I'm a Target girl.
However, each year, we make one pilgrimage to the the big blue box store (against my better judgement, kicking and screaming), where we stock up on supplies for our annual summer picnic. Is saving $1.00 on paper towels worth it?
Jury's still out.
So there we were, shopping alongside people who were wearing pajamas at 5pm on a Sunday.
Halfway through the trip I went to the ladies' room. I was at the sink washing my hands for the third time (if I could have taken a shower I would have) when a woman, a little girl who couldn't have been more than 3 or 4, and a little boy who was probably 5 or 6 walk in. The woman plops the little girl onto the toilet in one of the stalls and stands in the open doorway.
The little girl is chattering away, as little girls do. I'm vigorously rubbing my hands under the dryer.
And then I hear this:
GIRL: "There's poopie on the floor!"
I turn to look (if you don't turn and look after hearing an exclamation like that you are made of stone, people), and there – on the floor next to the toilet – is a little poop nugget, about the size of an olive.
WOMAN: (matter-of-fact) "There is poopie on the floor."
Because, hey, we see this stuff everyday, right?
GIRL: "That's MY poopie! It slipped out!"
At this point, my hands are dry, but I'm still standing there, staring at the dryer. Must. not. look. at. poop. or. crazy. family.
It was my cue to leave, and on the way out I hear this:
WOMAN: "That's your poopie? Oh, man, now we have to wipe your bum."
And, you know, clean up the poop on the floor.
Which I'm doubting happened.