Yesterday it was publicly announced that a man with the same first and last name as my brother-in-law Andrew, from the same hometown, had died (may he rest in peace).
Later that day, a high school classmate of Andrew’s posted on Facebook to confirm that the person who died was not, in fact, my brother in law.
I would like to begin this story by apologizing to God. The God of any and all religions. Because not only did I pee beside his (Christian) house of worship, I am telling the story of said pee on Yom Kippur, God’s (Jewish) holiest day of the year. While eating a granola bar. A few hours into my “fast.”
So it’s safe to say I’m fucked for the year. I’ve accepted this. You should, too.
First some background context. I have the world’s worst bladder. Just in the sense that it fails miserably at doing its one job, which is to hold liquids (maybe it has other jobs. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. But I’m pretty sure pee-holding is the big job it’s famous for.) Pretty much the second I take a few sips of water, I have to pee. Mix in coffee and/or alcohol– forget it. I’m running to the bathroom pretty much every 10 minutes. I’ve had this abnormally small bladder problem my whole life, but it is definitely getting worse with age, to the point where it’s pretty much the first thing people learn about me because I have no choice but to explain my constant excusals to the restroom.
When I was dating, my small bladder became a topic of conversation about 20 minutes into the first date (in hindsight, this explains years of being single). It’s not like I’m particularly comfortable sharing this information with new people, but they are bound to be suspicious when I excuse myself at least 3 times an hour, and I would rather they know I have bladder issues than suspect I have a coke problem– or, even worse, explosive diarrhea. (Yes. That’s worse than a coke problem).
It’s never gotten to the point where I’ve actually had an accident, but I’ve had some close calls. Pretty much any activity I participate in, I immediately locate the nearest bathroom. I always choose aisle seats on airplanes and, if possible, at concerts, sporting events, and movies. If I didn’t have a co-teacher, and therefore the ability to bolt out of the classroom at a moment’s notice, I would probably have to choose a new profession.
It’s not good.
So as you can imagine, long car rides can be a challenge for me. And this past weekend, Eric and I rented a car and drove out to Southampton for a wedding (same wedding as mentioned in Lubegate. I am certain the bride and groom are thrilled with the various tales associated with the most romantic and meaningful weekend of their lives).
For the record, I did pee before we got in the car. But then I also proceeded to drink a Venti Starbucks iced coffee once we got on the road. Normally, knowing my issues, I would never do this…but I had woken up early that morning, gone for a long run, gone to work, and was attending a rehearsal dinner at 7:00. I was exhausted, but determined not to be, because nobody likes the tired girl (as I would soon find out, however, the tired girl is actually preferable to the girl who’s thisclose to pissing herself).
I felt the inkling to go as soon as we hit the Bronx. I mentioned to Eric that I was “starting to feel the need to pee” and, god bless his wise and patient soul, he suggested we stop before we got on the highway. “No, no,” I insisted, “I think it’s better if we just get out of the city. Once we’re on the highway there will be options.” Eric begged to differ, pointing out the obvious fact that we were in a ton of traffic, and that traffic would likely continue on the highway.
“Shhhh, no. Traffic will clear. It’s just the city,” I insisted, because I am, as it turns out, a terrible knower of things.
The traffic did not clear on the highway. If anything, it got worse. As did the pain in my bladder.
I kept relatively quiet about it for a while, hoping that if I concentrated on breathing, it would go away. Eric tried to distract me with conversation, but pretty much every time he spoke I responded with curt, one-word answers, code for “SHUT YOUR DAMN FACE, CAN’T YOU SEE I’M DYING OVER HERE?!?!?”
He didn’t deserve my attitude, but I was starting to lose feeling in my feet and had officially entered panic mode.
“I need you to find me a bathroom,” I pleaded repeatedly, which was an absolutely absurd and unfair request given that we were in standstill traffic on a highway with no shoulder.
He told me to search on google maps for the closest gas station. Barely able to operate the phone and with my entire body shaking, I did so, only to discover it was 10 MILES AWAY.
Clearly this was all his fault.
“I’M GOING TO PASS OUT!!!!!” I screamed, accusingly.
“Ok, here are your choices,” he stated calmly, because he is a much nicer and more normal person than I deserve. “We can stay on the highway and try to make it to that gas station, or I can take a right up here at this light. But I have NO idea where we are or where that will lead us, so I can make NO promises about finding you a bathroom.”
“TAKE THE RIGHT!!! I’LL SQUAT, I DON’T CARE, JUST GET OFF THE HIGHWAY!!!!” I screamed, with venom, desperation, and, at that point, probably a little bit of pee spewing from my lips.
