For Your Next Craptastic Day

Everybody has shitty days. They're unavoidable. Maybe everything went wrong; maybe you overslept and then didn't get to shave your legs or wash your hair, so you had to wear wrinkly pants instead of the skirt you'd planned. Then maybe you were late to work because you got in the car and your gas light was on, and then you forgot your keys to the office.

Or maybe you were just in a foul mood and all the shit in your day that is normally fine, just wasn't.

We all have shitty days.

And one time, when I was 20, I had the literal shittiest day.

In my late teens, early twenties, I had the most irresponsible, maniacal, insane, fun, awesome group of guy friends, ever. We were still a bit too young and naive to buy into the whole men and women can't be friends thing (they cannot, by the way, as proven by the number of those boys I made out with as a college freshman), and all we ever wanted to do was drink beer and go camping.

This particular stay started out as any other; the summer was our oyster, and we were going camping.

Now, this is a good time for me to mention, teenagers are fucking stupid. It's just a fact. In fact, anyone under, like, 27 is an idiot; we make stupid choices. It's like we can't help it.

Why do I say that?

Because, this large group of kids - none of us 21 - put all of the beer into the open bed of the one truck driving with a busted brake light.

It's like asking to be pulled over!

Instead of sending beer in someone's trunk, we literally stacked it into the bed of a truck without brake lights. And then we all piled into vehicles and headed towards Estacada, where our intention was to have a big fire, drink all of the beer, and sleep make out in tents.

Cue the sirens (obviously).

Shitty start to this camping trip, detail number one: Minor in Possession tickets.

FUCKER!

Now (and again, this is because I was 20 and therefore a fucking idiot), I was in the pickup truck with two of my male friends, sitting in the middle of the bench seat. I did not have my purse. Or my wallet. Or any identification of any kind. So of course, the police is questioning if and how I even know these two boys, and if I am in the car by my own free will. After convincing him that yes, these are actually my friends on purpose, and no I am not being smuggled into the sex trade, he then proceeds to find the beer (duh, because it was right there, in the open). He makes us get out of the truck and pour all 30 bottles out, one by one, on the side of the road.

For the record, 30 bottles of Bud Light, when you're not of legal age to buy, is like solid gold. This was a very emotionally scarring moment - hence my remembering 12 years later that it was 30 bottles of Bud Light.

Anyway, so then after draining our beers, and after confirming I am intentionally with Devlin and AJ, the officer proceeds to write each of us an MIP.

SHIT!

I mean, really, an MIP is a little like being grounded. You go to the courthouse with your $200 ticket, and they reduce is to $80 and send you on your way. Whatever. But I feel like usually you get to actually drink the beers that earn you the ticket.

In any case, we're having a shitty weekend so far: we've been pulled over, we've gotten tickets, we've been accused of kidnapping. We've basically ruined all possibilities of a fun camping adventure for everyone, since we were the ones with all of the beer. Super. Shitty.

And it only gets shittier!

Everyone decides to meet up at a gas station a bit up the way, to try and decide what we want to do from there. Still camp? But with no beer? Go home? Go home and try to get more beer and then leave again? So many decisions to be made!

By the time we get to the gas station, though, I am about to pee my pants (girls, seriously, we always have to pee). So while 15 boys stand in the parking lot trying to make life decisions, I race into the gas station and ask to use the bathroom. I'm directed to a port-a-potty out back (ew) and head out that way.

And this is where my weekend takes a literal shitty turn.

I go into the port-a-potty, and it's pitch dark; there is no light inside, nor is there any light outside. This is an actual rape and murder scene just waiting to happen. But I am doing a real intense potty dance, so I have no other choice; I yank down my yoga pants and hover as best I can in the pitch dark to pee.

And then there is shit.

Everywhere.

Not my shit. Strangers' shit.

This port-a-potty is FULL - no, more than full, I guess. I can't see what's happening, but I can feel it. There is poop on the back of my leg. And then on my other leg. But then somehow also on my back and kind on my shoulder. I literally do not know how this was happening, because it was pitch dark (which, looking back, is probably for the best), but there was shit everywhere.

And like, one total square of toilet paper with which to solve this problem.

At this point in the story, I am basically blacked out from horror, but I somehow make my way out of the port-a-potty, where one of my male friends is waiting - to pee, by the way, not to see me covered in dookie.

Lucky him, he now has to help me.

And by help me, I do mean he literally peeled all of my clothes off while I cried (how many times in one weekend can this poor dude be set up for a kidnapping/rape/murder situation) and dry heaved, then left me standing naked in the dark while he rummaged through his truck for a tarp to wrap me up in.

So. We're going home now, right?

After scrubbing what I could from my hands and up my arms (yes I said there was SHIT EVERYWHERE) in the back office of this horrid gas station - while naked and burrito wrapped in a tarp, mind you, I get in the truck and demand that the boys take me home. Obviously. Where the fuck else am I gonna go??

Once back in Milwaukie, I stood in a scalding hot shower until my skin burned off, and practically filled the shower stall with bubbles as I worked through an entire loofah and emptied the contents of like 4 bottles of body wash. I had just been literally covered in shit, and had managed to get a $250 ticket in the process. I was never getting out of this shower. I'd burn to death in here. I can't get the thought of poop out of my head, so I will just stay right here and die.

