How I Was Peed On

As a professional child-care provider, I'm no stranger to mystery liquids, unexplained sticky clumps of something, and sometimes scooping healthy dollops of kitty regurgitation off of a couch cushion. 


That been said, it should come as no surprise to you, dear reader, that this urination degradation happened, and frankly, I myself, am shocked it didn't happen sooner.


When caring for little boys of the potty-training age, you learn quickly that you should treat the mention of "pee-pee" or "potty" like a fire alarm. You have a very small, very precious, window of time to hurry the pull-ups patron to the bathroom--or you will be faced with soggy shorts and humiliation, for all involved. 


I was babysitting a newcomer to the potty-trained world so my ears were alert and ready for pee-pee go time. 


"Do you need to go potty?" I asked every fifteen minutes.


"No, never," was the reply. This made me nervous. Why never? Why not just: "no, not right now, thank-you for asking, I'll inform you as soon as I feel like I might need to." This one needed to be monitored carefully...


Sure as Rebecca Black "gotta have cereal," potty time came...He ran to the bathroom as fast as his little tootsies could carry him. 

"Help me Jiewian," he pleaded, and so I did. 


The last time he tried to stand up and pee into the toilet bowl, he ended up peeing all over the toilet, his shorts, laying so unsuspectingly at his feet, and the floor. In order to avoid all that, this time, I decided to try something new.


"Let's try sitting on the potty," I suggested, confident in the execution of my plan. 


So he sat on the toilet, and I sat across from him on the rim of the bathtub, holding his little hands while he balanced himself and started to pee.


All was well, at first. The little boy then began to sway to and fro, and consequently, so did the stream of pee. I tried to steady him, but trying to control toddler tinkle is like me trying to not laugh when my dog farts and scares himself...almost impossible. 


He teetered back--and the pee was free. Free on my arms, free on my knees and free on my feet. I can remember saying, "Ohhh no!" Oh dear!!! Ahhhhh!!" But the boy's older brother (who was gaming in the other room) decided against checking out the sounds of alarm coming from the bathroom. A learned behavior? Did he know what was going on, and just knew that he wanted absolutely no involvement? Or was that level of Peggle simply too engrossing to pause? Regardless, I was on my own -- marinating in the result of two-sippy cups of chocolate milk and my own flawed engineering. 


The little boy also managed to pee on himself, so I plopped him in the tub, and went on a search for cleaning products. The mother of the household is a very responsible mother, and keeps anything potentially harmful locked away behind child-safety-locked cabinets. 


Ten minutes later -- I'm pleading with the plastic contraption on the cupboard to cease its magical hold so I can clean the bathroom floor, and myself, to no avail. 


While the tinkler was merrily splishing and splashing around in the tub with toy boats and duckies--I ended up cleaning off the floor with the antibacterial hand wipes found on the counter and cleaning myself off with Softsoap. 

Driving Disability

If you know me at all, you are well aware of the sad fact that I drive like a one-armed, eighty-year-old who's forgotten her dementia pills and is legally blind in both eyes, (I actually am legally blind).

It all started in drivers education when I was fifteen:

There were two driving instructors. One was the football coach, a portly jolly man with a dead-tooth and a Big Gulp, and the other was Mr. Rosser; the freshly divorced social studies teacher that reminded me of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, except with a southern accent.

Obviously, I was assigned to take my classes with Mr. Rosser, and my driving-nightmare began.

I was already extremely nervous, and before I really had a chance to hit anything, Mr. Rosser was asking if I was "some kind of an idiot" and slamming on his set of brakes (I had yet to locate my own set).

An hour into my lesson, I began to think that perhaps I was some kind of driving idiot, and started to develop an intense fear and aversion to getting behind the wheel.

"So I guess you decided it was best not to stop at that stop sign?" Rosser spat at me, when the tiny Ford Escort sped past the red hexagon into the Arby's parking lot. I was on the verge of tears and my legs felt like linguine.


