I have a train to catch at 9:30 this morning. Because my princess has to drive me downtown and still leave herself enough time to get back to work, we had planned to wake up at a little before five.
Right now, it’s 4:00 in the morning. Some of you might think this is because I haven’t gone to bed yet. Normally, I’d congratulate you on your keen Ray observance, but this time, I actually did go to bed—early, in fact, so that I could get plenty of sleep before my trip.
If you’re thinking that I really am a go-getter to be up and around so long before schedule, you really have no idea how my life works.
Allow me to enlighten you:
I woke up around 2:40. I was a little thirsty, and I had to pee just a little. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have just rolled over and gone back to sleep. Because I was planning on waking up early, I realized that if I tried that, I would toss and turn for an hour before throwing in the towel and getting up to pee and get a drink of water.
I got up, put my glasses on, and shuffled to the bathroom. The peeing went off without a hitch, which is always pleasant, especially considering how it could have gone.
I then went to the kitchen, found my cup, and opened the refrigerator. I reached in and grabbed the water pitcher.
It wasn’t as loud as a gunshot, probably, but at three in the morning, you’d be amazed at how things that don’t sound as loud as gunshots sound as loud as gunshots.
I was suddenly covered head to toe in Coca-Cola.
We have this little pump, you see. You screw it onto the top of your large bottle of soda, you give it a few pumps, it keeps it from going flat as fast. I got it a while back for my club soda, which is only important because when I got it, I read the directions, threw them away, and set about using my pump.
My princess recently asked me if I knew where the little pump was, as she had purchased a two-liter bottle of Coke that she didn’t plan on drinking in one sitting. I found the little pump, gave it to her, and went back to my writing. In hindsight, I suppose I should have told her that you’re only supposed to pump it eight times or so, depending on how much soda is left in the bottle. “Until the bottle is firm to the touch,” is how the directions put it, now that I think about it.
Honestly, it never even crossed my mind. Not until this morning, I mean, as I stood in my boxer shorts in front of my refrigerator, water pitcher in hand, completely covered in soda. See, the bottle of Coke was on its side. I must have just barely touched the little latch as I was pulling out the water pitcher. Because of the tremendous pressure built up in the bottle, that was all it took.
When I say, “covered head to toe,” you might think I’m exaggerating. I assure you this is not the case. Hair, face, neck, chest, arms, legs, knees, feet. That spot on my balls, where my penis rests when it’s in “off” position, even that had fallen victim. My boxers were drenched. The entire wall behind me was covered, too, except for a Bugs Bunny-like silhouette where my body had blocked the blast.
The contents of the refrigerator were soaked and dripping. There were puddles on the floor. I just stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what had happened. I go, “Jesus,” because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I think He was too busy laughing to respond.
Because it’s me, one of my first thoughts went something like, If I had dropped dead of a heart attack, they would have found me almost completely naked in the middle of the night, covered in soda. I bet they would have thought it was some kind of fat-boy masturbation thing.
I poured myself a short drink of water, because I really was quite thirsty. It was just a short drink, though, because as I poured, Coke from the side of the pitcher ran down into my cup.
I grabbed a handful of paper towels and began cleaning. You know how I mentioned that part about how even my private parts got covered in soda? You might have thought I just did that in order to talk about my penis, and I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that. But it’s not the case this time. If you’ve never been coated head-to-toe in soda, you might not know how fast it dries. Not that it dries out, really, but that it dries to sticky. If it’s in the crook of you elbow, and your arm’s bent, when you stretch out your arm, there’s a sticky sensation.
Or if you’re, say, bent down, scrubbing pools of soda off the floor, and your entire junk is covered in quickly-drying soda, when you stand up, it feels like…well, to put it bluntly, it feels like someone’s trying to rip your nut-skin off.
Less than pleasant, is what I’m saying.
When I could walk again, I went and took a shower.
After my shower, I began cleaning the kitchen. If you’re ever wondering if life is being a straight-up asshole, here’s a quick test: Are you cleaning a bottle of bleach? Like spraying 409 on it and then wiping it off with a paper towel? If so, then yes—life is being an asshole to you.
So I’m showered up, my kitchen’s clean (except for the inside of the fridge—everything inside will have to be brought out individually and washed in the sink, and I just don’t have that kind of drive at the moment), and it’s 4:30 in the morning. I had to stop writing this half-way through to go get another drink of water, which meant scrubbing down the pitcher and then cleaning up the floor again because the shelves on the inside of the refrigerator door dripped soda when I opened it.
That’s how my day started. How’s yours going?