Wet pants are the worst

As you may or may not remember, I’ve had a tendency in the past to accidentally spill drinks. And by accidentally spill drinks, I mean, accidentally dump entire pints of beer into the laps of unsuspecting friends. Check out the old post – it’s a gem!

Well… it happened again. Let me paint you a picture.

The night started off innocently enough – regular Friday night routine of going out for dinner (a.k.a soup) with some friends. A drink or two was had. Another friend had wanted to meet up for drinks; when one of my friends at dinner got wind of it she said she would also be interested in going out.

So we met up at the local pub and had a few more drinks. This pub is notorious for shutting down early (some would call it an old folk bar and they would be right), so we moseyed on down the road to the next pub to get a couple more before the last-last call. Which is part of the routine for “one of those” Friday nights.

In general, I’ve been known to attract weirdos and my friend happens to be quite the looker. Those talents combined, we always have an interesting night when we head out; this night was no exception. We weren’t sitting at the bar for very long before some dude came over from the other side to chat us up.

You could say I was feeling a little jealous of the attention, or lack thereof. You could say that maybe, just maybe, I wanted in on the conversation. You could also say I wasn’t paying enough attention to my surroundings.

It’s no surprise that things got out of hand and drinks were spilt.

I totally had this coming.

ThatWhiteGirl’s a Spitey Bitch (c’mon… act shocked)

This is a story that got brought up in conversation with some work folk the other day. I thought it was a good idea to also share it on this platform. So that everyone* can know the story.

*By “everyone”, I mean, all 8 of you.

In my defense, this story took place when I was very young. So young that I don’t even remember it; it’s just a story that my family likes to remind me of. Every. Chance. They get. As such, this story is told according to how it has been told to me.

When I was very young, I lived with Mom (my mother), Granny (my maternal grandmother) and Danny (my older brother). I loved Granny more than life itself. She basically couldn’t have a waking moment alone without me following her around and being a general pest. Anywhere Granny went, I went too; anything Granny did, I wanted to do too. Naturally, she nicknamed me her shadow.

Despite the fact that Granny loved me almost as much as I loved her, there were times when I just couldn’t tag along. I hated these times probably as much as Granny longed for them.

One day, there was something Granny had to do that I couldn’t be a part of. She walked out the door with a grin on her face and I stood there scowling with my hands on my hips. You could say I was unhappy with being left at home while Granny frolicked. Or went to the doctor, but whatever, I was 3.

Shortly after Granny returned home, her and Mom noticed something.

Upon closer inspection…

Upon even closer inspection…

Eventually the “where did the shit come from” game ended and Granny made her way upstairs to her bedroom.

That’s right. I shit on my grandmother’s bed to get back at her.

Moral of the story: Don’t piss me off and leave me alone with your things.

How do you spell “relief”–part two

Here’s a series of posts I never knew was going to happen… and now that I think of it, I might even have a part three up my sleeve. For part one, go here.

I distinctly remember the last time I wet the bed.

I was about 6 or 7; far too old to be wetting the bed. I was ashamed. I was confused. And I never told anyone about the events leading up to “the incident”.

I was sleeping soundly, oblivious to the fact that my tiny 6 year old bladder was progressively filling with that last glass of juice I had before bedtime.

Very few dreams stick with you. More often than not, they slip away from you just as you open your eyes and all that’s left is the sensation of what kind of dream you had: “Well… that was a weird dream…”.

Yet, 27 years later, I still remember the dream I was having the last time I wet the bed.

For some reason, I was dreaming about The Cosby Show. The Huxtables were in bed, Mrs. Huxtable was reading a book and Cliff was being a jackass as per usual. He may or may not have been trying to get some.

The dream was a weird combination of me watching the situation unfold (like it was on TV) and being in the bed with them; as them. It was a weird combination of being both The Huxtables at the same time. It was a fucked up out of body omniscient experience.

