Warning: this post refers to things such as urine, spit, blocked toilets and I may even mention tampons... there is NOTHING cute in this post!!
Last night a dear friend awoke in the wee hours to the sound of her husband, well, wee-ing. On the nightstand. Yes. That's what I said- her husband was peeing, NOT, in their lovely new master bath which is conveniently located a mere 15 steps from their bed, but instead, in a rather drunken-haze, he chose to simply relieve himself on their attractive dark wood bedside table. Clearly a good solution. I imagine the brain message goes something like this:
Brain - We must get up to pee!
Drunken Person - Fuck off, brain.
Brain - No. Up now! We cannot piss in the bed as that will ANGER and ANNOY the wife. We must pee and we must do it out
of the bed!
Drunken Person - Shut it.
Brain - I have a compromise. Let us get up and pee. We will pee where we stand, which is NOT in the bed, and therefore we
will not ANGER or ANNOY the wife!
Drunken Person - Good plan.
This rather shocking moment came not long after my girlfriend was first awoken by the horrific sounds of what she originally thought was the cat yakking up a hairball but instead turned out to be said husband um, clearing his throat. He, in fact, cleared his throat with such vigor that he ended GAKKING up a human hair-ball of haddock and OJ. Yum! Love!
So, she gets up, shoots her slumbering man-cat a dirty look and then trudges to the previously mentioned master bath to, you know, rinse off her shoulder and retrieve a fresh pillow case, and then endeavors to get back to sleep. Her thoughts skirt along the lines of, "I will never have sex with that man again." Blessedly, sleep follows quickly and off she goes to dream about waterfalls and rushing rivers and kayaking and... why the water theme? What could it be? (Now, don't jump and think we are at the pee part of our story) That running water sound? Why, it is the sound of the children's toilet overflowing!
Ah. Good. We have arrived at clogged toilets. There is a classy element to this post, no? But, I digress. Now, my girlfriend also lives in a beach city and when you tell a plumber you live in a Beach City, he smiles widely and begins to mentally plan the family trip to Bermuda because that is how awful and antiquated plumbing is in Beach Cities. What has apparently happened at my girlfriend's house is a visitor from an Inland locale has flushed some sort of female sanitary product down the toilet and it has resurfaced in the early hours with the innocent flush of a 6 year old's late night potty run. Ooops! There is now mopping and towel absorbing and plunging and cursing (LOTS and LOTS of cursing) and finally all is dry and Lysol-ed and, once again, my girlfriend changes her nightgown and hits the bed.
And once again, she dreams of waterfalls and rushing rivers and kayaking and yes indeed, this time it is the very wrong sound of furniture being urinated on.
The good news is that she did not actually kill her husband and she was instead treated to a very special afternoon of treats involving the dentist, the tax assessor, and the augering of the toilet. I am thinking of nominating her for an award.
Her husband, I am pretty sure, is going to murder me when he reads this, so here I shall make a feeble attempt to justify my blogging with, "SHE told me to do it!"
Balls to you Marissa Cooper, THIS, is Life in the Real OC.