So this was LiLu’s thing – if you haven’t visited her blog, you need to do so. Go on. I can wait. If you missed my previous TMI Thursday in which I lamented the loss of my wife’s breasts, check that out too. Go on, I’ve got nothing but time.
I figured I should give some backstory on how this post came to be, a.k.a., the confluence of greatness. I posted last week about how much I love my wife, but I hate to burst your bubble, but she doesn’t love everything I do. For the past few weeks, I’ve also been posting about how awesome my childhood was and in every post, I had a Full House reference. And earlier this morning, I had this exchange on Twitter with Poppy <–I darn near typed her name Poopy. Sorry, force of habit with the potty training and all.
I was thisclose to replying something but I couldn’t contain it in 140 characters. So a counter post to my love for my wife, an opportunity to incorporate Full House (You’re in big trouble mister! as Michelle Tanner would say. Hence the title, Urine Big Trouble Mister! Get it?! Get it?!), and replying to Poppy is how this post was born.
Disclaimer 1: This is a Too Much Information post. You have been warned.
Disclaimer 2: I know that the majority of my readers are married folks, so please don’t pretend like this doesn’t happen to you.
Two of the things my wife hated/was shocked about when we first got married and began living together was my inability to put the toilet seat down and my propensity for peeing all over the bathroom.
Now, don’t get the wrong idea: I don’t whip it out and just start peeing all over the place for fun. You see, we men splash. I’m about 5’8″, so my junk hangs at about 30″ or so. The surface of the water in the toilet bowl is probably about 12-20″ off the ground. So that’s roughly 10-18″ my urine has to travel–at fairly high speeds mind you, especially after I hang with my buddies Sam Adams and Mr. Yeungling–so you can imagine the splashing that occurs. And it gets all over the bathroom. And over time, it accumulates. And over time, the bathroom begins to smell like a public restroom.
So how do men battle the splashing problem? Well, I can tell you right now, they don’t handle it well. At least not the guys who use the public restrooms I use, as I typically have to straddle a puddle of pee the size of a lake, 3 feet away from the urinal.
As if controlling the splashback wasn’t difficult enough, there are other factors that complicate matters.
First, alcohol. Imagine the flow of ketchup using one of those old, glass Heinz bottles. That’s your pee on water. Now imagine the flow of ketchup with a squeeze bottle. That’s your pee on beer. Any questions? And that’s IF you have the requisite coordination to aim. One particularly embarrassing moment, my wife goes to use the restroom and notices a puddle of pee on the floor next to the toilet. She used to have a dog so I think for a brief moment she thought the dog peed on the floor. Nope. That’s what happens when your husband has had one too many the night before and has to pee in the middle of the night. In my defense, that only happened once AND I cleaned up the mess myself (though I was ordered by the wife to do so, but still). Falling asleep on the toilet while birthing a food baby in the middle of the night on the other hand has happened far more often than I’d care to admit.
Second, to use a euphemism, when Mr. Happy is awake before you are. Think it’s hard to pee at a 45 degree angle from 12-20″ away? Try doing that when the very thing you have to pee with is pointing up at a 45 degree angle. And while morning wood doesn’t compare with morning sickness in severity, it’s still a problem. Imagine ladies, if you woke up nauseous one morning, ran to the toilet, but couldn’t puke because your mouth was at an angle that made it virtually impossible.
Worst part is, even if you have to pee REAL bad, it’s like your junk is on ED pilss because it isn’t going down anytime soon. So you wait there, squirming because your bladder’s about to explode and like Ron Burgundy, you curse your pleats.
So you could try to do a couple things: 1) you could try and push it down – that feels about as good as you’d imagine or 2) you assume an inclined pushup position by placing your hands on top of the toilet and you adjust until your aim is just right.
But hey, I’ve learned to always leave the toilet seat down. I guess 1 out of 2 ain’t bad.
I’m not so much a writer as a rambler, so the birth story was quite an undertaking. So I’ll keep it lighthearted today and do a TMI Thursday post.
Also whenever my wife gets around to reading this, I might get a cease and desist warning from her, so enjoy it while you can. And if you’re a female reader, please don’t take offense or be shocked – I’m a dude and I react to boobs as such. So here we go!
One benefit of breastfeeding I failed to mention are the boobs themselves. My wife likes to call them her porn star boobs as they become huge and rock solid, only they’re real and they’re spectacular. And when you’re nursing, I’m told it feels the best to let the puppies out for a walk, so I get to see them in their full glory quite regularly. Sadly, they are the sole property of D2, so I will have to simply admire them from afar.