Confessions from The Farm Chicks Show

For the past couple of years my girlfriend and I have treated ourselves to a ladies weekend…a getaway to the faraway land of Spokane, Washington, where the junk abounds. This magical place is called The Farm Chicks Show. It’s a place for us to shop hundreds of vendors’ vintage and handmade goods that we haul back to beautify our homes. It’s a place where for just a little while, I am not required to be responsible for anyone but myself. No cries from the throne to wipe booties, no breaking up fights, and for once, I am actually not the driver of the cab. It’s relaxing, and fun. It’s being carefree and catching up with other adults-without interruptions! And as wonderful as it is, my friend and I decided not to go this year.


So, in lieu of The Farm Chicks Show 2013, I have not but a recounting of events and treasures; rather, a story of admission if you will, from a previous show. Embarrassing as it may be, it is part of my past that brings back both humiliation and gut wrenching laughter…still…to this day. And so, after years of holding onto this little ditty, I have decided to share it with you. I mean, hey, if The Pioneer Woman, Ree Drummond can belch the ABC’s and still have a huge fan base and successful career (which I find awesome by the way-that she isn’t afraid to be herself), I too should be able to tell less than flattering stories right? So as you read, please keep in mind, we are all human. 

It was June 2011, and our first night in Spokane. We had driven all day, and were anxiously anticipating the next day’s events. After treating ourselves to a wonderful dinner at Chaps, we returned to our hotel lounge. The entertainment for the evening was that of an 80’s Butt Rock Band. You know the scene…lots of hairspray, mullets, and skinny jeans. While I’m sure they were a great band ;-) it wasn’t exactly the way we had hoped to spend our precious time away. So we finished our drinks and decided to call a cab.


 Look out Spokane!

Unfamiliar with the city, we bounced from bar to bar  establishment to establishment, in search of a place where we felt comfortable. Along our quest, we found what was likely the local “college hang out” (much too young), gothic convention (dark and intimidating), and gay bar (oops, completely out of place). While none of these places offered the ambiance we were looking for, they did all offer at least one drink before we decided to move on (because let’s face it, it’s rude to walk in, look around and walk out). By now, it’s safe to say that we have both had way more to drink than either of us are used to consuming. Maybe it was due to walking blocks upon blocks, but at that point, we seemed fine. Fine, until we finally found a place that was a little bit more our pace. I will spare the rest of the details of the night, and leave you with your imagination. What I will tell you is that we ended up feeling less than parr the following morning.

Beeeeeep! Beeeeeep! Beeeeeep!

Saturday morning came so early. And while neither of us felt like dragging ourselves out of bed…we had come a long way for this, and we were not going to miss it! I remember saying, “Just push through it, and it will be okay.” WRONG. While we did “push through it”, everything was not okay. We had made a big mistake, and we were paying for it. As if the experience of feeling too old to be “out” the night before weren’t bad enough, I am now also experience first-hand, all of the reasons why I am also physically too old for such shenanigans. In the words of my friend Winnie the Pooh, I had a “rumbly in my tumbly!” I remember thinking that if I could just go to the bathroom I could rid myself of the toxins I’d introduced to my stomach the night prior, thus ridding myself of the horrendous belly discomfort that was constantly nagging at me as I attempted to shop among thousands of others. Finally, we decided to make our way to the women’s restroom, and that is when it happened.

I peered down the lengthy row of closed stall doors, awaiting my turn. I remember thinking that I was pleased to find such a spacious bathroom, because if my trip to the ladies room was a success, it would be less likely that anyone (with the exception of the gal who used my stall when I was done-and to her, I am sorry) would be able to identify me as the culprit of the offensive aroma. Finally, a door swung open, and I made my way to the vacant stall. Now, here is where I have to add in that I first took note of the toilets pre existing condition. The water level seemed to be a tad higher than it should have been, and it immediately raised a red flag. However, given my current mental state and the length of line behind me, I made the regretful decision to carry on. I covered the toilet, perched, and waited…nothing. Well, not much anyway. A little, but let’s not go into details on the specifics. Unsatisfied with the outcome, I stood, pulled up my pants and flushed. What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion before me. Remember that “higher than normal” water level? Well, it began to rise, higher and higher and higher, until it had reached the cusp. Water was now spilling over the edge, as I stood frozen, watching the toilet paper and the remains of my feeble attempt at a bowl movement swirling about. "Dear God, I am so sorry for my immature behavior and excessive drinking last night. Please, please, pa-lease don’t let the kids go over the waterfall of toilet water onto the floor for all to see." Water was now surrounding the ground beneath my feet, and making its way under the stall door in search of a drain. Thankfully, my prayers were heard…or maybe I finally found the courage to move and turned off the water supply, but nonetheless, water was the only thing spilling out of the toilet. Okay, good. That’s taken care of. A sigh of relief comes over me and as the reality of what has just happened sinks in I can’t decide rather I should panic or burst out in laughter. My decision making process is then interrupted by the sounds of passerby. “Ewww, gross”, I can hear them shrill as they painstakingly lift their feet like flamingos and cross through the mess I have just created. Now what? Oh crap! I now somehow have to walk out of this stall at some point and time. “They don’t know you, Lindsey. Just put your big girl panties on and deal with it. You can do this.” After my internal pep talk was finished, I opened the door, walked out, and shutting the door behind me, my eyes fell upon my friend, patiently waiting for me. All I could manage was a fair warning, “You might not want to go in there!”