You know it's bad when the restroom's the nicest part of your store

The other day I decided to extend my search for Halloween decorations to a well-known big box style craft store. It was located in a fairly decent part of town, so I was absolutely caught off guard by the completely depressing condition of the store.

Walking in the front doors, the sadness was palpable. It only took me a few steps into the aisles and a weird encounter with a confused old lady, that I could've sworn had a cart full of dead cats, to realize I had made a mistake.  You could've cut the despair in the store with a knife. Right about the time I was ready to call this particular adventure over, Camden tells me he has to go potty. So I thought, okay Dan, looks like we're going to kick this situation up a notch. Because nothing turns up the volume on a potentially bad situation like taking a child to a public restroom.

Now, I didn't want to go wandering around the store any more than I had to, so I asked the nice lady at the checkout with the tattoo of a tear drop under her eye and some kind of dragon on her neck if she could point me in the direction of closest men's room. She was very helpful which was off putting for some strange reason. It was like the one thing that didn't match in this situation, and it messed with my head a little.

Equipped with the location of the restrooms, I parked the cart by the giant pallet of off-brand mayonnaise nearby and headed into the men's room with Camden in my arms. Upon opening the door I, as they say, hoped for the best but prepared for the worst. Much to my delight it wasn't terrible. There was only one stall but thankfully it wasn't occupied.

Let me give you a quick rundown of the amenities. It had everything on a hobos checklist including, running water, soap, and a flushing toilet. There was not one but two toilet brushes, a giant fake plant situated in front of an empty paper towel dispenser, and a stall door with no locking mechanism. I must note here that the toilet wasn't bad. It was clean and in fine working condition.

So I sat Camden down on a nest of toilet paper and he did his business which luckily was your basic number one. Then it was my turn. I figured I'd go real quick while we were at it.

As soon as I had my situation on cruise control, I turned to check on Camden right as he was reaching for one of the toilet brushes--and not the handle part. He was reaching for the bristles and he was only centimeters away when I saw him.

And a curious thing happened at that moment. Before actually pushing out the words "Don't touch that," I began thinking about how I could help him overcome having a hook for a hand. They say in intense moments people report time slowing down. Well this was definitely my experience, for everything but my thoughts. I imagined the filth of that toilet brush. Then I pictured poor little hook-handed Camden playing with his toys, all while he continued, in slow motion, to get closer to that toilet brush.

Somehow I managed to form the words I needed and stopped him just in time. And he just looked at me without a clue as to why dad was all of sudden covered in flop sweat. I closed up shop with myself as quickly as I could then we washed our hands and air dried them as best we could before making our way directly to the store's exit.

As we walked to the car, I noticed wet sprinkles on the front of my shorts which I hoped were from air drying our hands and not collateral damage from having to deal with the toilet brush incident midstream. Nonetheless, we made it out of there without the gifts of a used toilet brush and have agreed to never speak of those events again. Okay, except maybe for this and if anyone asks about it.