Emerging from behind a car while pulling up her lacy black undies, she spotted my plastic tiara that looked stolen from a 10-year-old’s princess-themed party.
“Happy birthday!” she proclaimed, though her panties were still not quite in place underneath her miniskirt.
“Uh, it’s not my birthday, but thank you,” I replied and tried explaining that I had just left the Queen of Clubs event at Blush, hence the tiara. With a blank look on her face, she teetered in her stilettos, her posse of guys and gals seeming not to notice — or care — that she had just popped a squat and relieved herself in the Wynn parking garage.
The parking garage pee-er still didn’t seem to have all her garments in place, but keept on smiling and shouting “Happy Birthday!”
This made me want to befriend her, for some reason.
If I hadn’t been heading to a hot 4 a.m. breakfast/dinner date at Denny’s (shut up, I was starving), I actually might have stuck around and chatted with this charmingly shameless creature and her buddies. Were they drunk tourists? Locals with inexplicably small bladders? Kinky exhibitionists with urolagnia fetishes? Or was the restroom just too friggin’ far away?
I’m sure it was the latter. I’ll admit I was once that girl, minus drawing attention to myself while capitulating to my bladder.
If memory serves me correctly (and it often doesn’t), sometime during my 21st year on Earth I was hustling through the MGM parking garage when it happened. You know, that hike that feels like a mile just from the car to the entrance to the shops. During a night of club hopping, I neglected to use the little Deanna’s room before leaving... Curve, I think (where Privé is now). My friends were already waiting outside Studio 54’s entrance (an even longer hike, especially in heels).
I had to piddle.
Booking it in pumps and a skirt is no easy feat, and on a busy weekend night, parking was scarce and available spots were near BFE and Timbuktu.
Walking turned to a brisk scamper, giving way to full-on running on my tippy-toes until... I couldn’t take it anymore.
With no time to duck behind a car — and thankfully no people in sight — I dropped my drawers right on that metal flooring near the escalator.
It wasn’t until that comforting feeling of relief that I hadn’t pissed myself and sense of urgency had passed that I noticed a security camera directly overhead. Frick.
Though casino staff never came after me (they were probably too busy laughing), I’m pretty sure there’s an archive somewhere of the greatest MGM security-tape highlights and me with my nylons around my ankles is a starring attraction.
(I’ve also had an emergency pee on an ex-boyfriend’s front lawn, but that’s another story.)
Which brings me back to Tuesday night.
I was in the same predicament as lace-panties-Wynn-parking-lot by the time I got to my dining destination only to find the 24-hour Denny’s was “closed for repairs.” WTF?!? I fought the urge to duck ‘round the corner and water a cactus and managed to hold it until arriving at the backup breakfast stop, Blueberry Hill (remember, it’s 4 a.m. and Blueberry Hill's breakfast rocks). I’m sure the cop dining by himself raised his eyebrows as I scurried through the restaurant in 4-inch heels, but you have to be used to these things in 24/7 establishments.
It was a close one to be sure, but I refrained from raining on the asphalt. For the sake of the Wynn – and other Strip resorts’- parking lot, perhaps Port-a-Potties should be installed for emergencies when the walk from car to commode is just too long. As long as people keep it to just piddling, I won’t judge.