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Monday, September 28, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Urinal
Autos drive recklessly, as if a very pregnant woman resides in the back seat of every vehicle, en route to their future child’s place of birth. Stores perforate the scant scenery, ingesting and expelling their eager customers. The smell of fast-food beef and fries from the local taste permeate through the Civic’s ventilation system, strong enough to overcome the fumes from those other cars and trucks and grocery-getters. The sound of Cold War Kids booms from the surrounding speakers. The sky is dull, matching the seemingly hundreds of other vehicles on the road – that silver-gray coating that all manufacturers mimic, but with different names, like Sterling Gray or Tarnished Silver or Magnetic Gray. The only light shining through the low-lying clouds seems to reflect off one item.
We are on Route 30. I am sitting shotgun in flare jeans with ballet-style shoes, my hair pinned awkwardly and my shirt screaming “Old Lady!”. Next to me is him, donning a blue shirt, as always; with work boots and jeans, ripped in several places and soiled from oil and dirt and whatever else he can find to get into. He’s got a toothpick in his mouth and should be driving a rusty truck. I have a coffee in my hand.
Throwing the shifter into the gear marked “R”, he rushes to where that single beam of light meets the earth’s surface. There, a rather large, red piece of what I perceive as trash lie in waiting. Normally, that one man-made chunk of plastic would have blended in with the plethora of debris trickling off the road and into the merchant’s lawns. But he sees value in this red creation; he is, after all, quite the resourceful man.
“I see a funnel!” He exclaims, as if it is a novel artifact, belonging in a museum rather than amidst the fallout on 30.
“Word. Let me grab my camera.” I often use sarcasm as humor, and in this case I use it to disguise the fact that I was clueless at to why we might need to stop and investigate the fact further.
“I need this for the garage. Maybe I can build a urinal. Ha!” His laugh comes from his gut. It’s the kind of sound he often affixes to his comments when toying with me.
So, I dismiss the thought of actually having a urinal stall constructed in the building meant to house our cars. After all, we live in the city, and urinating should be done behind closed doors and in a ceramic fixture, right?
While I give a moment of thought to his remark, he leaps from his leather seat and approaches his new-to-him apparatus. A grin that seems to be three miles wide covers his charming face, akin to that of a little boy who has just caught the biggest bull frog from the pond, preparing to show it off to his momma.
He returns with the prize and we head home. I enter the house and begin those tasks left for lackluster days: laundry, dishes, mopping, and so on. I start on the bathroom, and at this point I dream of how lovely it might be to possess a urinal outside . . . . Once again, the toilet seat has been left up, and aim has never been a strong point in his peeing endeavors. I dare not tell him this, though, as I am still imagining that he was only joshing me, and I should never encourage him to do such a thing as to deface our home.
A month passes. It had actually been a month since I last set foot in the garage. See, the garage is his sanctuary. Other than his time for sleep, he is in the garage, fiddling with his car, someone else’s car, or some other machine that requires his attention. Sometimes, he just sits in there and drinks a cold beer from his mini-fridge, intently watching his cable television. I am reluctant to interfere with his “Man Time” and only enter if necessary.
I am mounting some picture frames in the house and am in need of some tools. I must enter the “cave”. I search the shelves, and then the workbench, and start to examine the garage in general. Something catches my eye: That very same oversized red funnel he so lovingly snatched up along the road. Something is amiss, however. It is not sitting on a shelf or stored away in a drawer, but appears to be hovering in mid-air along the wall. Upon closer inspection, I discover a transparent tube supporting it. There is a small shot of light coming from below the funnel – a circle of light, masked slightly by the tube, which is fit snugly through it. He has made a urinal.
As I grow older, and maybe more mature, I find myself becoming agitated over “little” stuff. Not holding doors for others, changing lanes without signaling, and even being cut off in a conversation can agitate the best of us. But this, the monstrosity before me, is not just an agitator. It is a full-on first fire in a World War.
I immediately respond with calling names (“Hillbilly” is one), slamming doors, and retracting to my sanctuary, the house. And so begins the unfavorable feeling in my belly, the disgusted look on my face, and the bitterness evoked in my mouth. I think to myself, “What could he do that is worse than this? He has destroyed my property, gone against my will, and lacks respect for me and the neighbors! I thought I was civilized. I thought we were civilized.”
Months change on the calendar. And yet I still hold to this anger. (Slant rhyme unintended.)
Then we visit G-Ma, my mother’s mother. I like to think that she and I have similar sensibilities. Her cabin is decorated with a theme (shabby chic meets wilderness girl) and she has maintained her fashion sense and creativity quite remarkably for living in such a remote part of Michigan.
