Urine My Memories

Not to be indelicate to the female audience -- presuming this blog actually has an audience -- but something struck me funny the other day when I made use of a public restroom at a local restaurant. I mean struck me figuratively, not literally. That would be disgusting.

In that particular restroom, the urinal was mounted so high on the wall as to render it unusable by anyone under, say, seven-foot-five. It became clear after a quick glance around the tiny room it had been decorated by someone who was not a practicing man.

Let's face it, you could relieve yourself on the floor and write your name on the walls with your own feces without significantly impacting the cleanliness of most public restrooms. So, when you find one -- a men's room mind you, not just a unisex bathroom -- that has pretty little handsoaps near the faucet, extra toilet paper stocked neatly beneath the sink, and wall tiles sporting a repeating flower print, it's a safe guess a woman was in charge of the design. And a urinal positioned at a higher altitude than any other urinal in the history of modern plumbing is the final indicator of a non-user calling the shots.

Moreso than as an inconvenience to myself, I considered how utterly useless a high-mounted urinal is to my 11-year-old sons. The entire point of a urinal, as I've always seen it, is to keep men from peeing all over the seat of a standard toilet, thereby reducing the risk of inconveniencing the next seat sitter to come along. If you're then going to mount the urinal so high that men who are not professional basketball players have to stand tippy-toe and arc a stream four feet into the air to avoid free-form urinating all over the restroom, then what possible hope does the average kid have?

Of course, I'd rather have to aim high than pee on my own feet, like those old-timey urinals that run all the way down to the floor make you do. You don't see them around much anymore, but when you come across one you'd better hope your not wearing sandals.

Which reminds me of my favorite urinals of all time, that really weren't so much urinals as a step-down groove in the concrete floor. These were the specialty of some of the racetracks our Dad would take us to from time to time when we were kids. It's amazing how quickly hundreds of beer-filled men can relieve themselves when all they have to do is pee semi-indiscriminately on the floor and let gravity take over. Even the cows at our Uncle John's farm had a more sophisticated waste removal system. You knew you were at a fancy racetrack when they had that twenty-foot-long bathtub in which to pee instead of the floor groove.

So here's a little friendly advice for any ladies out there who might ever find themselves in the position of having to tell a contractor how exactly to mount a urinal:

1. Higher than the toilet.
2. Lower than the sink.

That's really all you need to know.

Oh, yes, don't forget dividers if you're going to install more than one. I'm already trying not to pee all over myself. I don't want to have to worry about the mouth breather next to me who smells like his trip to the restroom is already five minutes too late.



© 2012 Mark Feggeler

Pee in a Cup?

That last hour of a long drive can be the greatest test of one's stamina. Take today, for example.

Two-hundred-eighty miles from Pinehurst to DC -- roughly six hours total if you allow for a little traffic. Stop in Roanoke Rapids for a quick chicken sandwich, waffle fries, and a Diet Coke. Upon realizing the Diet Coke was decaffienated, walk across the parking lot to Starbucks for a grande skinny iced vanilla latte.

Now I'm five hours into a six-hour trip, sipping at the watery remnants of vanilla-flavored coffee, and I'm starting to get that feeling. You know what I'm talking about. That feeling.

That feeling like my stomach is floating up into my lungs.

That feeling like one poorly timed pothole and my car will immediately smell like a reststop urinal.

That feeling like I really need a hollow leg, or a catheter, or an adult diaper.

Does it help that it's been raining the entire freakin' trip? No, it doesn't.

But I don't want to pull off for a pit stop, and not just because I'm now only 45 minutes from my destination and the prospect of a proper bathroom. Do you know how many cars and trucks I've passed? After all the work I've done to dodge and weave around the mixture of maniacs and fogies traveling Interstate 95, the thought of dropping back behind even one of them is profoundly depressing.

Only thirty minutes to go and the pressure is building. I'm reminded of a time when the boys were young, maybe three or four, and we were traveling home from a family vacation. We were halfway along one of those rural stretches of road devoid of any public facilities when the boys declared their need to pee.

In case you are unaware, the bladder of a young child is an undpredictable creature that is easily underestimated. It holds significantly more quantities of liquid than seems physically possible given the diminutive size of its owner, and when it reaches maximum capacity there is little-to-no warning before the emergency release valve opens.

Being the kind of parents who believe children urinating on the shoulder of a rural highway is neither cute nor appropriate, we employed the only decent option available to us -- Snapple bottles. Hey, Snapple always promotes all-natural ingredients, right? What could be more natural than toddler pee?

Only five minutes remaining on my trip to DC. I'm so close to the hotel, but the pressure is almost unbearable. You know, that empty Starbucks cup is looking mighty convenient...



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

Poodle Piddle

The dog shoots me an apprehensive glance.

I'm near her leash. She's near the door.

Not next to it, or propped up against it, applying pressure with her back end to hold in what's threatening to come out. Just somewhere in the vicinity, like under the dining room table.

I call her. She doesn't move. She's played this game too many times before to bother budging from her comfy spot in the shade unless I have the leash ready in hand. Who knows? I might need to fold laundry, or talk to one of the kids, or do something else that will distract me from the act of walking her.

She waits.

She also knows My Lovely Wife has been on the phone this morning, talking to someone the way you only talk to someone who probably is a veterinarian. Veterinarianesque questions involve words like "urine," "test," "exam," "appointment," and "not herself." These words were used while My Lovely Wife held the phone to her ear and stared down at the dog.

The dog isn't stupid. She knows it was a conversation with someone who owns a needle and a very cold steel table.

I finally grab the leash. She uncharacteristically hoists herself off the ground and walks slowly to me, as if I am about to lead her to a poodle-size guillotine. Rubbing behind her ear does nothing to reassure her.

Heading out the front door, she slows as we pass the garage. She thinks she knows what's coming. A fake out. A rouse.

She thinks I think I've tricked her into a walk that will turn into a car ride. She hates car rides, always has, particularly when they end at the veterinarian's office, which is why she tries to apply her brakes.

But we pass the garage without stopping. I encourage her along and her step lightens. We cross the street together and she squats over the sandy soil alongside our quiet lane.

Out of nowhere, I produce a cut-down paper cup that I thrust in the minuscule clearance between poodle hoohah and the ground. She glares at me, but she's a dog, so her indignation subsides quickly. Back in the house, she is relieved and frisky. Red rubber toy hanging from her mouth, she prances upstairs and down in gleeful anticipation of a happy day.

When My Lovely Wife calls her, she leaps off her cozy chair and bounds up the stairs. Little does she suspect where My Lovely Wife will be taking her...



© 2011 Mark Feggeler