TMI Thursday: What, I'm Three Again?

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You might have heard me mention that I did my graduate studies at the University of Notre Dame. Heard of it? It's a little Catholic institution situated in the midst of the Great Lakes basin. I hear they've won a football game or two? Something like that. Anyway, the coach is involved in some sort of imbroglio here of late, involving something about inept defenses or something. I don't know of these things.

Anyway, whilst a fresh-faced chemist, still hellbent on making the world a better place, one sp3-hybridized orbital at a time, I met an equally fresh-faced (and large-breasted) redheaded lass hellbent on making the world a better place, one Latin declension at a time. We met for some coffee and a little talk, sipped the coffe on the bench outside her dorm, and then parted ways. A few nights later, we met again for some scintillating discussion of middle Gaelic, a lecture which captivated my attention like no other, causing me to cling to the edge of my seat, wondering how that man was going to roll his r's and elide his l's this time. I was so captivated, I believe I snored.

A few months later, we married. A few months after that, she burst forth with child. Roughly a year after that, she left to live with her mother and father while I worked diligently on the final few reactions and molecules and the requisite characterizations of these compounds. Oh, how I adored the HPLC then, my friends.

But this isn't a tale of love between a man and a highly-efficient purification machine. No, this is a story about a trip.

So, my wife and daughter, when she was 11 months old, moved to Charlotte, NC with my mother- and father-in-law. As the days continued to drag on and on, and I was busy throwing beautiful samples of my highly-unstable and difficult-to-purify aldehyde on the floor of the NMR room, depression set in. I was living with my friend, Dr. Assy (who was just Candidate Assy at that time), and despite the fact that we would get a coffee every morning, he didn't much care for spooning. Nor for me gently cupping a breast during a chilly autumn evening.

This caused me to, one weekend, decide that, dammit, I wanted some sex I should go see my family. So, I loaded myself into my car (a Ford Contour, the Pantie-Liner of Sedans) shortly after noon and jumped onto the interstate that runs just north of Notre Dame's campus. On the way to the on-ramp, I fueled up at the world's slowest gas pump, which caused me to wander into the store to buy chocolaty comestibles. As I was wandering toward the counter to pay up for my provisioning, I thought I'd buy a bottle of water and a diet cola to slake my thirst while I drove. It was, after all, a ten-hour trip...at least. Since it was a long trip, I decided to buy the 32 ounce bottle of water. Makes sense, right? Sort of.

So, I paid for my food and I paid for my gas and I paid for my drinks. I got in my car and I got onto the Indiana Toll Road and I headed east. Four and a half hours later, I was in Cleveland, turning south onto I-77, which would take me to Charlotte. I had made this drive a few times, so I knew where my favorite places to stop were: New Philadelphia, OH (the home of legendary Ohio State football coach, Woody Hayes!) and Fancy Gap, VA (Smack in the middle of Frank Beamer Country...And Don't You Fucking Forget It!).

New Philadelphia is a fantastic little burgh clinging to the interstate in eastern Ohio where I could fuel up fairly cheaply, and right next door to the gas station was a Taco Bell, so I could gas up there, too. And then right across from the Taco Bell was a store promising to service all of my adult needs. In my book, that's a win-win-win situation.

So, as usual, I got off at New Philadelphia (heh) and I gassed up at the BP and then I gassed up again at the Taco Bell and then I somehow managed to avoid the Sirens' song offered by the lovely ladies of New Philadelphia, OH. How I did it without pouring wax into my ears, I'll never know. But, I managed to get back onto the interstate and continue to hurtle myself south toward West Virginia at break neck speed (I assume 75 mph to be break neck speed).

Did I mention that I got a large Mountain Dew at Taco Bell in New Philadelphia? Yes. I figured I could use the caffeine to stay awake and, thusly, alive while I drove through the Virginias. Hi-oh! This train wasn't stopping until Fancy Gap. Punch in the coordinates for light speed and we're off, Chewy.

A few hours later, and I was beginning to feel the unmistakable sensation of my bladder filling up. You know the feeling. The one that tells your brain "Hey, gotta take a piss." Yes, well, I ignored it. I was in West Virginia when the urge first hit and, well, West Virginia is a beautiful state. I wouldn't want to sully it with my urine. So, onward I pressed.

The urge began to grow more pressing the further south I went. It didn't help that the lap belt was stretched across that area just north of my Howdoyoudo, applying extra pressure on my rapidly filling bladder. You know what else didn't help? I kept drinking the fucking 32 ounce bottle of water.

Finally, just south of Wytheville, VA, I'm really feeling it. You know, that urge to piss so badly that you think your bladder is about to pop like a child's balloon or that dream bubble in which you're having hot monkey sex with Melissa Joan Hart? Yes, well, that's the feelings my bladder was sending to my brain.

Actually, it was telling me, "Listen, asshole, either empty me or I'm gonna 'splode all over your insides. Do you really want piss on your intestines? No? Then pull the fuck over!" My bladder tends to have a piss-poor attitude when it's rapidly filling.

It's not as shitty as my colon when I get backed up, though.

God, I'm punny.

"Hold on, Little Buddy," I kept telling my bladder as I read the mile markers, "It's only 23 more miles and then I'll empty you out."

It got to the point where I was shifting back and forth in my seat to relieve the pressure on my distended bladder. Finally--blessedly!--the sign telling me Fancy Gap was a mere mile away hove into view. Relief was a scant five thousand, two hundred and eight feet away!

