So, who’s Colleen? I don’t know. A friend of mine is house sitting for her. I don’t think that’s her real name, but it’s the best I can come up with in my wobbly state. I bought a bottle of wine to take to my dad’s 67th birthday party and, after a couple of drunken laps with the zero point lawn tractor, I ended up getting Big Rod to drop me off at a hot tub on Main Street. We were celebrating a D-I-V-O-R-C-E... which is nowhere near final. She just had the papers served. But, that’s a good enough reason for me to drink wine in a hot tub with two girls who went to high school with me.
Hhhhhot tubs are great for all the “H” topics of conversation – such as, horseback riding, houses for sale, hemorrhoids, husbands, high school and how to hook up in the digital world. It is also like walking onto the set of Days of Our Lives, in which one woman’s ex is buying the house of her best friend’s ex in an area that is nowhere of any interest to him geographically. Meanwhile, the best friend’s ex is now dating a woman he said he hated.
That last sentence comes as no surprise to me and isn’t really gossip worthy. There’s a fine line between hate and love - just read Pride and Prejudice. In fact, I used to think my husband was a no-good, womanizing tool. The only reason I ever had anything to do with him was because he was a “sure thing” and I was a single mom with low self-esteem. Imagine my surprise when he told me he wouldn’t sleep with me because (and I quote), “The next time I get with someone, it will be the last time. It will be forever.” What an arsehole. ;)
Anyway, I’ve always wanted a hot tub, but I don’t think they are useful in the summer. They are too hot to sit in and too cold to get out of. So, you spend 3 hours in an uncomfortable position, half-out and half-in some people soup. Colleen’s does have a cool, underwater coloured light that really brings out the cellulite on my thighs, ffs. You don’t want to hear about my cellulite though. What you really wanna hear about is my pee break.
So, Colleen’s deck is a slab of concrete that is situated about 5 feet above the backyard and about 3 feet over the side yard. Although it was dark, I presume there are some flowers or shrubs along the concrete at the side. There is, fortunately, a sturdy wooden garden box with some lovely chrysanthemums, as well as, some solar LEDs. This looked like an excellent place for me to pop a squat. Clearly, I was drunk.
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| Drunk Pissing Over Small Bluff |
I assumed the squatting position with my ass well over the side of the 3-foot drop. Now, 3 feet is clearly not life threatening, but if you are midstream and lose your balance to fall backwards into the nether, you will probably break your neck or, at least, bite your tongue really hard on impact. I’m teetering on the edge of this cliff, holding onto the garden box with my left hand and pulling my $80 Roots bathing suit (on-sale-for-half-price at Sears) to the side at the crotch with my right hand so as not to soil myself. This should absolutely be a yoga pose! I would call it, “Drunk pissing over small bluff.” Of course, my urine would not stop coming. Longest pee in history. URGH!
