My childhood home is old and seriously tiny. At less than 800 square feet, it’s amazing that my parents could raise three children there and remain sane. The most important thing to know about my mom’s house is that you had to walk through my parent’s bedroom to get to the bathroom (AND the light switch for it was in my parent’s bedroom).
There is a Quik-Trip up the street from my mom’s house. It’s been there since I was about 12. Because you had to walk through Mom and Dad’s room to get to the bathroom, we’d try to go to the bathroom at Quik-Trip before going home. It never worked. I swear on all that is good and right that the minute I hit the door, I had to pee like I hadn’t gone in hours and had just consumed 48 ounces of Mountain Dew.
This meant that you were guaranteed to have Dad know, not only what time you walked in, but also your condition. You see, not finding the light switch, giggling, and acting stupid would all mean that the next morning (who am I kidding, 3 hours from NOW), you’d be listening to Marty Robbins singing “El Paso” and Dad telling you to get up to mow the lawn (or some other heinous chore).
Nothing says love like torture.