We went inside, Mr. Rosser and my driving buddy (no real recollection of who he was, just a faceless character along for the ride) ordered, I sat alone in the booth, trembling. They returned, and Mr. Rosser unfolded his wax-paper to reveal two dry bun halves. If I questioned his humanity before, I was completely at a loss by this point. Anyone who goes into a fast food restaurant, especially one as sub-par as Arby's -- where their bread is probably made from cardboard and mouse-droppings, and orders just plain buns is someone I cannot relate to on any level. At least ask for ketchup or honey-mustard to dip the barren, dehydrated halves and make them a tiny bit less taxing for your body to ingest...

Needless to say, I didn't do so well in the course, and he recommended many more hours of practice, which I decided not to go through with because the very thought of driving gave me anxiety.

I didn't get my license until I was eighteen and the tiny guy passed me, despite the fact that my three-point turn adopted two extra points and a squished safety cone.

I feel obligated to confess that in addition to my anxiety linked to the physical act of driving, I'm also handicapped when it comes to directions and finding my bearings. (It's a constant ongoing search).

I often discover that I've been taking a much longer route to a place that's quite close just because I wanted to stay on roads that were familiar. A drive to Ollie Wallie's bounce-palace that takes a normal person fifteen minutes, takes me forty-five minutes, the maps application on my phone, the fingernails on my right hand and 20 mg of ADD meds.

Big intersections and one-way streets terrify me. If you ever see an extremely dirty, black Jeep Liberty stopped at a light with the front-half of the car in the turning lane, the back-half still in the lane to go straight, the light to go straight turns green, and you are stuck behind the dirt-caked ass of the jeep -- please don't honk or yell things out of your window, it's probably me; I've just figured out that I'm supposed to turn down that road -- your frustrated honking frightens me, and I have cloth seats.

Jonesing for a Laugh

We all have days that seem to squish and and pummel us from the minute we wake up to the moment our sleeping pills kick in. When I have days like that, I ask my friends for stories, the good ones, the embarrassing kind. Some friends seem to have a never ending supply...

"I was on my senior trip to the Cayman Islands. It was a christian school so we were chaperoned, which sucked.

This guy? Training wheels until thirteen? No shit.

A couple of guys rented mopeds and brought them back to the hotel. I saw this as a great opportunity to show off, and neglected the fact that I've always been rather terrible on two wheels since I didn't learn to ride a bicycle until I was thirteen years of age.

I was shoeless, shirtless and approximately 120 lbs. (This friend is 6'1" and was the same height then).

After the whole class had gathered around, I singled out the obese elderly Spanish teacher:

 "Hey Ms. Anderson! Check out this sweet wheelie!" I then rode for approximately two feet before wiping out on the asphalt and getting pinned under the moped. 

Ms. Anderson came to my rescue because everyone else was laughing too hard to help my scrawny entrapped body.

I was then rushed to the hospital where I received several stitches from a Russian male doctor with a Chinese male nurse who had no means of verbally communicating. it took about 20 minutes for them to pick the gravel out of my knee."

Pillow Cats is the WORST GAME EVER

One sun-shiney afternoon, I was babysitting my B.F.F. Otis, and his friend from school, Ella.

Ella's mom is a vetranarian, so naturally they have pets, and Ella's favorite is cats -- my absolute least favorite animal on the planet next to mosquitoes,  maggots, and the blobfish, see picture below.

"Let's play Pillow Cats!" Ella squeals, with her little fists in the air, balled up in jubilation. 

Blobfish--an actual fish.

I've babysat for Ella before, and her suggestion for Pillow Cats as the game, came as no surprise. Here's how to play pillow cats:

1.) Coat the T.V. room floor in a sea of pillows

2.) Crawl around on pillows meowing. That's it...I'm serious. 

Last time we played Pillow Cats, I was named "Mommy Pillow Cat" and I sat my rump upon the largest pillow while Ella and Otis meowed around me and I pet their heads awkwardly as they meowed in my face. It wasn't exactly fun, but it wasn't hard either and they seemed content, which is the most important thing. 

THIS TIME, HOWEVER, I was not allowed to play Mommy Pillow Cat; Ella condemned me to be the all important "Tree."

"What does the tree do?" I asked.

"You stand there like this," She said, as she stood up tall with both arms held up--fingers spread apart for branches.

"Can't I be a sweet bush? Or a super-cool shrub?" I suggested, trying to make them both sound as appealing as possible, because being either I would be able to sit down, and not have to hold my arms in the air. 

