I’ve made no secret that since my hysterectomy, and then my trachelectomy* a year later to remove my cervix, that things have been a bit…untrustworthy in the urine department. I tread dangerously on a cliff of incontinence – a sneeze, a good laugh, a coughing fit can all undo me with a brief burst. Kegels? Yeah – not helping so much. My poor lady garden has been tilled one too many times. It’s time for those embarrassing weights, frankly. Amazon’s suggested shopping list for me is about to get a LOT more interesting once I start browsing…
*a fancy word for removing the cervix, strangely NOT the trachea
I visit the bathroom frequently, and try to always cough a few times when I think I’m done, just to be sure. It’s not a perfect routine, but it has helped a lot. If I know I’ll be out with the girls I’ll double down on the protection with a pad. Like a little old lady, which is mortifying but a necessity.
Recently one of my besties celebrated her birthday – and it was a low key night. We met her and her fiance at a dive bar/chinese joint near our house. We are regulars. The food is a step up from the mall, the drinks are strong, the atmosphere is glorious, dated, full of locals, and the bar tab is always delightfully cheap.
As we could literally walk home, I took an opportunity to overindulge. It is rare I do so. I was nearly killed in 2003 by a drunk driver who hit me – and I tend to take designated driver responsibilities quite seriously. I drank a few Long Islands, the drink of blousy 20 somethings, and then we visited a local weed store. By the time we got home, I was a hot mess. I spent quite a long time doing a softshoe in our kitchen to a song called, “Bananaphone.”
Jason’s patience was wearing thin. By the time I picked up Piglet, held her to my ear, and exclaimed, “CHIHUAHUAPHONE!” I thought he was going to divorce me.
Instead, he decided to play dirty, and he brought up a horrible song on youtube, by Billie Piper. It’s called Honey 2 the B. It sounds like something that hit the cutting room floor after the Spice Girls left the studio in the 90s, and it should have stayed on the floor. It’s a running joke in our house, we surprise each other with performances of it regularly.
I decided two could play the annoying game, and I hopped on his lap to give him a lap dance. A comical, terrible, intentionally awful, lappie. I straddle him, start singing along, I’m grinding, and he’s horrified and amused but mostly horrified. I can’t take the look on his face any longer, and I start laughing.
And officially made it the worst lap dance in history. I peed. A lot. All over him. Me. The couch. A dog. The rug. I was peeing and laughing and crying and screaming. I realized I was starting to pee and then couldn’t help but laugh and it just flooded forth in a torrent – and his eyes bulged out of his head. He looked down at the urine running everywhere, then at me, and screamed incredulously, “OHMYGOD! You aren’t doing that on purpose, are you?!”
He ran to the shower, and I scooped up all of our wet clothes and took them to the washing machine. I took some Lysol wipes and started working on the leather couch and floor. I wandered into the bathroom to shower off and he said, “HELL NO! You take your OWN shower!” I sat there waiting for him to finish up, and he shuts off the water. Grabs a towel. Looks at me good and hard and says, “We can safely say I’m not into a golden shower.”
I showered off and was still so mortified that I went and sheepishly slept in the guest room. The next morning I crawled into bed, apologetically, and he rolled over, gave me a nuzzle, and said, “You’re my Honey 2 the Pee.”
And that’s why I’ll never, ever give another lappie as long as I live.
