Sitting Down To Pee

What do you get when you mix three cups of coffee, forty-five minutes of hellish traffic, and six failed attempts to remember your new code for the office security system? Wet pants and a visit from the police.

I like being a girl. It does irritate me that my dry cleaning, hair cuts, and deodorant cost more because of my gender, but I deal with it.
Mastering the art of walking in heels, the proper application technique for eyeliner, and remembering to keep my legs crossed when wearing dresses are issues I still struggle with, but we all have our crosses to bear.

Five minutes after I pulled out of the driveway at the New Digs, I had to pee. ( Dammit). Fifteen minutes after that, I really had to pee.

I turned to diversionary techniques. Multiplication tables. State Capitals. Leg shaking. Lamaze breathing. No good. Time to bargain with the bladder. An internal dialogue that goes something like this:

T: “You can do this! Not much farther, Keep up the good work!”
Bladder: “STOP THE CAR.”
T: “Yes! Yes, you can. Be positive. We will be there soon. I promise.”
Bladder: “STOP THE CAR.”
T: “Did you know the capital of Idaho is Boise? Do you know how I remember that? Boy’s eat Idaho potatoes. Clever, yes?”
Bladder: “STOP THE FUCKING CAR.”
T: “I cannot stop the car. We are on the freeway. We cannot pee on the freeway. SHUT UP!”
Bladder: “PEE IN A CUP. “
T: “Are you insane? I will do no such thing.”
Bladder: “PEE HERE. PEE NOW. PEE ON THE FREEWAY. PEE UP A ROPE. PEE IN YOUR PANTS. JUST PEEPEEPEEEPEE…”
T: “Calm down! I do not think I need to remind you we are a girl. We do not have the luxury of peeing any damn place we feel like it. We will never be able to feign a car problem and pee on the highway. We will not write our name with pee in the snow. We are not destined to pee in a beer bottle while driving at seventy miles an hour. We must sit down to pee! Please, I am begging, wait a few more minutes.”
Bladder: “PEE! PEE! PEE! PEE!...”

I am pleased to report I made it to the parking lot of Fussy & Bitchy Inc. I hurdled the front steps in my heels like a track star. I kept my legs tightly crossed while fumbling for the key to the door. In spite of the improperly applied eyeliner running down my cheeks (from crying the last ten blocks of the trip). I was able to open the door and punch my code into the alarm.
Wrong code (shit). Three attempts later, the alarm was blaring and the phone was ringing (shit).

Bladder: “DO NOT ANSWER THAT PHONE!”
T: “I have to. It is the police.”
Bladder: “PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…”
T: “Hello, Fussy & Bitchy Inc.?”

Dispatcher: “We have an alarm call. What is your emergency?”

T: “I have to pee!”
Bladder: “PEE NOW! PEENOW! PEENOW! “

Dispatcher: “Maa’m?”

T: “Umm, No emergency I forgot my code. Sorry.”
Bladder: “NOW NOW NOW…”

Dispatcher: “What is the password?”

T: “Password?”
Bladder: “GOGOGOGO! PEEPEEPEEPEE!”

Dispatcher: “Without the password, I cannot cancel the police call.”

T: “The lone eagle flies at night?
Bladder: “PEENOWONTHEFLOORINYOURPANTSPEEPEE…”

Dispatcher: “Maa'm the police are on their way.”

T: “Fine, Whatever—Send the National Guard and the Dog Catcher for all I care-- I have to pee!“
Bladder:”PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP…”

Down the hall to the right, I made it. Hallejfuckinglujah!

T: (sits down to pee) “Well we're here! Pee already!”
Bladder: “You know I can’t pee with the door open!”
T: “Oh, for the love of God! You are explaining this to the police!”

Out-T.

image:http://www.flickr.com/photos/imiran/457698694/