We took the right. And found ourselves in a residential neighborhood with absolutely no bathroom options.
“WHY DID YOU TAKE ME TO A NEIGHBORHOOD!?!” I screamed. Because again, this was clearly all his fault. “At the very least I need woods! These are all manicured lawns! I CAN’T PEE IN SOMEONE’S LAWN!!”
Eric took a deep breath, threw his hands up in the air, and finally lost it “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO!!!!!!”
Rude.
It was at that blessed moment that we spotted what appeared to be an abandoned church up ahead. Surrounded by woods.
We knew what we had to do.
Eric pulled into the driveway and I threw open the car door like a diaper-dependent bat out of hell, ducking into the dirt-path wooded area beside the church, which led to a perfect little protected spot for squatting. I truly feel that God wanted me to pee there. There was literally a circular clearing the size of a toilet bowl, with thick, leafy trees hovering around it on all sides, whispering, “You’re safe now, Em.”
I peed for about 17 minutes.
I then climbed back into the car, underwear in hand, breathing deep, relieved sighs. Eric, stone-faced, started the car and, in the most inexplicably calm of tones said, “You are making an appointment with a urologist.”
I promised I would immediately.
I haven’t.
We’re still together. I have no idea how.
The key to feeling like a good Jew is dating an even worse Jew.
My parents asked me kindly not to write about this. That’s how I knew it was worth sharing.
This weekend my entire family (significant others and baby nephew included) rented a house in Southampton for a friend’s wedding.
When we arrived at the house, there was a moderately sized bottle of lube sitting on the kitchen counter.
A good ole bottle of 2-in-1 (massage AND play!).
Partially used.
My parents were the first to arrive at the house. Rather than move, hide, or throw out the lube, they chose to place a bag of cashews beside it.
Because that’s what you do when you see a random bottle of lube on your kitchen counter. You unpack your snacks.
(There’s a nut joke in here somewhere. Feel free to find it.)
Eric and I were the next to arrive at the house and encounter the lube. We could only assume it belonged to my parents, as they were the only people there before us. I’m not saying that either one of us was comfortable with this idea. We were not. We were very, very uncomfortable. Particularly Eric. He’s still sort of new here.
We didn’t have time to confirm the owners of the lube, however, because we were running late for the rehearsal dinner. So we shared a panicked and awkward “ohmygodohmygodohmygod” exchange and decided to never speak of it again. (Except during the entire car ride to dinner. And the walk from the car to dinner. And all of dinner.)
A few hours later, while Eric and I were at the dinner, Zack arrived at the house and immediately sent this to the sibling text chain:
Needless to say, Eric and I got a huge kick out of this. As did everyone at the rehearsal dinner– because naturally, I thought it’d be hilarious to pass my phone around and tell the story to everyone at my table. (Note: these were acquaintances. I did not know these people well at all. Well…now I do).
I also informed the bride. Clearly, hours before her wedding, it was something she needed to know.
When we got home that night I decided I needed confirmation, so I casually confronted my parents. They swore the lube was there when they arrived.
And you know what? I believe them. Mainly because that’s something my dad would totally admit to. But also because I want to be able to sleep at night.
So thank you to Ramona, our Airbnb renter, for leaving us that personalized housewarming gift. Unfortunately, since this was a wholesome family vacation (and the walls were super thin), we had no use for it.
Not wanting the thoughtful gift to go to waste, I did suggest it’d be fun to lube up the baby and watch him try to crawl across the hardwood floor.
No one agreed.
At the end of the weekend, we decided to leave the bottle of lube right where we found it. Because some other family should have the chance to see it, suspect one another, and die a little inside, just as we did.
We would never deny someone that opportunity.
We’re not monsters.
No. I don’t get it.
I only pick apples if they’re in my sangria.
Parent (in the middle of our presentation on curriculum and expectations): “1.5 hours of homework a night?! For a NINE year old? Don’t you think that’s excessive?”
Me: “No. Not at all.”
Yes. Obviously. Jesus Christ.
But don’t grill me in a formal setting in front of all the other parents regarding a school policy you know I have no control over. You want my real opinion? Buy me a beer first. Or make a subtle snide remark at Christmas as you slip me $100.
Amateur.
Extra homework for YOUR kid.
“Um excuse me, my Mom does NOT!” —
kid, when my coteacher and I suggested that everyone wear deodorant because it’s something all adults do to stay fresh and clean.
I would like to thank administration for once again giving our pre pubescent 4th graders the 1st period P.E. block.
Looks like the deodorant talk will come early this year.
And, for some- the shower talk.
#mastersdegree
If a venti coffee and a scowl were fashion accessories, I’d be on the cover of Vogue.
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