The night before I had Henry, we hit up a nice seafood restaurant with my family. (Screw eggplant. Apparently salmon induces labor.)
My sister, PK, had to use the restroom, so she asked the waiter where it was located and he motioned toward the back of the restaurant.
When she arrived at the women’s room, the door was closed and locked. Apparently there was only one stall.
PK waited. And waited. And waited.
After five minutes, she softly knocked twice to indicate she meant business.
A woman answered in an angry bellow.
“There’s a bathroom on the first floor,” she snarled.
PK was stunned. The wildebeest behind the door was clearly annoyed. Had she done something wrong? Wasn’t knocking common etiquette among people waiting to use the john? She hadn’t banged on the door. Oddly, she felt like she should apologize. But for what?
The woman bellowed again.
“I’d use the bathroom on the first floor if I were you,” she grunted. “I’m gonna be here a while.”