"No," Ella replied curtly. "I want you to be a tree."

"Yeah," nodded Otis, "Be a tree." So it was two against one, and I had no choice but to comply.

I had been standing in the corner of the room as the tree for about two minutes and my arms were aching, Otis's Dad walked into the doorway with a confused look on his face.

"I'm the tree," I explained, looking like Christ the Redeemer as the two children were crawling around meowing in front of me, it must have looked odd, to say the least.

"Have fun guys!" He said quickly, and ran up the stairs. 

"I have an idea!" I yelled, and the meows subsided, "How about an evil witch casts a spell on the tree, and the tree chases the cats and tries to eat them!" I thought this was an excellent idea, and I could tell Otis did too; He stood up in his striped little pants, readying himself to run. Plus he LOVES witches. Loves them. He was a witch for Halloween.

"No." Ella shot me down, "That's scary, and there aren't any witches in Pillow Cats." 

me.

"I think it could be fun." I defended my idea, and took the chance to put my arms down. Honestly, if any fairytale creature were to be present in Pillow Cats, I thought it for sure would be a witch, witches and cats are like peanut-butter and jelly, Richard Simmons and sweatbands, or re-fried beans and farts, the two clearly go hand in hand.

"Trees don't talk," she reminded, "Or yawn." And I closed my mouth at the end of a yawn, and put my arms out, because I was the tree, and trees don't talk.

 

Math: I hate you, always have, always will.

Numbers and letters. The two should never mix, and to demonstrate my disgust with Algebra, I refused to solve for 'x'.

In portable 017, my sixth grade self sat in pre-algebra reading the follies of Harry and Ron. "Oh Malfoy, you sad angry little boy," I would chuckle to myself, as Harry zinged him again with J.K.'s carefully crafted dialogue. Hermione nearly dislocates her shoulder raising her hand, and I hear:

"Gillian Maroney, put the book away and pay attention. Your last quiz wasn't your best..." Mrs. Kahler scolds, and I shrink in my seat, which was attached to the desk.

It has been this way all my life: I hate math, and math hates me.

My father is a numbers man, an accountant. I have awful memories of him trying to help me with my homework and getting frustrated when I tried to create personalities and back-stories for why 'x' and 'y' got caught in the terrible mess they were in, also known as problem seven of my homework assignment.

My brother was captain of his school's Math League, and part of the Science Brain Bowl team. I had an imaginary friend in the fourth grade that would drink from the water fountain, and pee on my Keds. I guess it's fair to say that I was a space cadet, a kid with a big imagination, a daydreamer. I read all the time, and math always got in the way.

 I almost failed trig, had to drop "Finite Mathematics" my freshman year of college, and take it at the school back home that summer. I hate fractions. There is a tip converter on my phone, and I was an English major. I haven't seen or heard of a parabola since middle school and I don't think I ever will.

I dread the day when I have mathematically-challenged children of my own, and have to attend those all too familiar parent-teacher conferences with Mrs. Numbersarelife, only to pretend that I'm concerned about Billy's lack of interest in the order of operations.

There is always a chance that my kids will love math, but if not, I have the complete series of Harry Potter on my shelf, waiting.

Bouncy Houses, Dinosaurs and Spongebob: Just Another Saturday

The sun is roasting the top of my head--I'm next to one of two inflatable bouncy houses, talking to a four-year-old named Thomas about dinosaurs:

"T-rex is my favorite." Thomas announces proudly, as if I couldn't tell by his magnificent performance at the bottom the the bouncy-slide. He waits until another kid slides down the slide, then growls and snarls at them, with his elbows held tight at his sides (the T-Rex has very tiny arms). His mouth has a bright red stain around it from the strawberry ring pop he was enjoying during his downtime between attacks.

"What do you think about velociraptors?" I question, bending my index finger into a makeshift claw to show I know my stuff.

"They're mean." Thomas tells me, as he crouches behind the inflatable wall--waiting for his next victim.

"Yeah they are," I agree. "Have you seen Jurassic Park?"

"Yep!" He pops up from behind the wall to answer. "Watch this!" He shouts, and  flops off the wall with an awkward little kick and falls on the ground, saggy dirty socks flailing mid-fall.

