Don't Ask...

So the first days of “Staycation 2011” were pretty routine. A trip to the local beach, a hike through the state park and a trip to Jones Beach, also known as the Big Wa Wa. 

Don’t ask me why….

I mean I could tell you, if I haven’t already, which I think I may have, and it is kind of an interesting story…but don’t ask cuz I just don’t want to get into it.

Okay?

Okay….

Anyway, the weather was nice; warm actually for the first part of the week, so summer still prevailed. In fact it might have been the nicest beach day of the whole season.

There’s really not a whole lot to say though about hikes and a couple of trips to the beach.  They are what they are. Quiet, serene, calm, peaceful and whatever other synonym you’d like to apply to relaxing.

Not a lot of wildlife to be found in the woods on this particular trip other than an assortment of chipmunks and squirrels.

Z was disappointed we didn’t come upon any deer, but I was quietly relieved since the misunderstanding I had the last time was still fresh in my mind.

I mean I could tell you, if I haven’t already, which I think I may have, and it is kind of an interesting story…but don’t ask cuz I just don’t want to get into it.

Okay?

Okay….

When we go on these day trips the first thing I usually like to do, or should say have to do, since nobody actually likes this activity or at least shouldn’t…is pee.

In fact Z calls me “The Urinator” since she says I never left a rest room on the road without saying, “I’ll be back….”

That Z…so clever.

I blame my grandmother for this problem.  I blame her for conditioning me to feel as if I always need to use the “facilities” whenever I’m about to leave the house.

You know… “Make sure you go before we go…cuz you never know…”

My Grandmother, with her incessant rhyming… also, so clever.

So now, I can’t even go out to retrieve the newspaper in the morning without feeling like I should go...”Cuz you never know…”

When I grew up a little—very little— and entered my rebellious stage, I refused “to go”. 

“You’ll be sorry, Mr. too big to go,” my grandmother reproached and still reproaches in my mind.

So even if I don’t have “to go”… haven’t had a drop of liquid in 3 or 4 days, the minute I get in the car…I have…“to go”. 

Guilt go…I guess.

So I’ve seen the inside of a lot of rest rooms in my day…a lot of urinal experience, so to speak.

And there’s definitely a protocol involved.

Men know what I’m talking about.

Women shouldn’t, and if you do…then more power to you.

Peeing standing up definitively rocks!

A zip and a whip…and we’re done.

Women…not so much.

In fact I’m not really sure what goes on in those ladies rooms.  The one time I walked in by mistake—I swear it was a mistake—I saw so many odd boxes and displays attached to the walls it looked like you had your own private casino in there.

The newer urinals of say the last 10-15 years are reflective of the whole 21^st century metrosexual urination movement. They’re usually shielded by some sort of a barrier so urinal etiquette is your basic eyes front-no talking variety. Some places even put the sports section up on the wall to hold your attention, while you hold…well, you know.

With the older, not-so-private urinals, made when men were men and not afraid to flaunt it, selection is key.  If there are 4 or more units—so to speak—then maybe not as key, but you want to make sure there’s proper spacing between you and your co-urinators.

This means that the grouping will usually fill alternately, from the outside in. And if you’re the unfortunate schmo who comes in when the only respite is smack dab in the middle of the group...well, you have a choice to make.  Man up and step up…or retreat to one of those suspect sissy stalls, where you might find Mulder and Scully investigating what manner of alien beast had been in there last.  

And then there’s the ultimate macho of all macho urinator scenarios; the open cattle trough.

Found in some sports arenas built prior to the late 90’s, the trough is just that…a solitary 10-20…maybe even 50 foot open conveyance,

No modesty, no protocol, no spacing. 

Just the anarchy of a hundred over filled beer drinker’s elbowing for space, standing on either side, like unsteady gladiators about to enter the arena, un-leashing an unholy sudsy tide, giving new meaning to the term, the house of dancing waters.

Really quite a sight…if you were looking, which you shouldn’t be….

Don’t ask me why….

I mean I could tell you, if I haven’t already, which I think I may have, and it is kind of an interesting story…but don’t ask cuz I just don’t want to get into it.

Okay?

Okay….

Anyway, sorry if you found this to be an offensive topic and unsuitable for such a family oriented forum.  I know, it’s a topic that’s never discussed in polite company….

I just felt it was time to break through the yellow wall of silence.

It can’t be avoided….

As the Urinator always says….

“I’ll be back….”

You can count on it…

And so will you….