Sunday, January 25, 2004

WTF?? or How I Began My Career in Bathroom Forensics

Can someone please explain to me why I just went downstairs to use the bathroom, and stepped in a puddle of piss in front of the toilet?


So after I rinsed my foot off in the sink for two minutes, I decided I didn't really have to go that bad. I hope my dad comes home before Dave cleans up the evidence, cos frankly I'd love to give Dad one more reason to kick Dave out. I mean, it's not so bad that maybe his aim was a little off (though there's probably a good five fluid ounces down there), and he probably has some prostate issues, but the fact that he hasn't bothered to clean it up? I mean, it was cold when I stepped in it.

Now, wait, some of you may be thinking, how do you know it was Dave who urinated on the bathroom floor? I'm glad you asked. My first clue is the fact that my dad left the house at about 7:30 tonight, and he took a shower an hour before then. He would have noticed then if there'd been pee on the floor, and my dad would not have left the house without making sure that mess was cleaned up. Also, it wasn't either of the animals that live at our house: Buddy stays in his cage in the garage all the time, unless Dave lets him outside, and then he spends hours leashed to Dave's van. And cat pee has a very distinctive ammonia smell--you can't walk into a small room and not know that a cat has peed on the floor--so it wasn't Buffy. And it certainly wasn't me. But the real clincher? I smelled it. I tried to smell it when it was on my foot, but all I could smell was foot. So when I'd cleaned myself off, I bent down and gave the puddle a sniff. Dave's urine has a particular smell. I know, I know, I sound like a total creep for knowing how his urine smells, but his toilet habits include not flushing until the water has turned a deep ochre produced by subsequent visits. I often visit the bathroom only to find tinctured toilet water. (My dad doesn't do this, and has expressed his distaste for the practice in the past.) Depending on how long the seat has been up, the bathroom can have a certain 'air' about it.

Dave's urine must be like, 20 proof. I can't imagine his liver is able to metabolize all he drinks. I don't really know how much that is, but he always smells of alcohol. A few months ago his doctor prescribed some anti-depression drug. And earlier this month, the doctor doubled his medication. The double dosage mixed with alcohol makes for one very stumblesome Dave. Earlier this month, before Tuck went back to school, he told me that he was watching TV, and Dave walked from his room to the kitchen, and promptly slipped on the floor and fell. When he picked himself up, he mumbled, "Tell your grandmother to stop waxing the kitchen floor." (When I mentioned this incident to Sol and Joe, Sol said, "Why is your life so funny?" "Hah!" I replied. "How 'bout if Dave moves in with you guys, and then your life can be one comedic moment after another!")

I suppose I should be glad that he's not a violent drunk, but I still can't stand the man. From time to time he gets it into his head that he's some kind of authority figure in my life, and gives me orders like I'm a ten-year old. He works an average of two hours a day, and I'm the lazy one. But the fact is that he's here by my dad's good graces, same as I am. And Dave's not even family, even though my dad kind of sees him that way. I don't know why; they're roommates in the strictest sense of the term, and it's not like Dave saved his life or anything. But they were probably going through their respective divorces at about the same time; I imagine that can be a bonding experience.

The only good thing about Dave is that he's given me a greater appreciation for my father. Like, Dad's a pretty rational guy, compared to Dave. Dad's thinking about moving out to Colorado in the next couple of years. "I've been thinking," he said recently, "if I move to Colorado, you could stay here at the house while I'm gone."
"Only if Dave moves out," I said immediately.
"Oh, Dave's not that bad, is he?"
"Dad, you're the only buffer I've got between me and him. He'd have to go, or no deal."
And the sooner he moves out, the happier I'll be. Except I don't know if that'll ever happen. Two days ago he left a note for my dad on the kitchen counter:
The depresion [
sic] will last
for one year.

My first reaction when I read that was, What, is he trying to buy more time? If he's depressed, yeah that's too bad, and I understand that depression can be debilitating. But how can you predict how long it will last? I thought it was one of those things you had to 'play by ear.'

Ah, good, Dad's home. I gotta pee.

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