07.19.11

f.u.c.k.

Kickin’ it old school today with my BlogHer Voice of the Year Humor Honoree post. People with small bladders, unite. 

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?
July 19, 2011
07.18.11

Monday Dare: I got your back, kid.

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 made before The Project started, 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: Try to teach Cal a life lesson without using the word “asshole.”

My gift of serial awkwardness makes it tough to say the right words when it really counts. When the people I love are hurting, I’m often at a loss for words. So I say shit a lot and stomp around, just to let my loved ones know I got their back. 

It’s a lot harder to tell your 11-year-old you got her back when the offender is also 11 years old. Somehow, telling Cal to stand up to that trick-ass bitch just doesn’t seem appropriate. Actually, it’s probably pretty appropriate, but I’m working on this whole “be a lady” thing (as you can tell), so I’m thinking of other ways to convey my support and my love.

A bully has been bothering Cal. I’ll get real with you for a second here- when Cal isn’t around and I happen to think of this bully, I cry a lot and say words out loud like whorebag and asshole.

I know what it’s like to be the target of a mean girl. As a kid, I lived across the street from a girl who vacillated between acting like my best friend one minute and then taunting me the next. She believed in friendship tests. Every day, there was something new I had to do if I wanted to be her friend. I finally defied her and told her “no” when she wanted me to walk along the edge of my roof in the rain gutter. I wasn’t a smart kid, but I was pretty sure the gutters wouldn’t hold my weight, and I was going to plummet to the stone below. When I refused, she went home. For the rest of the time I lived on that street, I was the object of her ridicule and gossip.

A few years ago, I went back to my hometown in Texas. As I was exiting a parking garage, the ticket attendant asked if my name was Elizabeth. When I confirmed it, she pointed to herself and asked, “Don’t you remember me? I lived across the street from you as a kid.” She was genuinely happy to see me, as if we were old friends shooting the breeze. It seemed like she wanted to hug it out. I didn’t get out of my car.

She held up the line of cars as she told me about her two other jobs, her two kids, and her absent husband. You would think I would drive away in glee. Was I happy to see my bully, the one I had fantasized for years about stabbing in the eyes, just scraping by and haggard? Not really. Instead, I felt bad for her. Bad for her kids.

That’s the life lesson I want to teach Cal. Stand up for yourself, but don’t turn into a trick-ass bitch like your bully. Because one day, you might need her to make change for you in a parking garage.

Ever been bullied? How did you handle it? Thoughts on how to approach it with Cal?
image via wildemoon shop @etsy.com

July 18, 2011