Back in the day, we (i.e. the four kids + dad) used to have a cuss can in which we were to deposit one quarter for every time we said an impolite word. Though, technically, we should have been able to collect enough to pay for at least three college tuitions, I doubt we had enough for even a Diet Mountain Dew. For those gimmicks to be effective, you first have to have a) a ‘shit’ sheriff to keep the peace; b) some way to enforce it; and c) people who actually give a damn (whoops). Still, had we our little can o’ cuss now, I think we (especially senor Craig) would all be depositing our entire life sayings, for there’s nothing like having two people diagnosed with aggressive cancer to bring out the ol’ sailor mouth (or at the very least, a whole bunch of Jeez Louises). Call me old fashioned, but sometimes a good ol’ ‘f-ing-A people’ is needed, if only to take the edge off.
Take yesterday, for instance. To celebrate Mother’s Day, we took mom to her favorite restaurant (which is located in Tulsa). The drive up went well; mom seemed to handle the bumps and turns sans nausea. As we pulled into the packed parking lot, we had dad jump out and put our name on the list. The hostess assured us that it’d be a 20 minute wait – not too bad for Mother’s Day. So, D and I helped mom out of the backseat and into the wheelchair – now a two person job – and headed for the restaurant. We had to weave around tables and pint-sized toddlers but finally made it to the front door.
And so began the nightmare de Los Cabos. First, the customers wouldn’t give way to mom; I had to laugh when, as someone (I think Diane) held the door for mom to go through, at least ten able bodied folk cut in. Classy. Then after squeezing mom into the entrance way, we had to work our way through narrow aisles and around pulled out chairs just to reach the women’s bathroom. Mom, Diane, and I then had to squeeze into a small handicap stall, which was handicap in name only as it lacked not only a handrail, but a proper seatback. Oooooh, get ready with the quarters… Would it kill someone to put in an f-ing handrail in the handicap bathroom? And why not splurge on an extra two feet and an f-ing Kohler flip-top? As Diane said yesterday, it was like we were doing Cirque Du Soleil just to get mom on the toilet, never mind the wiping, changing, and transferring. Doing a few modifications would sure as heck be cheaper than a personal injury lawsuit, just sayin’ people.
After the bathroom, we weaved back through the aisles to the front entrance where we proceeded to block traffic for the next 20 minutes. Hello, fire hazard (actually the police did arrive later in the evening, but for what, we’re not sure). They called us up to the hostess booth three times, only to be sent away due to some error. Finally, they found a table outside and near the bar, which was the equivalent of sitting us near the kitchen. They treated mom (and us) as if she was the first wheelchair bound patron they’d ever had to ‘deal’ with. So perturbed was I about the bathroom that I asked to speak to the manager (this was before being seated). I pleasantly mentioned to him that it would make the world of difference to a disabled person if they could install handrails and seatbacks for all their handicap stalls. He pulled out a piece of paper and dutifully wrote my comments down -- we’ll see if they actually do anything. I figure, it’d be easy to stay quiet, but I’d hate for another family to have to go through a similar ordeal, when the fix is so simple.
The lack of handrails and adequate toilets serve as subliminal messages that the world is for able people only -- people with special needs should stop being selfish and stay within the safey and comfort of their own homes. With all our technology, evidence-based design, blah, blah, blah, it’s impressive how unfriendly the U.S. is to the disabled. And the list is long: streets are rocky; sidewalks are uneven; doors are too narrow; and bathrooms, well …sh*t.
After dinner, and thankfully, an easier bathroom run, we said adios and f- you to Los Cabos, promising ourselves that it’d be a long time before we’d come again (or at least long enough for them to install the damn handrails…we sure do like their queso). Aw, but here’s the kicker. About ten minutes into our drive, we noticed a strange beeping coming from the passenger side. We searched our cell phones to see if it was perhaps a dead battery. Nope. We had run off with their pager. Take that a-holes … and add another quarter to the can. -- J
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