(Clearly, I'm not too tired to write blog posts that aren't related to the bar.)
I'm beginning to worry that my blog doesn't have a "unifying theme." Years of English classes have impressed upon me the importance of theme, and even though one hippified creative writing teacher tried to undo all that damage, the lesson has been taken to heart. So the fact that this blog - which is partly chronicling my bar studying experiences, partly chronicling the funny things that happen to me on occasion, and partly just serving as a complaint forum - is so haphazard it hurts my heart. (I also learned about alliteration in all those classes.)
But until I figure out what that theme is, I'm just going to keep regaling my three readers with one of my favorite anecdotes:
It was the early hours of New Years Day -- probably around 2:00 am. I'd already driven halfway home from a party when I received a phone call from one of my friends, asking if I could give some people rides. At that moment, I didn't really mind -- after all, no on likes drunk driving accidents.
I picked up my friend and another gentleman who I will not name, but will instead refer to as "Fergie." Fergie was suspiciously silent on the way home. I attributed it to his trying to refrain from vomiting all over himself. My friend and I chatted a bit, and then I dropped them both off at her apartment. He stumbled out of my car in silence; she cheerfully waived goodbye. I drove home without another thought.
Three days later, when I had occasion to use my car again, I opened the door and was greeted by the most unearthly stench this side of a Russian prison camp. I honestly thought I had left a package of meat or something in the back seat after grocery shopping, and it had started to rot. (The first few days of January 2009 were unseasonably warm.) I cleaned out my whole car - I aired out my whole car. I Febreezed my car. I bought new air fresheners. NOTHING I DID GOT RID OF THE SMELL.
Skip to two weeks later. My friends Christina and Hailey and I decided to go snowshoeing, and I drove. Hailey sat where Fergie had sat before. Long story short, Hailey and Christina (having both worked at a residential treatment facility for children) recognized the smell.
Yes. Fergie had peed himself in my car.
After a fair amount of screaming -- Hailey was, after all, sitting right where Fergie had sat -- we calmed down long enough to go snowshoeing, and I made an appointment to get my car detailed. Now my car is happy, and pee free.
Favorite parts of this story:
1. Endlessly debating with people what Fergie must have been thinking at the time of the incident. Did he think he could get away with it? Was it possible he peed himself without realizing, or was his silence a sign of his attempt to be stealthy?
2. My friend's reaction when I told her what had happened: "But I let him sleep on my couch that night!!"
3. Thinking for for about a week that I would remain silent about this story, wanting to save Fergie's reputation at school.
4. Realizing there was NO WAY I could keep this a secret, and promptly telling EVERYONE. Except Fergie, of course. I'm not cruel.