G-Ma lives on a beautiful, quiet lake, and though we are there to visit with her, his only concern for the trip is catching the entire population of fish from the lake. But that story is for another day.
His keen mechanical brain offers help in the remedy of the notorious pontoon’s engine idling capabilities and escapes with Uncle Ray, who is also there for a visit. G-Ma, Aunt Susan, and I catch up, reminisce, and joke over some snacks. I divulge my feelings around the dreaded urinal.
My grandmother is from a very well-to-do Texas family. I am not, but I pretend to be, rather sub-consciously. Papa, who passed 5 years ago, was a fantastic, casual man from Michigan. His family lived in a small house in Linden, where silver platters meant nothing to him. He joined the military and met G-Ma while serving. They were civilized . . .
Still, I feel a parallelism of sorts when I think of them and then think of us, but cannot put my finger on it.
Upon the closure of my long-winded discussion on the red funnel of fury, I look at my grandmother. She has a grab-bag look on her face, with surprise, hilarity, and recognition all mixed together. She points her finger and shouts, “Papa had one of those tubes!”
The look of sheer incredulity sweeps across my face as I swear to her that she is lying to me. Papa was a “Hillbilly”? And my grandmother allowed this to happen? Her expressions explained to me that she was almost as surprised as I was.
Picture that little cliché light bulb over my head. Picture a flood of thoughts racing and my face contorting in response. Picture me sitting there in silence as I contrive the revelation that we are so much alike. And yet so different.
I learned throughout the course of this circular event that my grandparents were a perfect couple and that there was something to gather from their relationship. G-Ma is understanding, noble, and respectful. Those are all the qualities I thought I had. Papa, on the other hand, was hard-working, utilitarian, and had a heart more stable than a three-legged milking stool. Those are the qualities I thought he had. They made it work. Why couldn’t we?
I did not understand how we, being so much like G-Ma and Papa, could have this misunderstanding. Papa defaced their property, and I know his wife would have never suggested the fabrication of this rest area! But there lies the difference: G-Ma is understanding, and noble, and respectful. I am not.
So, this single urinal, now residing in our garage, has taught me a lesson in life, believe it or not. Conservatism has many layers. And it’s trivial. I have this picture of my perfect life, which never included a funnel-and-tube urinating device. While I am sure nobody’s does, it doesn’t change the fact that I need to upgrade my perfect life to include flexibility.
It boils down to this: I find comfort embellishing the home, and he enjoys embellishing his garage. We all have our weaknesses.
The next step is to get him to put my bathroom seat down! And to tell him I’m sorry.
We are on Route 30. I am sitting shotgun in flare jeans with ballet-style shoes, my hair pinned awkwardly and my shirt screaming “Old Lady!”. Next to me is him, donning a blue shirt, as always; with work boots and jeans, ripped in several places and soiled from oil and dirt and whatever else he can find to get into. He’s got a toothpick in his mouth and should be driving a rusty truck. I have a coffee in my hand.
Throwing the shifter into the gear marked “R”, he rushes to where that single beam of light meets the earth’s surface. There, a rather large, red piece of what I perceive as trash lie in waiting. Normally, that one man-made chunk of plastic would have blended in with the plethora of debris trickling off the road and into the merchant’s lawns. But he sees value in this red creation; he is, after all, quite the resourceful man.
“I see a funnel!” He exclaims, as if it is a novel artifact, belonging in a museum rather than amidst the fallout on 30.
“Word. Let me grab my camera.” I often use sarcasm as humor, and in this case I use it to disguise the fact that I was clueless at to why we might need to stop and investigate the fact further.
“I need this for the garage. Maybe I can build a urinal. Ha!” His laugh comes from his gut. It’s the kind of sound he often affixes to his comments when toying with me.
So, I dismiss the thought of actually having a urinal stall constructed in the building meant to house our cars. After all, we live in the city, and urinating should be done behind closed doors and in a ceramic fixture, right?
While I give a moment of thought to his remark, he leaps from his leather seat and approaches his new-to-him apparatus. A grin that seems to be three miles wide covers his charming face, akin to that of a little boy who has just caught the biggest bull frog from the pond, preparing to show it off to his momma.
He returns with the prize and we head home. I enter the house and begin those tasks left for lackluster days: laundry, dishes, mopping, and so on. I start on the bathroom, and at this point I dream of how lovely it might be to possess a urinal outside . . . . Once again, the toilet seat has been left up, and aim has never been a strong point in his peeing endeavors. I dare not tell him this, though, as I am still imagining that he was only joshing me, and I should never encourage him to do such a thing as to deface our home.