"See?" Thomas asks me, panting slightly, and obviously waiting for me to praise his acrobatics.

"Heck yeah I did, sick moves, Thomas." This satisfies him, and he runs off to play with his sister.

I look back towards the slide for the reason I was over there in the first place, he's sitting at the top waiting for just the right time to slide down. His name is Otis, and he's my best friend.

Otis is wearing mismatched socks, one blue buzz Lightyear and one red. I can see his sweaty little blond curly head behind a little girl with equally sweaty pigtails. She's bopping around in front of him like a wallaby with a crack habit. Otis doesn't enjoy concentrated excitement, and the slide is too crowded as far as he's concerned. I wait until it clears a little, and tell him to slide down. He crawls to the edge and decides to slide down on his stomach, feet first. He's looking down over his shoulder the entire time he slides, wearing an expression of complete and utter terror. His big blue eyes are bulging out of their sockets, and his tiny pink mouth is tight and motionless. Once Otis reaches the bottom, (Thomas was no longer there to scare him) he smiles and giggles and climbs back up the stairs to slide back down again.

Finally, the pizza arrives, Otis and I take a seat at the table with my new friend Thomas and his brother and sister. The conversation is getting pretty intense, the subject moves from dinosaurs, to sharks, and finally, to Spongebob. We all take turns talking about our favorite episodes, Thomas likes the one when Spongebob teaches Squidward to blow bubbles, we all agree this is a great choice. I share that my favorite is the one when Spongebob and Patrick try to raise a baby clam together, a classic.

"Are you Thomas' new friend?" Thomas' sister asks.

"Yep, and this is my best friend, Otis." I say matter-of-factly.

"No I'm not." Otis corrects, and my grin falls, not because I'm hurt, or believe him at all, but now my new friend Thomas thinks I'm a liar, and he probably wont show me any more of his acrobatic tricks.

Side-note: Otis really is my best friend, he just forgets sometimes. I think he thinks it's funny when I get that look on my face, the kind right before you cry.

A really chubby little girl wearing what looks like pink pajamas plows past some toddlers to get to the woman sitting across from me,

"Gracie pulled my shiiiiirt!" she wines, dragging her icing-covered palm over her damp forehead, which makes me feel sick.

The woman calls her daughter over and scolds her, while the chubby girl stands and watches. She seems to be enjoying it, and I think of Margaret from Dennis the Menace.

The soiree is winding down, and a little boy named Ander in a Mario Bros. t-shirt is discussing Sonic the Hedgehog with one of the birthday boys. I have little to add to this conversation, as I was always terrible at video games. The "Y" button was always a mystery to me. Does anyone really know what it does? Anything that requires any sort of hand-eye coordination proves to be virtually impossible as far as I'm concerned. If I'm being honest, coordination in general alludes me. Do a cartwheel? You might as well ask me to do brain surgery.

 

I tried a cartwheel once, and ended up with a bloody-nose. How I managed to knee myself in the face during the attempt is one of the world's greatest unsolved mysteries. The sheer mechanics of it are mind-boggling...Anyway, so that was my Saturday. 

I hang out with kids all the time, it's my job, which is perfect: Poop jokes are my jam, farting is honestly the funniest thing ever, and I love me some grilled cheese and chocolate milk. Sesame Street? Try Sesame SWEET. Kipper rules, Caillou blows, the Wiggles can die a slow and painful.

G out.

  

You Got A Friend In Me

I recently went out, and ran into an old friend of mine from years ago. We were chatting it up like Gladys and Maude at Shady Acres, except instead of Alzheimers, we had a raging case of Vodkawaters. We ladies needed to go the the bathroom, so naturally we held hands and skipped merrily over to the lavatory, probably bumping and stepping on several innocent bystanders in the process, and being blissfully unaware. 

In the bathroom, (gentlemen readers, read on at your own risk) my friend needed a little more time than usual, and it being a busy night at a happenin place, there were several other ladies waiting to use the porcelain pot behind us. Bitches be crazy, and soon they began pounding on the door, yelling such terrible things as, "Hurry the F*** up!" or "I'm about to p*** myself! What the F*** are you doing in there?"

