Archives for January 2011

Monday Dare: f.u.c.k.

Every Monday, I’m picking from the List of Things to Do, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help, and Possible Fun to Have. It’s a list I started beforeThe Project, and I’m still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please feel free to throw them my way. I’m calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words “challenge” or “goal.”

This week: Form a support group

My family covered roughly 11,000 total miles in rented conversion vans during our yearly road trips when I was growing up. We always took along the same things:

  • a Game Boy
  • several economy-sized bags of Funyuns
  • our homemade “Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon” cardboard sign that we hung out the window when cars passed
  • masking tape, so my brother and I could divide the van right down the middle and hit each other if we crossed the line

And my tiny little bladder.

My dad meticulously planned the trip for months. He bought duplicate Rand-McNally maps, charting a main route on one map, and several alternate routes on another map. He liked to be prepared. I didn’t volunteer, but he always made me his sidekick.

At the beginning of each trip, he would hand me a blank notebook. I was in charge of writing down the gas mileage we got with each tank and the exact time we crossed state lines. I nodded my head each time he told me to write down new information. I pretended to be equally intrigued by the gas mileage, but really, the only thing that was going through my head was, “This Is Some Bullshit.”

On one trip, we drove from Texas to Niagara Falls, with a pit stop at the Smithsonian.

Somewhere outside Washington, D.C., my bladder failed me. I purposely didn’t drink more than two sips of soda during our lunch at Crystal’s so I wouldn’t have to use the restroom.

I started complaining. I threatened to pee in my pants if my parents didn’t find a restroom. My impending disaster didn’t move my dad. He had a schedule, and he was going to stick to it.

My mom tried to be helpful. She suggested I pee in the McDonald’s Happy Meal plastic pail I had in the car.

Even as a 7-year-old, I had standards. There was just no way I was going to ruin a perfectly good trick-or-treat pail by peeing in it.

I started crying. I told my parents that Jesus was watching and that He would send my parents to Hell. The threat of eternal damnation did the trick. My dad agreed to pull over at the next rest stop, but not before giving my mom the “why didn’t we just use birth control” look. Then we got stuck in traffic.

Half an hour later, when we got to the rest stop, I carried my pee-filled bucket to the garbage can. Just as I was about to throw it in, my mom shouted, “WAIT, it’ll be good as new once I wash it out for you.”

I’m starting a support group- Frequent Urinator Club for Kids or F.U.C.K. for short.

It could be a bi-monthly shindig, offering support for the bladder-challenged younger folks. We could exchange gas station bathroom reviews, watch instructional videos on how to construct makeshift restrooms, and collaborate on a short pamphlet for our loved ones about our special needs.
Road trip stories, y’all?
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the slhf disease

I think I have The Syphilis-Leprosy-Herpes-Fungus Disease growing on my left cheek. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. I’m waiting for my cheek to fall off. It’s probably going to hurt a lot, but mostly, I’m concerned about my ability to effectively chew Twizzlers with such a huge hole in my face.

I got the disease as a result of a drive-by several weeks ago.

I abandoned my family to spend time with my buddy-since-junior-high, Kris.

We headed out to a crowded club. I managed to brush my hair and throw on a little Carmex. That may be where I went wrong. Perhaps the come-hither menthol scent of my $1.79 lip balm drove the men crazy.

We made new friends. We asked important questions.

“Sir, why do you need sunglasses when it is already so dark in here?”

“Sir, was the whole shirt too expensive? Is that why you only purchased half of it?”

“Sir, could you step back just a little? Your spittle is watering down my glass of wine.”

Instead of asking my new friends such serious life questions, I should have been paying attention to the power of my lip balm.

One man leaned in and whispered gently in my ear, “You smell nice.”

“It’s Carmex. Just a little something I don on special nights.”

And The Syphilis-Leprosy-Herpes-Fungus Disease giver? He didn’t even bother with conversation. He leaned in and kissed my left cheek as he walked by. It didn’t even slow his stride.

A drive-by kiss, y’all. Lordy, at least have the courtesy to ogle my breasts or pinch my ass first. 
Any funny girls’ night out stories?
p.s. If the new commenting system is giving you any trouble, please send me an angry email.

p.p.s. Another interview! A big thanks to Hyphen Magazine and Theresa Celebran Jones