A month passes. It had actually been a month since I last set foot in the garage. See, the garage is his sanctuary. Other than his time for sleep, he is in the garage, fiddling with his car, someone else’s car, or some other machine that requires his attention. Sometimes, he just sits in there and drinks a cold beer from his mini-fridge, intently watching his cable television. I am reluctant to interfere with his “Man Time” and only enter if necessary.
I am mounting some picture frames in the house and am in need of some tools. I must enter the “cave”. I search the shelves, and then the workbench, and start to examine the garage in general. Something catches my eye: That very same oversized red funnel he so lovingly snatched up along the road. Something is amiss, however. It is not sitting on a shelf or stored away in a drawer, but appears to be hovering in mid-air along the wall. Upon closer inspection, I discover a transparent tube supporting it. There is a small shot of light coming from below the funnel – a circle of light, masked slightly by the tube, which is fit snugly through it. He has made a urinal.
As I grow older, and maybe more mature, I find myself becoming agitated over “little” stuff. Not holding doors for others, changing lanes without signaling, and even being cut off in a conversation can agitate the best of us. But this, the monstrosity before me, is not just an agitator. It is a full-on first fire in a World War.
I immediately respond with calling names (“Hillbilly” is one), slamming doors, and retracting to my sanctuary, the house. And so begins the unfavorable feeling in my belly, the disgusted look on my face, and the bitterness evoked in my mouth. I think to myself, “What could he do that is worse than this? He has destroyed my property, gone against my will, and lacks respect for me and the neighbors! I thought I was civilized. I thought we were civilized.”
Months change on the calendar. And yet I still hold to this anger. (Slant rhyme unintended.)
Then we visit G-Ma, my mother’s mother. I like to think that she and I have similar sensibilities. Her cabin is decorated with a theme (shabby chic meets wilderness girl) and she has maintained her fashion sense and creativity quite remarkably for living in such a remote part of Michigan.
G-Ma lives on a beautiful, quiet lake, and though we are there to visit with her, his only concern for the trip is catching the entire population of fish from the lake. But that story is for another day.
His keen mechanical brain offers help in the remedy of the notorious pontoon’s engine idling capabilities and escapes with Uncle Ray, who is also there for a visit. G-Ma, Aunt Susan, and I catch up, reminisce, and joke over some snacks. I divulge my feelings around the dreaded urinal.
My grandmother is from a very well-to-do Texas family. I am not, but I pretend to be, rather sub-consciously. Papa, who passed 5 years ago, was a fantastic, casual man from Michigan. His family lived in a small house in Linden, where silver platters meant nothing to him. He joined the military and met G-Ma while serving. They were civilized . . .
Still, I feel a parallelism of sorts when I think of them and then think of us, but cannot put my finger on it.
Upon the closure of my long-winded discussion on the red funnel of fury, I look at my grandmother. She has a grab-bag look on her face, with surprise, hilarity, and recognition all mixed together. She points her finger and shouts, “Papa had one of those tubes!”
The look of sheer incredulity sweeps across my face as I swear to her that she is lying to me. Papa was a “Hillbilly”? And my grandmother allowed this to happen? Her expressions explained to me that she was almost as surprised as I was.
Picture that little cliché light bulb over my head. Picture a flood of thoughts racing and my face contorting in response. Picture me sitting there in silence as I contrive the revelation that we are so much alike. And yet so different.
I learned throughout the course of this circular event that my grandparents were a perfect couple and that there was something to gather from their relationship. G-Ma is understanding, noble, and respectful. Those are all the qualities I thought I had. Papa, on the other hand, was hard-working, utilitarian, and had a heart more stable than a three-legged milking stool. Those are the qualities I thought he had. They made it work. Why couldn’t we?
I did not understand how we, being so much like G-Ma and Papa, could have this misunderstanding. Papa defaced their property, and I know his wife would have never suggested the fabrication of this rest area! But there lies the difference: G-Ma is understanding, and noble, and respectful. I am not.
So, this single urinal, now residing in our garage, has taught me a lesson in life, believe it or not. Conservatism has many layers. And it’s trivial. I have this picture of my perfect life, which never included a funnel-and-tube urinating device. While I am sure nobody’s does, it doesn’t change the fact that I need to upgrade my perfect life to include flexibility.
It boils down to this: I find comfort embellishing the home, and he enjoys embellishing his garage. We all have our weaknesses.
The next step is to get him to put my bathroom seat down! And to tell him I’m sorry.
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