Over the weekend I posted the following on my Facebook status:
Boyfriend got drooled on yesterday by severely handicapped man while waiting in line.
I also Twittered about it – in not so many words because Twitter is funny about word count. (Well actually character count but, well, who’s counting?)
All that to say that I’ve received quite a few inquiries about the drooling episode so here’s the story . . .
On Saturday the sky decided to swallow its clouds whole and give us a much anticipated sunny day. (Anyone who lives in or around Montreal knows what I’m talking about.)
The day began with us getting excited about the little things that the sun does bringeth. Like finally (as in FINALLY!) being able to wear flip flops this year.
Naturally, the sun also inspired us to “play” in the yard, which always first deserves a visit to the garden store. You know. For plants and stuff.
If there’s one thing I can say about Greg and I it’s that we’re both “efficient shoppers”. No matter what we’re shopping for, we walk in with a mission. We know what we want, find it, pay for it and leave.
And everything was going according to plan in the garden store until we got in line to pay for our stuff. The person in front of us decided that she was going to take advantage of her time at the cash to ask every fricken question she could think of. At first Greg was just annoyed. But 20 minutes later when Miss “and when should I water them?” was still asking questions, Greg’s impatience escalated to . . . can you say “skyscraper”?
I was actually surprised at how pissed off he got. And when I say “surprised”, I mean I was embarrassed. Yes. I was embarrassed at my boyfriend’s blatant intolerance. It wasn’t until we got to the car that I found out what had really set him off.
Back to line . . .
Standing behind us was a mother and her severely mentally handicapped son – an early 20-ish man who wouldn’t stop saying, “big bobo, big bobo . . .big bobo . . .”
I had noticed them when they first pulled up behind us in line but then didn’t glance back because I didn’t want to be rude. This mother had obviously had her fill of shopping with her charge (he was a handful) and he wore a bandana around his neck – loosely – serving as a bib for the mother to wipe the thick drool that incessantly hung from his face. Did I mention thick? The one time that I did glance at the pair, his drool was hanging down in a thick line of gob, about eight inches from his face to his mid chest area. Yeah. Gross.
When Greg and I finally got to our car he let out his suppressed disgust; at which point I found out exactly why he was so . . . um, annoyed. Turns out the mentally challenged man’s long line of drool had landed on Greg’s foot. And yes, this being our first flip flop day of the year, the mucous fell on his exposed skin. (Did I mention that Greg is a bit of a germ-aphobe?)
And this is why I love Greg. Because honestly, who else does shit like this happen to on a consistent basis?
I don’t think I need to mention that when we got home, the first thing he did was run up into the bathroom. To wash his foot.