The surreal moments in life totally keep me going.
Like today, I invited myself over to my grandparents' house for supper, because I really wanted to eat some dessicated vegetables, and I get so lonely when Craig is out of town. We had a lovely time, and as I sucked down my 3rd glass of water, Papa hollered, "Mother, why is the floor wet?" We soon determined that the sewage system was backed up again, as often happens in their neighborhood. When you're 79, it's the most exciting thing that happens all week. We had to go outside and poke at holes in the ground, make thunderous phone calls to Roto Rooter, mop the floors, talk about "If shooey comes out of the potty, we're moving," and, finally, admit that there wasn't going to be running water that night.
Which is of course the time a pregnant lady's bladder would choose to self-destruct.
"Mimi, Papa, we hate to leave, but I need a potty," I said, gathering Cleo up.
"Sugarfoot, you can use my urinal," Papa said.
Total silence there. I imagine peeing into some archaic plastic container covered by my grandfather's splashed pizzle. My grandmother makes a face like she's going to barf baby chickens. Cleo continues to eat strawberries. Papa seems to actually be waiting for an answer, like he's just really anxious to hop up and grab a urinal for me.
"Thanks, Papa, but I don't think my aim is that good," is all I could squeeze out.
Then we went down the street to my parents' house for some much needed relief in several categories.
So I guess the moral of the story is: when Grandpa offers you a urinal, you say no as gracefully as possible.