People, let us talk frankly about the bathroom at Noshville. I was in there with a Southern Woman of a Certain Age, seemingly of a Certain Class. You know the type I mean, small, impeccably put-together, can probably tell fake pearls at 50 paces, the kind of woman who has elevated “Oh, dear” into a lethal weapon?
And she and I were both in agreement that someone needs to take a sledgehammer to that bathroom. It’s huge, so why is each stall so tiny? Why are all the coat hooks broken? What are those weird little fake paper towels right by the door? Why does the toilet shoot water at you after it’s flushed?
Is it ill-conceived on purpose?
Why don’t they remodel?
Anyway, lunch with the Professor otherwise was delightful. She just knows some shit I have no idea about. I’m like “Let me tell you about weird situation ‘x’!” and she’s like “Oh, yeah, that’s not that weird. Here’s what’s going on.” And she knows! Plus, it’s good to have friends who make you laugh.
And the weather! It’s like July out there.