How do you spell “relief”? Pee!

Some people seem to have a great memory of their childhood school years. I’m not one of those people. I can’t name every teacher I had and the corresponding grade I had them. I can’t tell you what grade I learned to write cursive, or when I decided Social Studies was for chumps.

But for most years of my schooling, there’s always something that sticks out in my mind; something that I will never forget. This story is about kindergarten. As good a place to start as any.

My kindergarten classroom seemed to have it’s own bathroom… or maybe one was just really close by (see… bad memory), but what I do know for sure was that there were signs on the door to say whether or not it was occupied.

And with a quick flip!!

These bathrooms weren’t your typical school bathrooms; they were like home bathrooms: one toilet, one sink. Main difference being the locks on the doors had been removed for safety reasons (they were dealing with kindergarteners after all); thus the signage.

Despite my upbringing, I’ve always been very mindful of providing people with bathroom privacy. You might be wondering what my upbringing consisted of in order to warrant that kind of comment. We were a one bathroom family. As such, if someone was in the shower and someone else needed to pee, you went on in, did your business and made necessary small talk so that it wasn’t awkward. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been mindful of giving people their bathroom privacy.

Because of that, I was way more likely to be standing in the hallway doing the pee dance in front an empty bathroom with a stop sign on the door than anyone else in my class. Others were way more likely to walk in on you because they had no respect for the sign. And then there was the girl that I’ll never forget for the rest of my life.

I have no idea what her name was, but I can remember her face like it was yesterday.

Every time I went to the bathroom, she’d walk in on me. I was always washing my hands when she did it, so it wasn’t a big deal. What was a big deal is how she dealt with the walking-ins. Most people would open the door, realize what they’ve done, apologize and back out (or freak out and slam the door shut). This girl would walk in, shut the door, drop her drawers and pull up a seat on the toilet, all the while grinning up at me while I stared at her in disbelief.

Every. Time.

The first time it happened, I thought maybe I forgot to switch the sign and that she really had to pee so when she saw that I was in there it didn’t matter, she had to go. But then I became really adamant about using the signs and still every time I started washing my hands, she’d waltz on in the door.

I started trying to pee really fast and take less time in the bathroom just so that she never “had to wait” outside while I was in there. And still, the second the tap was turned on, in she came.

I don’t know if I was the only one she did this to; I don’t know why she did it. But I’m fairly certain she’s the reason I ended up peeing my pants in class that year. But maybe that’s another story for another day.

Breaking up is hard to do

I may have mentioned on here before that I have a tendency to break things. And I have someone in my life that helps me fix them. Mostly because he loves me and is able to fix stuff, but also because if he doesn’t, I call him the worst friend ever.

I may or may not be a giant asshole.

I don’t always call on Dave when I need things fixed, I also call on him when I need help with things. Big difference, I know. For instance, my dad gave me a picture for my birthday last year. It wasn’t, what I call, wall-ready (it didn’t have a hanging wire); I also didn’t have a nail in the house to hang it even if it was wall-ready. I know, I’m useless. So I did the next best thing: I propped it up against my dresser and that’s where it lived for months.

One day, Dave & I were in home depot picking up hinges for a cabinet that I broke when I mentioned the picture. We purchased the necessary supplies and when we got back to my place he made it all happen. He installed a hanging wire on the frame and I put a nail in the wall to make myself feel useful.

A few weeks later, I purchased another picture that, again, was not wall-ready. Armed with my picture hanging supplies and my hanging wire know-how, I did all of it myself. I was pretty proud of myself and called Dave to get my congratulatory pat on the back. He wasn’t nearly as pleased about it as I was; he felt as though I didn’t need him anymore. I tried to assure him that there were plenty of other things in my life that I have absolutely no clue about; he wasn’t convinced.

A few months later, I purchased, yet another, wall hanging (for the record, prior to this picture buying spree, I had two things on my wall and one of them was a clock). The most recent purchase was large and unruly. The frame came with all the necessary accessories, handy-dandy instructions and wasn’t complicated (thank-you IKEA), but I was having a hard time wrestling it on my own.

Thus, Dave to the rescue. He came over and finished the job I started and we got it on the wall. This was several months ago. Fast forward to last week. I was lying on my couch looking at the picture when I noticed that it looked… weird. Upon further inspection (i.e. getting my ass off the couch) I realized that it was warping. The backing was bowing out at the top; I guess the frame is too heavy for the thin backing. (thank-you IKEA)

I took the picture off the wall and resisted the urge to call Dave immediately whining. I was going to see him two days later; I would whine then. And whine I did. He told me he didn’t know if there was anything he could do. He was inches away from being the worst friend ever again, but then he said he would come over and take a look. Phew. Sometime this year.

