The Daily Durvy

I pee like a pregnant lady. When Alex and I first started dating, but after we got over the too awkward to speak to each other phase, he told me that he was worried that I was knocked up because I went to the bathroom every 10 minutes or so.

However, it was still the part of our relationship where I didn’t tell him that the constant peeing came at the point in pregnancy where my stomach would blow up like a puffer fish. He would KNOW if I was pregnant at that point. But it was sweet of him to worry.

Normally, peeing all the time is nothing but mildly annoying, though a never-ending source of material for my friends to make fun of me. But, when I’m in the middle of something fun or relaxing, like a movie or a massage, my pee non-problem becomes my pee huge problem.

During movies, especially movies I’m not sure I wanted to see (*coughIngloriousBastardscough*) I tend to have to pee like a race horse. It is most certainly linked to nervous energy, but c’mon. Can’t I have normal manifestation of anxiety, like heart palpitations? I suppose the grass is always greener, but when you’re nick name in high school was “Special D, Gotsta Pee” heart murmurs are a freakin’ cake walk.

Seeing Inglorious Bastards was preceded by a week-long marathon of Quentin Tarantino movies, beginning with Pulp Fiction. No, I had not seen Pulp Fiction before that, yes I am aware that is somehow a sin. I am going to admit to you that I was afraid of seeing it. Afraid. Because you know what? Blood and guts scare me. Guns scare me. And the prospect of a human being killing another human being for money or sport makes me sick. So after a few days of psyching myself up and a few bribes from Alex (a new season of Sex and the City and the promise to watch it with me, thank you very much) I shut up and watched to damn movie. And I loved it. In fact, I am going to be Mia for Halloween, and I’m trying to convince Alex to buy a wig and a lariat tie to be Vince. Because that would be cute, RIGHT?!

Right.

After I saw a few Tarantino movies I agreed to go see Inglorious Bastards with Alex. In the hour leading up to the movie, peed no less than 10 times. And during the previews I got up and went to the bathroom and then about 15 minutes into the movie I went again. Finally, I told myself to stop being such a beezie and sit the fuck down. Once I stopped being so worried, I started to really enjoy myself. I liked the movie, I even really liked the movie. Go figure.

And while I am not totally comfortable with guns and guts and blood (so why would I want to push a baby out of my vagina?!) I can understand the value of gore in a story line.

But the gore still makes me pee.

I was biking to my AA meeting on Friday (another perk of moving in with Alex – the apartment is much closer to my meetings, my sponsor, and the parts of campus that I actually have classes in) and I fell off my bike.

While this is not a rare occurrence, this one was because of a real estate sign. I recently got contact lenses, which is more like saying I recently got in a war with my eyes and I feel that by poking them on a regular basis I let them know who’s boss. While it is extremely liberating to not have to wear glasses or more accurately have to remember where I put my glasses down, oh shit they’re in the restaurant, we have to go back, thank you so much, OH LOOK THEY’RE ON MY HEAD. AGAIN.

Anyway, getting used to my contacts is an… ongoing process and as such I often get slightly disoriented. So I was on my bike, not really paying attention to what was going on around me. Off in the distance, I see Dr. Phil’s face on a real estate sign. As I got closer, I was sure that it was Dr. Phil but all I could think was WHAT THE FUCK IS DR. PHIL DOING ON A REAL ESTATE SIGN? He does not sell houses. I mean, I’m sure he could, however I feel like he’s a little busy filming his awesome talk show and generally NOT being in Davis. But you never know.

When I got right up on the sign, I turned my head, still sure that it was Dr. Phil on that sign. I turned my head all the way around, Rosemary’s Baby style until I realized that I was riding directly into the bushes. They just snuck up on me like BAM bushes and then it was BAM pain and then BAM huge scratch on my shin and then BAM fuck my life. I hopped off my bike and swore profusely for a few minutes, all the while examining Dr. Phil’s real estate sign.

It turns out that it wasn’t Dr. Phil after all. But DAMN it sure looked like him.

Alex and I are not inherently neat people. We are, in fact, messy people. I like to think that he is the messier one, but when we get right down to it, he is not. While I cannot stand crap all over the floor, I think nothing of leaving the tables and couch covered in my latest project. He will leave diet coke cans on every available surface. I can deal until I see one without a coaster and then I go postal on his ass, screaming WHY THE HELL DON’T YOU HAVE A COASTER AGAIN??? ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?

It’s only funny until it occurs to me that he probably is trying to kill me so he can have the the better side of the closet back.

Since moving in together, our shit has multiplied. I mean, literally. I feel like our clothing is sneaking off together when we go out for bagels and fucking profusely; before you know it BAM! SOCKS! BABY SOCKS ARE EVERYWHERE! AND NEVER IN PAIRS! Our computer cables are at the point of having grandchildren and if I see one more cable that charges something or converts something into something else I might just lose it. The coasters won’t even matter because I will be DEAD ALREADY.

And while the sock babies and the coasters are excitement enough, Alex and I are also in the habit of routinely walking around the living room and kitchen naked or in just underwear because we can. Because there are no roommates lurking out there watching bad reality television while we’re trying to be naked. It is wonderful. More pros include the ability to make dinner at 1 in the morning, starting spontaneous dance parties while cleaning and not having to ask someone if a) the slightly rotten fruit is theirs or b) why they drank the last of my raspberry vodka. While the second one is no longer a problem, regardless of living situation, it is a question I have had to ask roommates before.

Every once in a while, usually when we just wake up, Alex and I like to acknowledge the fact that we are lucky enough to live in such a beautiful home together. Sometimes we just remember that we have a couch or that everything in the refrigerator belongs to both of us, and sometimes we like to dance around the living room naked, just because we can.

I often wonder if people Facebook stalk me. I suppose this is me being wrapped up in self-conceitedness, but I think they probably do. People stalk me, their mothers, Sara Palin, and probably the Pope, assuming that the Pope had facebook. But the Pope has no Facebook profile, I’ve looked. However, he does have an eHarmony account.

The success of Facebook is largely due to the fact that people are nosey, which is a close second to the thrill of seeing pictures of themselves on the Internet. In this new age of information, there is no need to spy on your neighbors from your window wearing a housecoat from 1974. That same housecoat can be used from the comfort of your desk. A few clicks and BAM snooping has come into the 21st century.

I always get a little thrill when I’m facebook stalking someone from my past. Ex-boyfriends are the worst. I feel like I’m doing something scandalous, and that they can somehow tell I’m looking at pictures of them and their current girlfriends. I wonder if they also know that they routinely make guest appearances in my dreams? That sounds creepy, I know. But what’s creepier is that it’s true.

It’s even worse when I’m caught stalking Alex’s family members. Just the other day Alex came up behind me while I was on his mom’s facebook profile. He gave an odd look and simply said,

“You need professional help.”

As if he didn’t know I already have that coming out of my ass.