Mrs. Bird called last night. I told her I needed another story and of course she obliged. I could hear her husband in the background, laughing his head off, saying things like, "Oh, dear, don't tell her that, oh my, hahahahaha."
For those of you not familiar with the anatomy of her house it's like this. The garage is on the bottom level. The laundry room/furnace room/storage room--which she calls "a scary place"--is down there. They have a couple of family rooms on that level, one of which is sometimes used as a bedroom. They have NO bathroom!
She comes in from the garage and almost always has been out way too long for her bladder's comfort. She dashes into the laundry room and pees in a cup. It used to be a mason jar but then she found The Training Table's plastic cups. They are big and flexible and as she says, "conform to any shape you need it to." So, now she uses one of those. There is no sink in the laundry/furnace/storage/scary room and she found out the floor drain does not go into the sewer, it drains into gravel under the foundation so there is no way she is emptying the Training Table cup there. She takes it upstairs, empties it in the toilet and then sanitizes it for her next emergency.
The other day she came home, barely made it to the laundry room, pulled down her pants and, well, you know. Then she took all her clothes off and put all her underwear in the washer along with all the whites that had come down the laundry chute. She looked at her tennis shoes and decided to soak her shoelaces in some bleach but she was out of bleach so she went to the garage to get an extra bottle. Oops, she thought, I'm naked, so she put her T-shirt back on and then went to the garage. She got the bleach, soaked her shoelaces and then dumped the bleach into the Training Table cup.
While she was in the garage she noticed some plants she wants Tom Cruise to plant for her. (His name isn't really Tom Cruise but she can't pronounce his first name so asked him if she could just call him Tom as his last name is Cruise. He, of course, is delighted.) (This is also how her stories go, when she is telling them to you, full of side stories.)
So, she took her training table cup full of it's concoction, thinking she would just dump it on the "hill." (The hill is uninhabited and full of weeds where feral cats mark their spot. She wondered if her concoction would change their minds.)
She gathered her plants in her other hand and went outside to put the plants where she wanted them planted and then and only then did she remember she was practically naked. She looked around, sheepishly, and backed slowly into the garage. She doesn't think anyone saw her, in just a T-shirt (Mrs, Bird is well endowed under her T-shirt so that's another reason she would have been interesting) but if they had they would just shake their head and say, "Crazy Mrs. Bird," in the most lovingly sort of way.
Mrs. Bird, my pant-less, underwear-less, bra-less friend. How I love her willingness to let me share all the bare facts with you.