropped marinara sauce on my dress also didn’t help.
After refreshing my drink, I realized I had been drinking for a few hours and hadn’t used the restroom yet.
I was a firm believer in not “breaking the seal” but I was getting a little uncomfortable, so I made the decision to use the restroom.
I walked into the restroom and saw there were two stalls. The large stall was occupied, hopefully not by the person whose cheese sticks I stole. I took the smaller stall.
I realize I’m a larger gal (despite my ingestion of Michelob Ultra), but when I entered the stall, I couldn’t turn around and close the door, as the space between the toilet and the door could have easily fit in my purse.
Only a contortionist would be able to easily maneuver between the door and the toilet, and although I pride myself on being able to put my legs behind my head, that wasn’t the type of skill needed here.
As the woman in the other stall appeared to be drafting a novel in there, as a peek under the stall suggested she was setting up camp for the evening, I knew I had to make the small stall work.
I re-entered the shoe box and immediately moved myself as close to the toilet as possible without making contact with it.
I used my left hand and reached behind me to shut the door, doing everything I could not to dislocate my shoulder. When I heard the door shut, I turned around and realized I successfully closed myself into the stall.
I did a small celebratory dance, but was then immediately reminded of why I was in the restroom in the first place.
Apparently, in my attempt to maneuver inside the stall, somehow my flowy dressed managed to land in the toilet.
Yes…the bottom left side of my dress had dunked in the toilet and was dripping toilet water from a bar all over my leg.
I muffled a scream and immediately looked at the toilet to see if the water was “clean” or a remnant of a drunk patron.
Fortunately, the water appeared to be clean, although I certainly wouldn’t want to drink it, and definitely didn’t want it dripping on my leg.
I was so repulsed so I wrung it out to get the dripping to stop. However, in my vodka haze, I didn’t think to wring out the dress over the toilet. Rather, I did so exactly where I was standing.
It made a loud sound and water began spilling on the floor, running out of the stall and into the main area of the bathroom.
I was horrified and standing in toilet water.
I walked carefully out of the stall and disinfected my hands in an effort to remove some of the germs that most likely contained vomit from the last night’s drunk girls.
I also moved quickly, as I didn’t want the woman in the other stall to come out and see my face, although I’m pretty sure she would be able to identify me in the bar since I had a soaking wet dress.
I exited the restroom, trying to look normal, as if I hadn’t just dunked my dress in a cesspool of fecal germs. I located my husband and told him we needed to go.
He knew something was up, as I don’t typically leave events early when there are free food and drinks.
He knew something disastrous had happened. I quietly told him of the melee in the restroom and pointed to my dripping dress and the line of water I left from the bathroom to where I was standing.
Surprisingly, my husband didn’t respond with shock or dismay at my story, but rather responded with “Of course you did” and proceeded to say his goodbyes to everyone.
We quickly left the bar before someone could piece together the trail of water and my sopping wet dress.
We headed home where I threw the dress into the washing machine with approximately a gallon of detergent. I debated burning it, but determined the dress was too cute for such drastic measures.
I wanted to change and go back to the bar but knew that wasn’t in the cards. I comforted myself by making a box of Kraft Mac and Cheese.
The faux cheesy goodness alleviated some of my disappointment, although some remained.
I did learn a valuable lesson that night…if I want to wear a flowy dress to a bar, I need to be more careful about not dunking it in the toilet.
Normally, one would think that lesson would go without saying, but in my little world, these things are normally learned the hard way.