Well naturally, my comrade was embarrassed, to say the least, and getting increasingly more so with each profane thing being yelled at us through the locked door.

I took one look at her nervous little face and decided that I would take the heat for our extended stay in the pooper.

With a nod of my head, and a look of pure determination, I unlocked the door to face our fate...

"Phewwww! Momma had some bad burritos earlier today!" I shouted into a sea of angry lady scowls, and rubbed my stomach convincingly. 

"Ewww...why is she telling us that?" One lady in a particularly short skirt (floozy) yelled to her friend.

Unwilling to break character, I carried on mumbling the phrase "bad burritos" and massaging my gut until we were away from anyone in the line. I don't know if my friend appreciated the act, or if she even remembers it at all. But know this, if I could do it all over again, I would.

My Great-Aunt: The Poison Dwarf

Legally a little person? Why yes, yes she is. Tiny flask of brandy hidden in the inner zip-pocket of her old lady purse? Yes, there is that too.

My Auntie Ann is the stuff of legends. My dad affectionately refers to her as "The witch" and "The Poison Dwarf." She's rude, crude and unintentionally the funniest person I know.

When I went back to England after not having been back for ten years, my family and I went to this classy joint called "The Tartar Frigate" on the sun-shiney coast of Broadstairs, Kent. My Aunt was in the middle of a story--which ended with, "And then I found myself hiding in the bushes from Judy, (her sister) and I had to come out because I wet my knickers..." Reading this, you might think, "well that's a pretty normal childhood tale," but Auntie Ann was recalling an event that happened the week before this dinner. For me, and everyone that knows her, this type of story is pretty ordinary.

The waiter comes over, and Ann finds him attractive,

"Oooooh! He's quite dishie innie?" She practically screams, but she most likely thought she was being
 discreet.

"Shh! Auntie Ann! He can hear you!" I whimper, as the waiter looks back at us with a look on his face that resembles that of a new father changing his baby's first shitty diaper. My uncle Hadley, Ann's husband, has taken to just completely ignoring her at this stage of their relationship, and this is perhaps why the marriage has lasted so long.

"Thank Christ I remembered my teeth!" She winks at me, and I shudder as memories of her chasing me around as a child flood back--She's missing two teeth on the upper right side of her mouth, and she used to take out her disgusting retainer (fitted with two fake teeth on it) and chase me around with the gaping mouth-hole exposed.

By the middle of dinner, the waiter has adopted avoiding Auntie Ann like a sorority girl avoids carbohydrates, so she naturally reverts to perversion, a classic strategy of hers when things are going too normally,

"I'm telling you, all Jude (her sister Judy) needs is a bit more of the ol' Rumpy Dumpy." Ann queries loudly, with her wrinkly, freckled, sausage finger in the air. Judy, like Anne, is in her late 70s, and "Rumpy Dumpy" means sex. I coughed on a brussel sprout, and begged my mom to ask for the check. At this stage in my life, I hadn't quite learned how to just sit back and enjoy the show that is Auntie Ann.

I recently went back to England for my college graduation present, and during this trip my Aunt didn't disappoint when it came to being just as crude and perverse as I remember, but more on that later.

What Drool?

Matt and I have been dating about a month, and the poor guy has been subjected to more shenanigans than anyone should have to endure in a year. I’ve taken to sleeping on his bathroom floor, because I drink too much of the naughty water on occasion. The most recent bathroom nap session, I locked the door. Matt had to break into his own bathroom with a paperclip (he showed me the mangled remains of the paper accessory as proof), to rescue me from the disgusting tiled floor, shared by two boys in their early twenties. He informed me that he had to coax me off of the floor with soft, kind words and I returned this tenderness with various drunken grunts and grumbles, clearly content with my nest of moldy bathmat and nose-hair clippings. After two minutes or so, the noises subsided and I released a final, throaty grunt of frustration—plowed past him with the force of Babe the Ox and “belly flopped on the bed like you were in the WWE.” I quietly listened to Matt recount the story, and cringed with each charming detail. He stupidly continued to see me though, the fool.

