Bathroom Humor Signs
And Now You Are One by Yaly
The Roach Motel the tension with him that there was with my mom. And Dad would take us on cool vacations: trips to the beach, camping in the mountains, and Thanksgiving in Colorado. I think my mom felt like she got the short end of the stick, and she did, looking back. My father walked out on their marriage, but ironically it was she who felt our wrath the most. It didn’t help that my sister and my father have the same minds. Mom couldn’t understand her. Dad could.
So when Mom tried to take us on vacation, it was only met with grumbling from us.
We complained as we put our backpacks in the ageing minivan, moaned when we told our friends we couldn’t come to the movies that weekend, and made sure she knew her destinations were less thrilling than Dad’s. A history buff, my mother loved trekking through rural towns in search of old ancestral homes or taking us to museums. At 16 and 13, this wasn’t our idea of fun.
When the family had been whole, we loved to go to the mountains in the fall to see the changing of colors of the leaves. It was one of our favorite times. Mom and Dad would set up camp while my sister and I would ride our bikes around the campsite. We’d go hiking in the woods, and Dad would walk ahead with my sister and hide in the bushes only to jump out at Mom and me screaming “Boo!” We made Smores and played Go-Fish by the light of the electric lantern. The mountains were happy memories for us.
So when Mom dragged us to Asheville, a small artsy college town on the Blue Ridge Parkway, we recalled the happier times and were somewhat willing. We packed a tent, a blowup mattress and a cooler full of food. Friday night we arrived in Asheville hungry and giddy. Mom splurged on a Caribbean restaurant where we stuffed ourselves fat before realizing the sun had gone down and we still had a tent to pitch. Mom had forgotten one thing, however: it was Memorial Day weekend and she hadn’t made reservations at a campsite.
We drove from campsite to campsite, our eyes getting droopier. At each stop, Mom would get out of the car to inquire about availability only to come back shaking her head in disbelief. Not a spot left! One of the site’s rangers had suggested that she pitch her tent in the woods. We started scanning the side of the road for somewhere promising. Then it started raining.
The Roach Motel is a perfect parallel to the mother-daughter dynamics in My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation.
I’m 16 and my sister has just turned 13. Two hormone-charged teenagers, a menopausal mother, and the worst cherry to top it all off: a divorce in the background. This was my mother’s home. We lived on the family farm, a 40-minute drive to school, which was also a 40-minute impediment to joining in on the social activities of our friends who lived in town. Our TV had six channels, which meant no MTV. This was no help to my artistic mother, who was trying to cope with the end of her 20-year marriage, one teenage daughter who was moody and absorbed with her budding social life, and another who was depressed and showed signs of ADD. Our home was a chaotic mes
With us in the back seat whining away, Mom finally caved and decided we would go to a motel. “We can’t afford anything nice though girls, so don’t get your hopes up,” she warned. Yet when she turned at the billboard advertising a $25 rate and featuring “Color TV” into a poorly-lit parking lot, we were sure she couldn’t be serious. But she got out of the car, pocketbook in hand, marched up to the exterior front desk, and pushed her credit card through a slot to an Indian woman sitting behind bullet-proof glass. As she crossed the parking lot back to the car, a raccoon darted out from the bushes and mom jumped. That was our first glimpse of her doubt. Yet she pressed on. “Come on girls,” she said with military determination.
The rusty room key opened the door to a smoky dump. The fluorescent lights flickered ominously, protesting our arrival. There were dead roaches on the floor, a concrete slab covered by thin, unraveling carpet. We pleaded with Mom not to make us stay there, that the car would be better, but she remained firm. Yet when she pulled back the shower curtain to take a shower, I think even she regretted her determination. Hairballs clogged the drain, and it was clear the bathroom hadn’t seen bleach in ages. Mom had to call the front desk for toilet paper. The Indian woman refused to leave her fort so our mother braved the raccoon crossing one more time to fetch it herself.
We were in Motel Hell.