But then when Devlin's dad poked his head into the bedroom as I was drifting off to sleep and said "I heard you had a pretty shitty night," I laughed. Hysterically. Forever. Because it was true; I had the literal shittiest night.

So the next time you think you're having a bad weekend, just be glad you aren't naked in a tarp, after basically having poo flung at you in a dark room, while you try to figure out who's it is and where it came from.

And, side note, it doesn't really matter who's it is or where it came from, if IT ISN'T YOUR OWN!!

This story is hard for me. So feel grateful I finally shared it. I now have port-a-potty post traumatic stress, and yes my fear is real. And valid. I am actually more likely to squat next to an outhouse than go in one.

And never, absolutely ever, will I ever use one in the dark. #lifelessons

#500wordsaday: The Only Love I Chase, is the Love of the Cat

1) A time you lied
2) A time you were hurt
3) The last time you were happy for a week straight
4) Family
5) How you wish you started your day (and then why you aren’t doing that already)
6) Your most authentic moment
7) When you really loved yourself
8) When you were scared
9) Why you long for love
10) Something about you that you’re hoping people don’t notice   / Something about you that you’re hoping people do notice

500 Words a Day: Why you long for love.

Why do I long for love? 

Um. Doesn't everyone? Isn't love a basic human need? 

Am I doing that thing where I look at things in too simple of a light? Like, I probably need to just dig a bit deeper into the prompt...which has been the case every day for the past 8 days? 

You win, blog challenge; you win. 

I long for love from my family, because it's out of reach.

I long for love from my friends, because they feel more like my family.

I long for love from Juno the Cat, because she only gives love when she's in the mood - and I want her to be a snuggly love bug all the time, dammit! 

I long for love romantically, for a lot of reasons, on a lot of different levels.

I feel like the word longing, implies that I am chasing something I can't have - but I don't feel like that's the world I live in. I'm not chasing love from people in my family who don't have love in their hearts for me. And I am not chasing my friends down to love me - they just do. And while I'm not in a romantic relationship, I do also find love from boys - granted, not always the best choices, but still. 

I'll admit I chase the cat.

I had brunch mimosas with a friend from high school recently, who told me the story of a terrible date he'd been on with a girl who had said she wasn't registered to vote (I realize this may not ruin a date for everyone, but for those of us who are in our mid-thirties and single, I think we grow pickier by the minute). As I listened to him talk about how he'd gone total dad-lecture status on her for not being registered to vote against Trump in the upcoming election, it occurred to me that this is the crap people our age deal with in attempt to find the love we're apparently longing for.

Which then made his point make total sense; why bother continuing to date in hopes of finding someone, when all of these people tend to disappoint?

Which then made me feel completely cynical.

Which then led me to wonder...am I actually cynical?

Upon review, let the record show that despite temporary cynicism that comes in waves after every shitty date or every douche bag dude who has a secret girlfriend hidden somewhere...I am not a cynic. Quite the opposite, in fact. When no one is listening or paying attention, I am actually quite the romantic. 

Don't tell anybody; I don't want it to get around.

I'm definitely a girl who loves stories about people who went to junior high or high school together, who then met at random for booze 15 years later, and wound up together (I am actually talking about a girlfriend of mine, I'm not dating the aforementioned bachelor). I love that my best friend and her husband took 20 years to end up married to each other after keeping in touch from when they were neighbors as kids, after each marrying someone else first. I love hearing those gushy stories about people who went through horse shit and came out the other side with the love of their life. Those stories warm my otherwise chilly little heart. 

I can relate, however, to the bachelor noted above, and all of the reasons he's jaded enough to have basically sworn off love forever. I hate the phrase, as we get older, but I also can't think of a better one, so, bear with me here. As we get older, we deal with more and more bull shit. We deal with more and more experiences with people who jade us. People hurt us more often, and for far more ridiculous reasons. It's almost like, the more we get fucked over by people, the more we use that as an excuse to fuck over other people. Like how people who get cheated on, end up cheating on someone else later on. It doesn't really make much sense. When you really think about it, it seems like baggage, or the hurt other people have caused you...should teach you how to treat people better. 

Am I wrong?

I mean, the more boys who dump their epic bull shit on me - their drama, their fear of commitment, their ability to not engage with their emotions, their baggage - the more I should be shutting down. The more it seems I should be swearing off men forever, refusing to date, accepting my fate as a forever bachelorette. 

But I'm not like that. I have this uncanny ability to shake off the shitty treatment I get from the boys I date. Can't be open with me? That's your loss. Can't be faithful to me when I'm ready? Hash tag bye now. Don't want to talk about your feelings? Not my problem. I don't own someone else's baggage. I'm the girl who is patient and understanding and completely open - but not when you can't give me the same vulnerability in return. 

When someone comes at me over mimosas with, I'm never going to date again, my initial response is never to run, but rather to question. I ask, literally millions of questions. Some people aren't into my investigative nature, but those who are, always find a way to be a little more transparent with me than they may be with other people. And maybe that pays off for me in the future. Maybe I date that person because they finally let their guard down and realized that not all women are evil. Maybe that person just has someone else in their corner, or a bit of reassurance for the future.

I don't find myself pining away for the love of my life, upset that Prince Charming hasn't rolled up on my doorstep yet, so I feel like longing for love is completely the wrong phrase. I have immense love in my life, and am in no way, longing. 

Besides, I'm too busy chasing the cat around the house, trying to make her love me. I certainly don't have time for that when it involves humans.