I remember being Cliff and feeling the sweet relief as his/my bladder emptied, then as Clair, feeling the disgusting warmth spread from his side of the bed to hers/mine. She was shocked and appalled; he was relieved and not as embarrassed as he should have been. As she was screaming at him for wetting the bed, I started gaining consciousness.

My bed felt warm, yet cold, and wet; I woke up and found myself lying in my own puddle of shame. I remember getting up and going to tell my mom what happened (less The Cosby Show dream, of course) and how mad she got as she stripped the wet sheets off my bed. I stood sheepishly in the corner, my head hung downward, avoiding eye contact at all costs. It had been a couple years since my last nighttime accident; she thought I’d outgrown it as much as I had.

After that, every so often, I would have a similar dream (although not featuring The Cosby’s). Basically, I would dream that I needed to go to the bathroom and when I finally found one, that familiar relief would wash over me. I would wake up in a full-blown panic; hoping beyond hope that my bed was dry and my bladder was full. They always were, but I was always afraid that one time, they wouldn’t be.

Over time, that dream has occurred less and less, but, oddly enough, I had that dream last week. It hadn’t happened in such a long time that I had blocked out the memory completely; it’s like it never happened. But as I woke up with a slight feeling of dread, all I could think about was the time that Bill Cosby wet the bed. Never again, will I be able to look at Bill the same.

And now, neither will you.

You're easily amused by things... have you seen my monkey?

So, I'm going to a concert tomorrow night. I'm really excited about it!!! But I didn't want to go alone... so I managed to convince a friend of mine to go with me (yes, the same friend from a previous post... My apple tastes like parsley).

So, anyway, I convinced him to go with me and since it's tomorrow night we're in the planning stages of actually executing this adventure. And, yes, it will be an adventure. Planning things like when to meet, where to meet etc. So I suggest we meet around the time the gates open (6pm) and go for some dinner and drinks. Well, because, I need to eat and drinking, although not required, is highly desirable. So this is what I suggest and I don't hear back from him.

Until this afternoon. I'm walking through the lab on the way out the door when I check my phone, I have a text from him. I read it. I burst out laughing. Everyone within 3 metres, turns, looks at me (yes, still laughing) and asks what is so funny. Nothing... Ba hahahahahaha...

I leave the lab, walk out into the hallway (yes, still laughing) and continue to get weird looks from everyone in the hallway. I get control of myself. His text, and I quote, there is no improvisation at all here... this is straight from his mouth (or hand?) to your ears (or eyes?)... this actually happened.

Text:

Umm Heather, if we go for a drink(s) should I wear quick drying pants, or bring a pair to change into????

Big thanks to "EliseArt" for providing illustrations that I can crop and use at will. :)

My apple tastes like parsley

I have this weird obsession with tables. I'm kind of like the Goldilocks of tables; always searching for the perfect one. Sometimes, this tendency is elevated by the amount of alcohol consumed. Sometimes.

Size, albeit not everything, is a big factor in choosing a table. For instance, a table that is too large for the situation just doesn't work, like if there's only a few people or if the venue is particularly loud. And tables that are too small are just annoying, like when there's a lot of people and a lot of items (like food, drinks, centerpieces and such). Although intimate, it's really just asking for things to get knocked over. And nobody wants that.

Basically, I just want to be comfortable and that generally means being in control of the table. As well as my surroundings. But mostly the table. I don't need any table thinking it can get the upper hand on me. Nothing good can come from a table like that.

With all that said, the table-choosing criterion that has gotten me in the most trouble would have to be the chair-to-table distance. Too close and I feel like I'm being suffocated, too far and I don't have anything to lean on when I grow weary of supporting my own body weight. Sometimes, this 'weariness' is elevated by the amount of alcohol consumed. Sometimes.

Like this one time at band camp...

A friend of mine agreed to go to a concert with me. To compensate him for the good deed we hit a restaurant, ate some food (probably), drank some beer and then went to the concert. The opening band sucked. At least that's what I tell myself, because the pre beer-drinking bonanza kinda got away on us and we missed the first act entirely. Ooops.

