No, you can't read it.
It was a shared, private blog with my four college roommates that we created in January of 2004 after we realized that it's fucking hard to keep up with friends in the real world sometimes. We were far-flung and missing each other and so we wrote love letters to one another and kept each other posted about our jobs and boyfriends and hopes and dreams. It sounds cheesy, but reading over it now I get this amazing feeling of unconditional love washing over me. I think we're going to resurrect it, for old time's sake.
Me and the Loveland Ladies, circa 2002
Anyway. I found a post on that blog that I'd like to share with you. It has been edited for content, since I was apparently much less self-conscious in my youth.
The post was originally titled: "My Weekend With Jeff: Romance, Adventure, Urination" and was posted in two parts on September 20 and 21, 2004.
Part One: Subway Love
Jeff arrived on Tuesday night. I picked him up at the corner of Canal and Bowery and we hopped aboard the D train at Grand Street to go back to Brooklyn. Just as the train doors bing-bonged shut, the loudspeaker crackled. "This is to the two men having sex on the lower platform," said the conductor, in a oh-no-you-didn't female voice, "We can see you. We can ALL SEE YOU."
Part Two: First Date
Wednesday I worked and Jeff played in the city with his Home Ave. housemates. That night we frolicked in the rain, had dinner with my Dad and Zoe and then rented "Coming to America". Thursday, though, I had off, and thus commenced one of the best days I have ever had. Here is our day, in convenient chart form:
11:00 am: Wake up
11:15 am: CENSORED BY PRUDISH 29-YEAR OLD SELF.
12:15 pm: Shower.
12:30 pm: CENSORED BY PRUDISH 29-YEAR OLD SELF.
1:00 pm: Shower again.
1:30 pm: Breakfast at diner
2:30 pm: Arrive Central Park. Lie in grass. I read David Sedaris aloud to Jeff.
3:00 pm: Impromptu photo shoot
3:30 pm: Rent a row boat, Jeff - in very manly fashion - rows me all around Central Park Lake. He says, "This would make a great first date." For the remainder of the ride, we pretend we are on a first date and crack ourselves up.
Pics from the actual day!
4:30 pm: Dock our row boat. Walk through park. Make out.
5:30 pm: Mosy over to 66th Street Barnes and Noble. Decide to make dinner. Search for sangria recipe.
7:30 pm: Serve a modest, totally improvised pasta dinner to Beth, Alex, Kabir, and Betsy.
9:00 pm: Jeff becomes hooked on The Apprentice. A BIG I told you so from me.
10:00 pm: Dressed to the nines, we make our way to the subway and ride into Manhattan
11:00 pm: Order bottle of wine at Village Vanguard. Listen to hour and a half of live jazz. Jeff becomes increasingly drunk.
12:30 pm: Stumble onto street, find cozy bar, proceed to get more tanked than any two people have any right to be.
2:30 pm: Cab home. Driver is more drunk than we are. Scariest cab ride of my life, but we make it to Brooklyn in under 10 minutes, tires screeching all the way.
Part Three: The Flood
Home at last, loaded and happy, we climb into bed. Jeff is Drunk with a capital D. I am only slightly less so, so I assume the role of nurse, filling up a measuring cup with water and force-feeding it to my boyfriend, who is happily jabbering away in a Punjabi accent. (This water will be featured prominently later, so don't forget it ..... (cue ominous music).
CENSORED BY PRUDISH 29-YEAR OLD SELF. (Side note: Damn, we had a lot of CENSORED back in the day! Then again, we were long-distance...)
In the middle of the night, I woke up to find Jeff sitting on the edge of the bed, naked and looking confused. "Jeff?" I said, "Baby, are you all right?" No response.
I thought he might be about to puke, so I put a hand on his back. "Jeff?" I said, "Are you OK?" He stood up. "Pee," he murmured. I rolled over.
And then, I heard him start to pee. I turned and looked and saw him standing, one hand against my dresser, peeing on my floor.
Ohmigod, I thought. He must be asleep. I've heard of this happening. I hope he's not peeing in my drawer! I thought that he might realize what he was doing and stop, or come to after her'd finished. I waited through the longest, most cascading pee I've ever heard (why oh why did I feed him 3 cups of water?), and then felt him climb back into bed and fall promptly asleep.
I'll tell him in the morning, I thought, and willed the sound of tinkling urine out of my head.
Part Four: The Morning After
The next morning Jeff showed no signs of knowing what he had done. You know me. I can't watch the fucking Olympics because I get so embarassed if the ice-skaters fall down. I can't watch strangers being humiliated on TV, so to embarass my boyfriend in the flesh is a tall order for a shy violet like me. I surreptitiously checked out the scene of the crime. It turned out that Jeff had, in fact, peed all over his own clothes (Hahahahaha) and also on my BoSox hat (Simone is the only one who is allowed to hahahaha over that). The area was dry and not stained at all. It didn't even smell. I concluded that the 3 cups of water I fed Jeff must have passed right through. I wondered, does he even have to know?
The answer, unfortunately, was yes. Later that day I told my roommate Betsy what had happened and she laughed before saying, "You have to tell him—you have to wash his clothes!" I hadn't thought of that, but it IS pretty nasty to make him wear peed-on clothes, even if it would spare him the humiliation of knowing that he mistook my dresser for a urinal.
Even so, I tried to be sneaky. "Baby," I cooed to the lump on the couch, engrossed in the Yankee-RedSox game, "I'm going to do some laundry. Can I, um, wash the stuff on the floor?"
"Sure." he shrugged.
"Um, can ties go in the wash?" His necktie had, it seemed, borne the brunt of the attack. It was a little bit warped and, I would imagine, traumatized.
"No, they have to be dry-cleaned," he said, "but don't worry about it - it's not like there's anything on it."
"I think there might be," I said, already starting to laugh. I had his attention.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Um, well, I think that maybe-" Vague! Be vague! "Maybe last night, I think you might have peed on the floor."
He was so embarassed. It didn't help that I laughed a lot. He helped me load his stuff into the wash and then turned to me, dejected.
"What, did I poop in your bed, too?" he asked.
"Yes," I deadpanned. "But I hid that in my sock drawer."