I exit at the fanciest gap in all of Virginia and make my way over to the BP, a glowing green-and-gold oasis offering me the promise of gasoline, flushable toilets, a rather surly-looking attendant behind the counter wearing a faded Virginia Tech hat, and more chocolaty goodness for the last 100 miles of my journey. I pull up to the station, arching my back because I have to pee so badly and I think that this particular way of holding my body will offer the most relief.

Now, when it comes to using public facilities, I'm one of those people who hates using their somewhat clean toilets without offering a little restitution. So, I get out of the car, stretch, feel the cool night air upon my flesh, and simply soak in the fact that I'm not crammed into the pilot's seat of a Ford Contour (the Pantie-Liner of Sedans). I decide that my first purchase shall be approximately ten and a half gallons of gasoline. I slide my card into the reader, insert the nozzle into the gas tank, and pull the lever. A rush of gasoline cascades into the car's interior tanks.

At this point, I'm doing a little shuffle back-and-forth from one leg to the other, the whole time clenching those muscles in my groin that both make my dick dance back and forth and also keep me from pissing. I'm about halfway done filling my tank when the inevitable happens.

My bladder rebels. The muscles used to clench my urethra closed fail. And once the seal has been broken, the diet soda, the Mountain Dew, and the water all come rushing out. At once. While I'm still filling my car up.

Yes, like a three-year-old learning to use the potty, I had an accident.

You know, kind of like if the Hoover Dam suddenly, catastrophically fails, you could call that an "accident".

Of course, I wasn't wearing jeans or something dark colored that could hide my shame. No, as I stood there in my piss-soaked shorts, the faded green khaki color turned a very noticeable forest green. And I pissed so much and so hard that it soaked through my boxer-briefs and shorts and actually made a cascade onto the concrete.

Finished, and with as much dignity as I could muster, I replaced the hose for the gas line. I put the gas cap back in the tank. I closed the cover over the gas cap. I went to the trunk and pulled out a pair of fresh boxer-briefs and shorts and, holding them so that they hovered over my soiled crotch, I made my way into the BP. Thank whatever deity you believe in, the BP at Fancy Gap, VA is not nearly as swinging a joint as you might imagine at 10 pm on a Friday night. Only the surly-looking attendant at the counter and someone talking to him about bass boats saw me. They barely acknowledged me as I went back to the restroom, relieved whatever else had built up in my bladder after shaming myself at the pump station, and dropped my pants onto the floor. I changed quickly, rolling the soiled shorts and underwear up, and made my way back out to the car. I threw them in the trunk. I tried my best to forget the whole thing ever happened.

Then here's a curious thing: I went back into the service station and bought another drink!!! And, of course, some more chocolaty goodness for the ride down to Charlotte. I told you I'm one of those people who feels compelled to purchase something when I piss in someone's parking lot public restroom.

The rest of the trip to Charlotte was without urinary incident. I found my way to my in-law's house and my wife was very happy to see me. She met me at the door, and hugged me, and was very happy to have me back in her possession for a couple of days. I then went back out to the car to get my things. I gathered up my bag and some writing material and...I left the piss-soaked clothing in the car. I figured it better not to bring that up in the presence of my in-laws.

And then, as I was walking back into the house, the dog from up the street mauled me.

Fucking asshole dog.

How I Learned to Become a Man

My maternal grandfather was, to say the least, an ornery sort. People today would probably say he was twisted, or had a sick sense of humor, or just that he was immature. I'm not sure I'd agree, but he definitely knew what amused him.

This is one of those stories.

Now, remember, I lived in a small town when I grew up. I might have mentioned it once or twice before. This was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else, and people knew shit before it went down.

So, apparently, my grandfather had been visiting one night, and I was outside doing stuff with him. I don't remember how it happened, but I'm guessing he was out working in the yard or around the house or something (he had lived there before we did, so he was familiar with the workings of the house). As it came to pass, my grandfather probably had to toss a whiz, and being outside, he did what any man does: he snaked it out and let 'er fly, hosing down the weeds out behind the garage.

I must have witnessed this, and most likely commented on it. And then my grandfather explained it to me as "Little boys like to pee outside." Which is true. Very, very true.

So, either the next day, or some time in the not-too-distant-from-the-event-future, I was out in my driveway playing. We had a big screen porch that overlooked the driveway, and my mother sat there spying upon the neighborhood watching me with a steely eye of death to make sure I didn't hurt myself or be abducted or eat cat turd or anything. Evidently, as I was out there playing, the urge struck me, so I dropped trou, snaked it out, and began hosing off the driveway.

My mother, aghast, probably uttered some syllable denoting horror, for I loudly proclaimed to the entire neighborhood "Little boys like to pee outside, Mommy!"

The only problem was, two old ladies from the church were walking past the house as I stood there, akimbo, jettisoning urine for all to see. By this time, my mother had curled into the fetal position on the floor of the porch, whimpering, because the old ladies would gossip about it at the church. That's what they did. It was their sole purpose in being.

That night, we went to visit my grandparents. Now, my maternal grandmother was fiery, to say the least. As my mother was relating the days events as it revolved around my urinary practices, my grandmother, without missing a beat, turned and started slapping the shit out of my grandfather. Without a confession, she knew who it was who had taught me that little boys like to pee outside.

My grandfather, for his part, laughed. And with that, I took my first steps on the path toward manhood.