TMI Thursday: Pee-Pee Envy

Well, folks, it’s officially ON LIKE DONKEY KONG. TMI Thursdays are here! I invite all of you to join in and share just a little (or a lot) too much with us, the interwebs. Your goal should be to simultaneously inspire cries of “Me, too!”, “I did not need to know that”, and “I can’t believe she/he just put that in print” across the blogosphere.

Without further ado, my first official “TMI Thursday” entry. And you know it’s a good one, because even Lem did an e-double take when I ran the idea past her. (And by “good one” I obviously mean, “I am truly a troubled person. Enjoy.”)

(You must be this tall to ride. Those of you with weak stomachs or heart conditions, please look away now.)

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Those of you who know B and I in real life, know that we’re two pretty effed up individuals. We have incredibly sick senses of humor, little to no tact, and haven’t met a line we won’t cross. In the privacy of our own apartment, and anywhere else when we get drunk, we constantly try to one-up each other until one of us actually shocks the other person. It almost never happens.

Our conversations are peppered with, “no one can EVER know this, but…”s. And then they usually end up in my blog the next day. Sorry, darling. (I do ask his blessing, but I believe it’s been given begrudgingly on a few occasions.) This? Is one of those moments.

Sigmund Freud, and guys in general, love to go on about how women suffer from “Penis Envy.” I’m here to tell you that it’s true. But not quite in the way you thought.

I’ve always been jealous of how easy it is for guys to pee.

As a server for many years, I’ve struggled with the logistics of trying to pee while wearing underwear, black pants, a tucked-in button down shirt, an apron tied in a very specific manner (so as to be flattering and accessible- trust me, it’s an art), and often times, a tie. PLUS, the apron is full of all sorts of doodads (pens, change, wine key, lighter, etc) that can easily fall into the toilet if not properly managed. Point is, as a female server, it’s about a five minute process just to get READY to pee, never mind the actual peeing and then re-assembling of said getup. So you can imagine my chagrin when I was talking to a male server about the annoyance of it all one day, and he demonstrated (well, not really, but you get the idea) how easy it was for a guy: Yank apron to side, pull out through fly. Pee. Zip up. End of story.

Dressed up in work clothes is a pain in the ass too. On a given day, I’ll have on underwear, tights, a tank top, and a button-down tucked into a skirt. Peeing? You guessed it: Quite the process.

And we women all know how annoying it can be at a concert, sporting event, or other outdoors venue. The porta-potties, if there are any, are guaranteed to either be too vile to contemplate, OR have a line stretching for half a mile. A guy can just walk anywhere in the parking lot or to a stretch of woods and let fly. We have to do that cute little balancing act where we hide, squat, and try not to pee on our foot- oh shit, I just peed on the other one. (Without fail.) And if you’re drunk, now there’s the possibility of falling over… INTO it… (This has never happened to me. Unless you know me and then, well yeah, of course it has. It’s me, after all.)

Where on earth am I going with all this? Well, let’s all take a second to unbunch our e-panties and I’ll tell you.

My mother was here this past weekend, which was lovely and delightful and I adore her and such, but it did mean that the whole weekend, B and I couldn’t really be us. We slept in the living room while she slept in our bed. We had to censor (although we did get her to watch a lot of Sunny, which was hilarious). We couldn’t get wasted and pass out and nurse a hangover til noon, which is of course the whole purpose of weekends, no?

So when she finally left and Monday night we had OUR PLACE back to ourselves, we went a little crazy. We got a little drunk. And by a little, I mean oh whoops where did that entire bottle of Cafe Rica go? Wasn’t it right next to the unopened bottle of wine I can’t find? Yeah, that kind of drunk. (What? You don’t get blackout on Mondays? Pussy.) Getting ready to hardcore faceplant stumble into gently lay ourselves in bed after saying the Lord’s Prayer, I had just finished brushing my teeth when B headed for the porcelain god and assumed the stance.

“Hey, you wanna do it?” He asked, clearly every bit as intoxicated as I. I looked at him, confused at first, and then realized what he meant.

“YES, obviously!” Delighted, I danced over, reached in from the side, and took aim. I can’t explain what was going through my head, other than, “New game!” He laughed at me, a lot, which is fair, considering the absolute ridiculosity (new word!) of the situation. I don’t think he knew what he was getting himself into. What can I say? We’re weird.

It was surprisingly difficult, like a fireman struggling with an unwieldy hose. But I welcomed the challenge and ultimately emerged a champion.

I can’t wait for snow.

And THAT, my friends, is way, way more than you ever needed wanted to know. Welcome to TMI Thursday, bitches.