Grosser than Gross

I think that we are at the point in our relationship where I can share things with you. Important things. Sacred things. And you won't judge me, right? Because that's how we roll. Yo.

One of these things is the reason why I will NOT drink white zinfandel. Ever. Again. I'd like to start off by acknowledging that white zin sucks. In fact, white zinfandel is kind of like ALL of my ex-boyfriends in that I cannot imagine what I EVER saw in them in the first place.

Many moons ago I invited my boyfriend to go to the Steeplechase with me in North Carolina. We packed a huge cooler full of food, beer and a 1.5 liter bottle of Sutter Home white zinfandel (Mmmm). My boyfriends' car was a 1976 Fiat Spider convertible which was really cool. That is until it broke down on the interstate 2 miles from where we needed to be.

Not easily dissuaded we picked up our ENORMOUS cooler and began to schlep it to the park. It was about 90 degree's and very humid as we began our trek down the interstate. After finally reaching the exit we crossed the overpass and began arguing. Because we just weren't QUITE miserable enough. We continued on, through the woods and finally into the park. By the time we arrived my left arm was approximately 4 inches longer than the right from the weight of our cooler. We were both drenched from sweat and this is why I sat down and in one sitting drank the equivalent of one and half bottles of really shitty wine. It was so refreshing. So sweet and wet. And so pink.

I vaguely remember feeling no pain for about 10 minutes. And then...I sort of recall thinking that I should "freshen up" in the restroom. I looked around through my wine goggles and found only a series of Port-A-Johns. Oh Nelly. I staggered to my feet and began sloshing my way towards the closest one. I do remember distinctly feeling as though I were walking at a 45 degree angle. This was my last clear memory for the day.

Upon entering the Port-A-Potty I took notice of my surroundings. This receptacle was no virgin. It obviously had been visited by many drunker, grosser people before I graced its' doors. I've never been in one of these things that smelled good. In fact I suspect that they all probably come off of the assembly line smelling like a thousand old beer-shits that have been sprayed down with some kind of antiseptic stuff.

Beyond the smell the first thing I noticed was that, in addition to the cavern under the toilet seat, there was a urinal. Some clever person put an entire banana in it. Hahaha. What a riot. And on top of that banana someone had taken a crap. Cue the puking. I began to retch into the bottom of this thing. Hearing my yak land on top of the fecal product of others continued to inspire nausea. Finally, I was empty. And sleepy. This is when I did the unthinkable. I fell asleep on the floor of the port-a-potty. I don't even want to think about what I was laying in. I must have looked ravishing, passed out under a shitted-on banana in the urinal.

Suddenly I became aware that the Port-A-John was moving. Violently. Someone was shaking it back and forth. I moaned and slurred, "ehhhh.....ughhhh.....theressomebodyinhere....." I heard my boyfriend shouting, "God damnit! I KNOW you are in there. You've been in there an hour. GET OUT OF THE PORT-A-POTTY!!!" It turns out that I hadn't responded to his knocking, calling, and eventual yelling he had tried to awaken me. So he began trying to physically knock me and my pot over to get my attention.

I was afraid to leave my potty. It had become not unlike a security blanket to me and I deeply feared leaving its' protective, fluorescent blue walls. But I was equally concerned that my boyfriend could knock us over and wouldn't that just be the grossest thing ever. So I stumbled out with my crazy - I've been puking into a port-a-potty and eventually passed out on the floor of it - hair.

My boyfriend didn't say a word. Or if he did I can't recall it. Upon hindsight it's hard to imagine that he ever took me out again. But we continued dating and about 6 months later he got down on one knee and proposed that we get married. Do you suppose that when he saw me stumbling out of the potty he thought to himself, "Yessiree...that's the girl for me. I can see the smiles of my unborn children in her blurry, blood shot eyes!"

www.rqmitchell.blogspot.com

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