Then I told him that he better come over soon to fix his shoddy work.

I don’t know why he puts up with me.

Thanks Dave! (P.S. It’s June 18th!)

Jack and the Beanstalk

There’s this pub attached to the hotel where I go dancing; I’ve been to this pub a few times. The first time I stepped foot in the bar, I met this guy named Jack. I sat down a couple seats away from him and it took him all of 3 minutes to start talking to me. I think he opened with “Have you ever seen Alcatraz?” because there was a commercial for that show on the TV above us. I had to say no because, for one, I had never watched it, but also didn’t even know it existed. In fact, I had to look at the TV to understand what he was asking me.

Luckily, the guy a couple seats down from me actually had things to say on the subject and the three of us had a nice conversation about TV shows. I say the three of us, but I think they mostly talked and I was just hoping that something Simpson related would come up so that I could actually contribute to the conversation. I’m not sure if it ever did; I might have just sat there and looked pretty.

Conversation ended up turning to what brought me to the bar that night; I explained that the hotel next door had salsa dancing. He said he didn’t know that the hotel offered such things, but that it explained why he often saw little Latinas wearing sequin-y clothes on Saturday nights. I told him I wasn’t sure the pub even existed and I certainly didn’t know that it had five pool tables. I think it’s safe to say that we both learned something that night.

Stopping in at the pub before dancing quickly became my regular routine; every time I went there, Jack wasn’t there. Until about a month ago. I pulled up a seat at the bar, he looked over at me and said “Oh, hey… … salsa dancing, right?”. That’s right. I ordered my drink and he reminded the bartender that I enjoy lime in it, even though I forgot to ask. Always looking out for me.

Last night, I went back, I sat down at the bar and a couple seats away from me was Jack. I hardly recognized him, he normally sits on the right hand side of the bar, and that night he was on the left. I guess he didn’t recognize me from that angle either because he asked if I was going samba dancing. Close enough.

He was playing Keno and asked if I play. I said not really and I had only just recently learned how it worked. Jack set me up with a game card and told me to fill it out. The only other time I’ve played the game, someone else was driving and all I had to do was pick numbers. I tried to fill out the card and make it look like I knew what I was doing since I’d just declared my knowledge of the game. I may or may not have had to ask a question or two.

After filling out the card, I looked at it and said “I’m done now!! … … So… how do I turn this into a ticket?”. Apparently I don’t know that much about the game. He summoned the bartender and made it happen because next thing I know, I have a Keno ticket in front of me with my numbers on it. Magic.

My first draw comes up and within seconds my two numbers are drawn. I’m very excited about my win, which is so unlike me, I know. I bounced in my seat, clapping my hands, saying “I won, I won!”. After that, every time, one of my numbers got drawn Jack would clap his hands and say “One more…”.

I’m not sure if he was making fun of me or not.

My other nine draws were a bust, but I was still high off my win, so it all ended well. I cashed in my ticket and the bartender asked if I wanted to replay; I decided to quit while I was ahead. I got my $10 cash, and slid it over to Jack, since he was the one that paid for the ticket. I guess it wasn’t that magical after all. He wouldn’t take it. He said I won it, told me that they were my winnings. I did the whole “No, no, I insist”, he did the same thing; I feigned a valiant effort, but inside I was really like this:

To try and make it up to him, I ordered us a shot. It’s the least I could do. After awhile, he was getting ready to leave, as was I; my bill got dropped on the bar. My bill which miraculously only contained half of the drinks I ordered. Any other place, I would have brought this to the bartender’s attention, however, at this bar, it’s par for the course. For some reason.

Jack snatched up my bill, grabbed my $10 win, threw another $10 onto the pile and handed it off to the bartender. I reached across the bar and grabbed the pile before the bartender could get there. I gave him his $10 back; he put it back on the pile. The bartender, smart girl, walked away to give us some time to settle our dispute. I gave him his $10 back, he put in back on the pile. I started to give him his $10 back, he pushed it aside, literally ran away and said “Have fun at salsa!”.

I walked out of the bar, high on my win, drunk off my drinks, with as much money as I walked in with. That just doesn’t happen everywhere. Gotta love that place!