We decided to have a relaxed night in, and Matt told me to bring over a bottle of wine. I was having quite a bit of trouble falling asleep in his bed, continuously tossing and turning, fanaticizing about the comforter I left lonesome at my apartment—so I decided to bring my little blue friend, the Walsom. A Walsom is a knock off Unisom sleeping pill from Walgreens, and I slipped it in the sneaky side pocket of my pocketbook, usually reserved for super tampons.

After some intense perusing on the wine isle of Winn-Dixie, I settled on a saucy-looking bottle of Merlot with a picture of a woman on the label, she looked like June Cleaver, if June had boozy breath—the bottle was called “Mad Housewife.” It was only seven bucks with my Winn-Dixie card, so I headed for the checkout line with the cashier that looked like T. Pain. He told me that he could turn the popular song “fireflies” by Owl City into an R&B song. I agreed and told him to go for it, then left the store with drunken June and Walsom plotting against me in my purse.

I ended up drinking about three glasses of wine, and started thinking about what “fireflies” would sound like if T. Pain’s clone managed to convert it into an R&B song, when Matt suggested we go to bed. A normal person would consume three glasses of “Mad Housewife” and think, “hey, this is enough to get to sleep, no Walsom needed here.” I, however, chose to ignore my inner Jiminy Cricket, so I took the pill and signed myself up for dating catastrophe. “YOU IMBECILE,” that same normal person would yell, had they been there to chaperone my self-made date-rape concoction. But no one was there to address my imbecility, and the repercussions were disgusting and infinitely embarrassing.

I faintly recall the dialogue to “Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy,” and rather, seem to remember the brightly-colored woodland creatures I kept seeing dancing around my head, offering me lollipops and kisses, much more. Reality came knocking with a wetness on my right cheek, unless one of neon pink squirrels urinated on my face, I was drooling. This would be a bad situation in and of itself, one can imagine trying to cover up the wet stain with a strategically placed hand for the rest of the night, but I managed to make this mortifying spittle emission much worse. My doped-up, leaking head wasn’t resting on a pillow, oh no, it was nestled on Matthew’s unsuspecting shoulder. I bat the woodland creatures away once this registered and gargled, “Oh Shit. I drooled a bits on you.” I then took it upon myself to clean up said drool, (I may be disgusting, but I still have manners). I pulled my hand up from under the covers and proceeded to slap around my saliva, and then pat the evenly coated spittle shoulder, as if to say, “there we are, all clean.” Soon after this, I flopped around a bit, and fell back asleep.

The next morning, my eyes slowly opened to the sound of the alarm clock and then widened with utter horror. Matt was getting up for work, and I was nervously trying to piece together the night before. I gasped when the mouth seepage registered, and he asked if I was okay.

“Yea, great,” I stammered.

“Alright, my key is on my desk, so just lock up when you leave.”

“Mhm…” I couldn’t make eye-contact.

On the drive back to my house, Matt text me saying that he slept really well, and asked if I did too. I decided the best way to remedy this awful situation was to make a joke out of it. “Obviously,” I typed out, biting my lower lip, “considering the drool. Ha ha.”

“What drool?” I received a few minutes later.

“Don’t be coy with me! You know what I’m talking about,” I returned, assuming he was trying to get me to put “I drooled on your shoulder” in a text message.

“I didn’t see any drool,” he wrote back, and I had had enough. I called him,

“You’re telling me you have no idea what I’m talking about?”

“Not a clue, seriously.”

“So I just confessed to drooling on you last night?”

“Ew. What the fuck? You drooled on me?”

In my nervousness, I had forgotten that Matthew had also consumed a large quantity of “Mad Housewife.” It didn’t even cross my mind that he might have been asleep through the entire drool/drool cleanup episode. As it turns out, he was.

sticky stache

Because if you're a girl, and I am, a 'stache is only funny if it can be peeled off and re-applied. If your mustache requires some sort of pink smooth away contraption, or strong-smelling cream, I feel for you. "Bleaching day" sounds like a day I'd rather have no part of. 

A sticky 'stache can come in all shapes and colors: "A ginger handlebar? Well it is Tuesday..."

"A black soul patch? I am feeling sort of douchey...May I pair it with prescription glasses that change tint in the sunlight?"

The possibilities are endless, and so are the ridiculous, and sometimes, rather stupid thoughts that swim around in my noodle.

 

--G