Rage Against the Latrine

Piazza Weeks

BD: "Not me."

Me: "Excuse me? It happened five seconds ago!"

Greg: "She's pregnant you know!"

BD: "It wasn't, lady."

Me: "What do you...!? I just now got out of my car and walked directly over to you as you were getting out of yours... your car over... there. You cut me off!"

BD: "Not me."

Me: "I almost plowed into you!"

Greg: "Look, she swerved not to hit you."

BD: "Nah. I was pulling out of— I wasn't— I... didn't do it."

Me: "OH MY— just... forget it. Watch out... look out where you're... BE CAREFUL... OUT THERE... DRIVING!"

I pee every hour now. I read it would happen and it has. If I don't have access to a bathroom every 60 minutes, I run the risk of rushing needlessly to the emergency room with 'broken water' in order to protect my dignity. Then I'd have to add to the lie. When I got home from my fake race to the hospital, I'd have to tell everyone it was a false alarm. Then I'd go to work and spin yarns about the possibilities of breaking water and remaining pregnant. "Two amniotic sacs. Yeah. It's rare but, no... yes... I had one put in just in case. Sure... yeah, they are expensive..."

Three times within this past week I have avoided a car accident. I know I'm a bad driving stereotype right now, but I promise, I was not the antagonist for any of these heart attacks. The first two left me strained against the seat belt after brief stream-of-conscious, foul-mouthed slurs. The perpetrators shielding his/her head as he/she continued on his/her merry way. Not even a shruggy-shouldered, scrunchy-mouth-mimed, "I'm sorry" face through the window as they passed by. Grrr. Those left me shaking and in need of the toilet sooner than anticipated.

The last near-collision happened this past weekend when a car full of the cast from The Young Ones whipped around our car to turn left into a parking lot as I was turning left into the same spot. Luckily, I swerved at the last moment - Greg and I cursing simultaneously. I headed in the opposite direction, calmly parked, noted where the clown-car stopped, pulled the keys from the ignition, turned to Greg and said, "WATCH THIS!" I stomped my fat belly right up to the driver as his gang streamed past on either side of us, husband-and-new-father-to-be following protectively at my side.  A kid stepped out of the SUV while wrestling with his shirt over his head and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. I swear his eyes went in opposite directions after he finally figured out how to dress himself without losing a drag. He took a few steps toward us. It was at this moment I felt the warmth trigger my nether regions. My eyes momentarily matched his googly directions and I almost kept walking beyond him—bathroom first, shaming next. I fought it and squeezed.

Me: "HEY! You cut me off!"

BD: "Who...?"

What came out of my mouth after that wasn't very clear or concise and I felt myself getting more stupid as I tried to rant against his infantile, "nuh-uh" defense. But I had power. It felt good to face my anger. I was overwhelmed with what my dear friend K, calls "Mama Bear", rising inside and I stood up for my family. The confrontation lasted all of 15 seconds when Greg and I realized we may as well be arguing with the brick wall Brain Dead leaned against. We walked into the same store and heard him complaining to his friends. "You ain't dead are you? What are you whining about?" one of them passive aggressively barked as they stood near us on line. I felt the warmth again and squeezed. Nope. I'm not hiding in the bathroom now.

When we got back home I almost ran upstairs to the toilet, but I didn't. I held the urge back yet again and took the garbage down to the cellar instead. That'll show 'em.