This is why I've missed blogging so much: so that I can publish all the embarrassing and ridiculous stories of my life that would otherwise remain private. And maybe should remain private. (But I've taken the dive, people! There's no turning back now!)
So here's one of those very stories for our mutual wincing. I was reminded of the little ditty while I was explaining to my husband the perils of too-much-juice-before-bedtime for our two-year-old.
Aha! You guessed it! It's about pee. The story is about pee.
The time? Oh, about 4 or 5 months ago. The setting? Our local Target. (Thankfully, I'm not the only one who loves--and now has an endearing story to associate with--the bullseye in the sky.)
I was about 1600 months pregnant at the time, so as soon as I entered the store with my mother, I beelined (is that even how you spell that word?) for the lavatory. Which, naturally, meant my mood was already soured. In all likelihood, I'd already used the bathroom right before we left. And now, 10 minutes later, I was dancing the jig before we could crab a cart.
So I hurl myself into a stall, glaring at the hand-dryer as I ran by. I'm sure it was mocking me and my shot-glass sized bladder.
Right behind me was some woman in scrubs. Later, I would surmise that she must have been on lunch break or something, trying to squeeze in a trip for some new socks before she had to report back for scraping shit off people's teeth. And I only pondered this fact because she, in fact, pissed on me.
But let's back up a bit. Me? Sitting on the John. Her? One of those peeers that sighs and shifts articles of clothing with remarkable sound. I never quite understood how some could so clearly inform the entire bathroom that they were now removing their undersized underwear without saying a single word. The snapping of the elastic, the sigh of relief. That alone was enough for me to hate her.
But then she pulled the trigger a little too soon, and pissed all over the floor with such incredible force that it traveled under the stall barrier and rained onto my toes.
Yes, my toes. I was wearing sandals. You know, because my swollen-ass feet no longer fit into shoes in the middle of October.
And, I'd be surprised if there's actually an established ettiquette for this kind of thing, but I'm fairly certain that her attempt at grace fell drastically short.
"Whoops! Sorry!" And, kinda read that over again, but this time with the voice of that annoying secretary lady from Office Space.
So, that's the story of how I got pissed on.
I walked out, lingering at the sink a little longer as I considered:
1. Could I get my foot in the sink without going into premature labor?
2. Is premature labor really so bad if it means I can try to karate chop this woman's nursing clogs right off her feet?
In the end, I just washed my hands and wiped off my foot. I was kinda stunned, to be honest. When I found my mother in the clothing department, I recounted the incidents of my trip to the bathroom.
"Oh my GOD, that's disgusting!" she practically shouted, prompting Target Team Members look over disdainfully.
I glare at her.
"Well, they say that urine is sterile," she offered.
Yeah, Mom. At least there's that.