It seems like the caliber of friends I’ve met through blogging is a lot higher than the friends I have in person. That’s the best part of blogging, really – the people. All my friends want to talk about in person is their marriage, kids, work, or how long it took their mother to shovel all the snow off her balcony in Maine so Fido can get out to poop in case it’s urgent. Blah blah blah blah blah. Enough is enough already! For the love of God – no more. I’d rather hang out with the majority of fellow bloggers I’ve talked to over my friends in person. Crazy, right? (Hey… I’ve given y’all fair warning that I’m weird.)
Well, I’m finally getting back to sharing guest posts that I’ve been slacking on lately. And, don’t worry – this blogger is a lot funnier than my friends in real life. So, you’re welcome. Make sure you’re you visit Lady Dickson on her blog. She is piss-your-pants-funny. Or diaper. Don’t worry… this is a judgment-free zone so we embrace all differences.
Let’s get on with it then:
In 2013, my husband and I went on a 6 month tour of Europe. On our stop in Portugal, we decided “hey, let’s go to Morocco since it’s right there” and off to Morocco we did. Gotta love last minute decisions like that. Here’s the thing, I’ve been to third world. I went to Thailand in 2008 and it was a friggin blast. But this seemed like a completely different kind of third world. Whilst in Thailand, I could use the public bathrooms whenever I wanted without paying. Coming over to Morocco, and a lot of Europe I might add, I had to start paying to urinate.
What the fuck is this nonsense. I ate your food, I drank your water, I paid my bill, and now you want me to pay to extract all dis bidniz you supplied out of my body? That shit cray.
Naturally, as I am not used to doing so, I forget to bring my change purse with me to the bathroom of this one rooftop restaurant located in the centre of Marrakesh. Thankfully, there was no one on guard to give money to so I figured this was a rare free washroom. SCORE. I know where I’m coming from now on to drop trou.
During my healthy dump, I hear a woman screaming at someone in Arabic and think “oh man, I would hate to get yelled at in a language I don’t know.” Turns out, she was yelling at me but I was completely clueless of it. The second I stepped out of the stall, she was all up in my grill pointing at her dish beside the door. Naturally, I looked like a deer caught in headlights and threw my hands in air and kept repeating “I don’t know what you’re saying…” Obviously, I needed to leave some money in the dish beside the door.
Now I had to somehow tell her I don’t have money on me.
Me: I don’t have any money on me.
Woman yelling in Arabic.
Me: I don’t….have any…money on me. *flipping my pockets inside out*
Woman yelling in Arabic.
Me: Not…sure where to go from here.
So I just try to leave but she barricades herself against the door. Perfect, this is going well. I just fold my arms, look at her, and tap my foot on the ground. With how long this is taking, my husband must be thinking I am murdering this toilet.
Finally, I had enough of this. I started screaming my husbands name in a zero percent passionate way. I mean, this was not the womans fault. Some white chick who doesn’t know how to follow the rules popped a squat all willy nilly and girlfriend needs to get PAID. I was willing to pay her, I JUST NEEDED MY GODDAMN COIN PURSE.
After screaming my husbands name for about a minute, she finally gives in. She moves out of the way and lets me out of the bathroom. As I’m leaving, she starts yelling at me again and I just sprint up the stairs to the roof, grab my husband and we gone.
My coin purse never left my side after that..
Right before the hostage shituation.