Yesterday we had the great idea of doing a “quick run” to Blaine, Washington. We have a storage unit and a p o box there and nothing much else to do. I wanted to get my Cuisinart out of storage. The husband wanted to get his VCR to tape all the evening shows he will miss while at work. He also wanted to do some shopping at the Fred Meyer store in Bellingham. He doesn’t usually enjoy shopping, but for some reason he loves him some Fred Meyer. It might be the one stop shopping element because he wanted to pick up a half a dozen California Pizza Kitchen frozen pizzas, a bundle of socks and peruse the wine selection. All I wanted was a case of Mug diet root beer.
It takes about 35 minutes, depending on traffic, to get from Downtown Vancouver to either of the two closest border crossings. Yesterday the roads were down right vacant. So, much so that I made the comment, “Wow, no one is going south…this ought to be a breeze!” We figured the whole trip would take about 4 hours.
There is an electronic sign, just before the BC/Washington border on Southbound 99, displaying estimated wait times. In the past this sign has been less than accurate in its predictions - when it was predicting at all. The sign indicated that the wait would be around 0 minutes at the Peace Arch crossing and 60 minutes at the Pacific Highway crossing. By the time we saw that sign, we also saw the line. A mile long line waiting for the Peace Arch crossing that supposedly had a waiting time of ZERO minutes. The husband surmised that the sign was incorrect. He took the exit heading for the Pacific Highway crossing where, within seconds, we found ourselves at the end of another mile long line. So we sat.
I am a coffee drinker. I love coffee. I love it so much that before I left the apartment, I drank 3 cups of it. About an hour into our adventure, I was feeling that coffee. I told the husband, “I’m gonna hafta pee pretty soon.”
He reached behind my seat and tossed a plastic bag in my lap. “Good thing we have these, huh?” The bag contained 3 disposable urine bags. These things are probably great for guys, they can pee anywhere anyway, but the plastic unisex lip wasn’t fooling me.
“I can’t use that!” I unfolded the pee bag and held the cup to my crotch over my jeans. “I’ll end up peeing all over the car. I’ll just wait.” I folded the bag back up and stuffed it in the cup holder. Then unfastened my seat belt, unzipped my jeans and reclined the seat.
Time passed and I took the pee bag out of the cup holder and looked at it.
“I have to pee.” I said.
“Then you should pee.” He said.
“I don’t want to get pee all over me and the car.”
“I don’t care if you get pee in the car.”
“I do.”
“I don’t”
“I don’t want anyone to see me.” I pointed to the cars, vans and big rig trucks that surrounded us.
“It’s raining and the windows are fogged, no one will see you.”
I took off my pants and underwear, then put a newspaper on the seat and held the disposable pee bag as directed.
“I CAN’T DO IT!” I cried.
I put on my underwear and pants.
“I wish I had a penis.”
The husband made a face. “I am really glad you don’t.”
I waited 10 minutes or so.
“It’s getting bad. I cannot believe there isn’t a toilet on this stretch of road!”
“Go in this.” The husband offered me a Target bag from under his seat. The bag contained papers and car trash. I tried to imagine the logistics of utilizing the bag. That’s me, always inventing new uses for old everyday objects. Again, I took off my underwear and jeans. I tried to get in a squat position. The front seat of a BMW is not conducive for this pose. The cushion angles down toward the back. Gravity pulls your butt into the seat. The angle keeps you there. Hell, the Germans didn’t even want to make the car with drink holders because you shouldn’t eat or drink in your car, why would they design it for easy urination?
“I CAN’T DO IT!” I cried. I put on my underwear and jeans again. I was hurting. I was sweating. I inspected the Target bag once more and wailed, “This bag has a slit in it!”
The husband scrambled. He began pulling everything from under the seats: a Styrofoam bowl we used as a water dish when we traveled with the cat, several pens, a box of Kleenex and a small plastic bag from SportsMart. I stared at these items and became part MacGyver - part Survivor. I could pee in the bowl and wipe with the Kleenex. I could pee directly in the Kleenex box; the tissues would sponge up the urine. I could use the pens to stab myself so I would stop thinking about having to pee. Can you make a catheter from a Bic pen?
“How close to the border booths are we?” I asked.
“We aren’t.”
“We’ve been waiting way longer than 60 minutes, haven’t we.”
“Yes.”
We watched a bit of Nacho Libre. The van in front of us had a screen. We listened to the radio. I watched cows in a pasture. I began looking for any form of shelter that might afford me some privacy. There was nothing but ditches and meadows. And even if a “comfort station” should magically appear how far could I walk before the body just quit trying to hold it?
“Unlock the doors. I’m going to try and do this in the back. More room.”
When I got back there I moved the passenger seat as far forward as I could. I stuffed a few Kleenex in the mangled Target bag then put that bag inside the SportsMart bag. I laid the newspaper on the floorboard, which oddly enough had a big picture of George Bush with crosses of tape on his eyes. He didn’t want to see this either.
“I CAN’T DO THIS!” I went through the reasons again.
Then the pain of an exploding bladder took over. Some sort of endorphin thing started happening and what occurred over the next 2 minutes can only be described as an out of body experience. I think my spirit left me and went to the Cheesecake Factory or something. When I re-entered my body I was perspiring from my forehead and my legs felt wobbly.
I wouldn’t say it was liberating, peeing in a plastic bag behind a veil of condensation in stopped dead traffic waiting to cross the Canadian/US border. It was exhausting.
“How does a girl pee into a bag, doesn't it go everywhere???” You may ask.
The trick is to hold the opening of the bag tight where your legs meet your “area” and all the way around said “area”. Don’t hover, that causes splash. Use your pants or underwear as a pee bag hammock. Also, turn so you are sort of facing the back of the car. You can steady yourself on the hump with one knee and the backseat with the other, all the while having the passenger side seatback as extra wedging. Girls, it can be done. It’s not dainty or graceful. I have an ample ass and was able to do it without peeing all over me and the car. I deserve a medal for that alone.
We didn’t reach the border for another 20 minutes. I never would have made it that long. We entered the US with a bag of pee resting on the face of George Bush.
The remainder of our adventure was less adventurous. We went to the storage unit and got the Cuisinart and VCR. We went to Fred Meyer and got the socks and pizzas. We were also pleased to see that Doritos came plain again, just like in the olden days. We ended up with a bag of those and a bag of Chex mix. You can get Cheerio mix in Vancouver, but not the Chex mix…go figure. Of course, they were out of the one thing I wanted: Mug diet root beer.
While loading our buys into the trunk I held up one of the bags and inspected it, for future reference. I may never look at a shopping bag in the same way again.
Later that evening I asked the husband, “If you had to come up with a title for today’s adventure, what would it be?”
Without looking up from his VCR cables he blurted, “Holy Shit! A Woman is Peeing in My Car!”
And she was.