I picked up the bill at the restaurant, so my friend decided to compensate me by buying us beer at the concert. So he comes back. With one beer.

Turns out, the beer was pretty costly, $7.50 for a plastic cup of Molson. Yick. I already had a good buzz on, so in the end, it didn't really matter. But anyway, he came back with only one because he didn't have enough money to buy a beer for himself and a t-shirt for me. So I shared my beer with him. I kept the t-shirt.

Since we were at a rock concert and everything, I decided that it would be appropriate to light a lighter, only I didn't have one. Sometimes when I'm disappointed, I complain loudly. And sometimes, this tendency (and the volume of the complaint) is elevated by the amount of alcohol consumed. Sometimes.

Luckily, my friend had one, and as it turns out, it wasn't just a regular old lighter. It was a camping lighter that works during wind and rain storms. Fancy! He handed me the lighter. I promptly dropped it. And lost it. Oh man, I'm so sorry, I'll totally buy you a new one. Five years later, I still haven't replaced it. Ooops again!

After the concert, I decided we should find a place to have a couple more drinks. As we looked for a bar, we stumbled upon this guy playing bagpipes in full Highland regalia. I promptly emptied my wallet of anything resembling coins and proceeded to do the Irish Jig.

I knew that he was Scottish, but that didn't really matter. After we left the 'second concert', I noticed that I gave away my busfare. Not so much as noticed, more like it occurred to me that since I gave him all of my coins, I had no coins left for the bus. Dammit. Still on the mission to locate alcohol:

Me: So where do you think a bar is?

Friend: I dunno, I'm just kind of walking.

Right then, we saw a sign that read "Bar" and had an arrow pointing at a door. So meant to be - this is going to be great! We go in and we get seated at this table; actually it was a booth, which normally I love, but...

This table was far too large: it was just the two of us and the venue was loud. I immediately decided that this was completely unacceptable, (recall the previous comment about complainly loudly). My friend kindly asked the waitress if we could move. "Absolutely, pick any table you want". Success! Victory is mine!

I chose a table that was the perfect size and had moveable chairs. But my chair was far too close to the table and I felt like I was being suffocated.

In an attempt to remedy this situation, I began trying to move my chair away from the table. But, the whole thing kinda got away on me. As my friend sat down, I kicked the table with so much force, it knocked over his entire beer. Directly into his lap.

I apologized profusely while the waitress mopped up my mess. I offered to let him dump my beer on me, but he wouldn't have it. The waitress said that he should do it. Outside. Then again, she was cleaning up an entire beer off the floor. Well, to be fair, just the amount that didn't absorb into my friends' pants. And yes, it did look like he wet himself.

After we finished the pitcher (well, minus one pint), I decided I had been enough of a pain in the ass for one night, and that we should go home. He offered to ride the skytrain with me to my stop. When we got to my station, he walked me to the bus stop. I grew suspicious:

Me: "Shouldn't you be getting back on the train?"

Friend: "Ummmm, yeah... I was wondering... can I sleep on your couch?"

Me: "What? Why?"

Friend: "Well, because my last bus was like an hour ago and I have no way of getting home"

Me: "What!?! Why didn't you tell me?!"

Friend: "Because you were having so much fun, I didn't want to spoil it."

Seriously, that's actually what he said, so I pretty much had to agree. To do otherwise would be cruel. No, you're not allowed to sleep on my couch, now go off into the streets, sleep on a bus bench and don't forget to expose your wet spot for the world to see!

The next morning I woke up feeling a little under the weather. My friend, however, looked like someone who had been to hell and back and was probably going to vomit because the trip was just so damn agonizing. I tried to make light of the situation:

Me: "Sorry you're sick, but at least your pants are dry!".

Friend: "Ummm, yeah... not quite".

Big thanks to "EliseArt" for providing the illustrations.