Elaine Ambrose

Bestselling Author, Ventriloquist, & Humorist

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Don’t Take Photos in Public Restrooms

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Grocery shopping is at the top of my list of “Things Never to Do During Thanksgiving Week.” Of course, I seldom obey my own rules, so I was at the store on the afternoon before Thanksgiving squeezing my laden cart through the aisles full of intense people all in a mad frenzy to spend hundreds of dollars so they could work several hours to prepare food some guests wouldn’t like in order to give thanks.

I was half done with my long list when my body betrayed me as it usually does during stressful times. I had to go to the bathroom. I maneuvered my cart close to the restroom and parked it near the door, hoping no one would take the cans of water chestnuts because they were too difficult to find. In a hurry to finish my business and return to shopping, I accidentally dropped my precious list into the toilet.

Under normal circumstances, I would have flushed away my problems, but I needed that list. I still could read the words but didn’t want to reach in and pull out a soggy piece of paper, so I did the next best thing: I took a photograph on my cell phone. Yes, I did.

I continued shopping while focusing on the photo of the essential items. I found everything except a spice identified with a complicated name. I needed the spice for a new recipe. A busy store employee dashed by, and I grabbed his arm and showed him the photo on my phone.

“Do you know where I can find this?” I asked.

The employee stared at my phone and then at me and back at the phone.

“Do you need to find the restroom?” he asked, backing away.

I looked at my phone and there it was: a photo of a toilet bowl. Apparently, he assumed the floating list was used toilet paper. I stammered apologies and quickly pushed my cart to the next aisle, almost wiping out a senior citizen riding a travel scooter. I decided I didn’t want the spice with the fancy name.

While waiting in the checkout line, I frantically tried to delete the photo from my cell phone. Somehow in my flustered desperation, I accidentally posted it to my public Instagram Account. I regularly post photos to Instagram, so it was a natural habit.

“Oh, no!” I wailed. “I just showed my toilet on the Internet!”

As I was pounding the delete button on the now-public photo, a kind customer service representative came over and pushed my cart to a special checkout line. She spoke in a soothing voice usually reserved for manic shoppers in need of medication. I finally deleted the photo, paid for the groceries, and found my car. As I drove away, I waved farewell to the grocery store. I can never return.

Next time, I’ll chose a short shopping list.

The Water Chestnut Hoarder

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I’ve elevated the dubious label of compulsive hoarder to a new level above and beyond disheveled stacks of newspapers, precarious piles of unrecognizable clothes, and half-used tubes of anti-aging products that incorrectly promised to magically revitalize my skin’s youthful radiance and defy the aging process.

I collect cans of water chestnuts.

I love water chestnuts because they add a delightful crunch to tuna salad, chicken salad, green bean casserole, stir-fry meals, and stuffing. They’re also sinfully delicious wrapped in bacon and baked. As a health benefit, they are fat-free, (ignore the bacon grease), have low sodium, and there are only 14 calories in four water chestnuts. They do have significant amounts of potassium and carbohydrates, but it’s not like eating an entire banana cream pie. Save that for later.

So, what’s the problem? There are impossible to find in the grocery store. My cart automatically rolls to the aisles for wine, cookies, and other health foods, but the illusive chestnuts hide whenever I need them.

One evening before a holiday feast, I was frantically rummaging in the grocery store trying to find the last item on my list: water chestnuts. I had no luck in the canned vegetable aisles, in the produce section, or in the seasonal food display. I was confident they weren’t in the dairy or frozen food aisles, but looked anyway.

Desperate, I stood in the middle of the main aisle and shouted in my loudest outside voice, “Where are the water chestnuts?”

People froze. The jolly music stopped. A child cried and clung to her mother. I didn’t care.

A tired man appeared wearing a name tag that read, “Hi! I’m Todd. Can I help you?”

“Todd,” I exclaimed, grabbing his lapels, “I need water chestnuts. Now!”

Todd stepped back, smoothed his jacket, and nodded for me to follow him. Like a beacon of hope leading the lost and forlorn to the promised land, he maneuvered through the weary shoppers to a shelf containing cans of water chestnuts. They mocked me with their obvious placement in the oriental food section.

With profound gratitude and wild abandon, I scooped every can into my cart. I wasn’t concerned if anyone else wanted some. Todd disappeared, muttering to himself, and I ran the gauntlet to the checkout stand.

“Well, someone likes water chestnuts,” the young checker chirped as she counted two dozen cans. My twitching eye warned her to avoid further comments. I started to relax after arriving home and stacking all the cans into the pantry.

During the following weeks, I purchased several cases of water chestnuts. I often tiptoed into the pantry to see, touch, and count the precious little prizes. After opening and consuming the delightful morsels, I saved the empty cans because someday they could be valuable. I stored them beside my vintage coffee can collection.