I laid out my towel on the bedspread, shaking at the thought of what I was sleeping on. The sheets were stained, and at 16, I knew full well what went on in those beds. I tried not to imagine the sort of people who copulated in such a disgusting setting. We turned off the lights and listened to the cars on the highway, making small talk until sleep finally overcame us. When the sun came up, my sister and I got ready faster than we ever had since we discovered makeup and boys. Longing to put the motel behind us as quickly as we could, we made like that raccoon and hightailed it out of there.
Over breakfast, with the coffee starting to thaw our horror, we began giggling about the previous night’s adventure. We laughed at the number of dead roaches and made fun of Mom’s scream when she discovered the hairball in the drain. Our relief at having escaped the unsanitary room and survived our experience at the Roach Motel melted the tension. My sister and I forgot we were supposed to be teenage brats and relaxed into balancing spoons on our noses and making fart jokes. Mom booked us into a cleaner establishment for the rest of the weekend, and we had a good time exploring Asheville, indulging in cheesecake at coffee shops, and buying trinkets in hippie boutiques.
Our trips to the mountains have become a tradition, and now that we’re older, we all pitch in to help pay for a decent hotel room. My sister even gets an employee discount at a nice hotel chain, so our last trip to Asheville was a far cry from that weekend we slept in the Roach Motel. We’ve outgrown the fighting and bickering, and Mom no longer has to pull teeth to get us to do things with her. We’re happy to spend time together, especially since flying the coop has made those occasions a little rarer. Though you couldn’t pay me to spend another night in that dump of a motel, I am rather proud of us for toughing it out that night. I know that our weekend roughing it helped Mom realize that even though she couldn’t afford to treat us like my Dad did, she still had our love.
Author Bio: At the age of 6, Pelham’s mother sang “They’re Gonna Put Me in the Movies” to her–and the rest is history. A Performance Major Graduate from the College of Charleston’s School of the Arts, Pelham moved to Paris, where she appeared in My Bitchy Witchy Paris Vacation, Prodigy’s “Run with the Wolves” music video, and other roles. Under her stage name Plume de Paname, Pelham is a founding member of the Charleston, SC-based troupe, Ménage à Trois Burlesque. The troupe aims to bring back the glitz, glamour, and gritty humor of classic Burlesque entertainment.
The first thing that I thought when I saw you in the spotlight that had been aimed at my vagina was “holy shit, I gave birth to a statue!” But please remember that I was in extreme pain and had just found out that there was potentially something wrong with you. And, well, you were covered in white goo.
My second thought was, “holy shit, that baby is PISSED the fuck OFF!” It sounds indelicate, saying that about a brand new baby, but I assure you, my girl, you have the lung capacity and vocal control of someone who is going to either be an Olympic swimmer (providing you’re not physically gimpy like me) or an opera singer (providing your not singerly gimpy like me).
It was a good thing they’d put us in the back corner of the Labor and Delivery unit, or you’d have probably scared all of those women OUT of labor. THAT is how loud you were. Which, I can’t blame you for. Had I been removed from my comfortable aquatic home, I’d have been furious, too.
Your temper is legendary in our house, but so is your sweetness. While both of your brothers had first years on the planet that made my hair go grey and my hands trembly, you were sweetness and love.
And thunder of doom.
I think that combination will serve you well, actually. It’s always served me well.
I know as a mother, I’m supposed to be terrified of having a daughter. My own mother and I have a relationship that can at best be described as “complicated,” but with you, well, it’s just not. It will be perhaps, when you’re a surly teenager, but now it’s not.
I’m still proud to be able to say, “I have a daughter,” because I always figured it was my lot in life to have a mess of sons. To me, having a daughter was the holy grail. The pink light in a sea of sausages. I am so privileged, so unbelievably honored to have you as my own, that I
About the Author
Yaly a professianl writer , it provides the high quality products, such as China Sirens Alarms, GSM Dialers Manufacturer, Wireless Smoke Detectors, and many more.
restroom humor
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