P

The question was coming at the end of the conversation. There was no getting around it. It had to be asked. The only question was simply, what was I going to say?

The woman sounded like she was in her early to late sixties. She had probably worked in that Philadelphia flower shop for years, maybe to supplement her husband's retirement pension, maybe just to get out of the house. She sounded very sweet, and she did an excellent job helping me find a wonderful arrangement to send to this particular woman.

I told her all the pertinent information: Where to deliver the flowers, how many, and then my credit card information. There was only one more thing to ask.

The Woman: "OK. And what would you like the card to say?

She heard nothing on the other end of the line. I paused. I didn't know what to say. I stammered a bit, deciding whether I should give this woman a good laugh and a funny story to pass around the florist on that Wednesday afternoon, or whether I should take an alternative route.

Because, in all honesty, the card should have been simple and to the point.

It should have said "Sorry I peed on you."

***

I only need three fingers to count the number of times where booze and alcohol have combined in me to force the loss of bladder control.

There was this night in college where I got drunk. Really drunk.

It was a Thursday night and, as part of initiation for the golf team, my teammates shaved my head. It looked absolutely ludicrous. I wore a hat out that night. Perhaps the trauma from exposing the egg-shape of my head to the world left me feeling a little vulnerable, a little self-conscious, and maybe I took a little comfort in slamming beer after beer from the keg during the party.

I awoke the next morning at about 5:30. It was odd that I would be up that early, but there I was, awake, in a wet puddle of my own pee. Only mildly ashamed -- I wasn't that big of a drinker back then and I didn't know how much booze would affect me -- I grabbed my sheets, threw them in a pile to wash later and retreated to the couch to finish sleeping.

Nobody knew. And it was the last time it would happened when nobody else would know about it.

Last June, Cheese and I returned one night from a trip down to RFK to see our beloved Detroit Tigers play the Nationals.

There are three bathrooms in our house. One is on the first floor, one is in Cheese's room, and Princess and I share the third, which is upstairs in the hallway. For a few weeks before that night our bathroom upstairs wasn't working, and so we would either have to walk downstairs or just pop into Cheese's room and use his. That is the only possible explanation I can fathom for what happened next.

After the game we came home, had a few more beers and eventually I headed off to bed. Sleep came easy that night. I wasn't very drunk at all. There have been numerous occasions where my level of drunkenness rose much higher than that night.

The next thing I know I hear Cheese yelling "What the FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"
Me: "No, it's OK. It's..."
Cheese: "What the FUCK are you DOING??"
Me: "No, man, it's OK. I'm in the....the....."

It was at that second that I woke up in a daze. There I was. Standing in Cheese's room, over his couch. And I had just urinated all over it.

A bulk of the next day was spent not only looking for other places to live but also googling "Sleepwalking + Drunk + Pee + Couch." You'd be surprised.

Still, up to this point I have managed to keep the pee from hitting anyone else. A few months after the Pee Couch Incident, as it's now called, that would change.

***

The florist was waiting patiently for the answer. She worked with me patiently, even inquiring at one point what had transpired as the impetus for the flower arrangement. I told her it was a complicated story.

It was the previous Saturday. Heather was in town because she was looking forward to seeing an Irish drinking band she was fond of. It so happened that Michigan was playing that day and they were playing Notre Dame, a heated rivalry and one that concerned me, as at that point Michigan was 0-2.

This was an epic day of drinking. For myself: I would say upwards of around 20 beers, three of which were shotgunned, and three or four Red Bull and Vodkas.

And that was before we went to the bar.

Exactly. After nine straight hours of drinking, Heather suggests a brilliant idea: going to the bar to see the Irish drinking band, again. This was, at the time, I phenomenal idea. We call a cab and stumble our way out the door.

At the bar I alternate pints of Yeungling and Car Bombs.

I think. I don't really remember. The rest of the night is a blacked-out blur.

Next thing I know I Heather is shaking me out of a near-comatose sleep.

Heather: "Scott....Scott...get up....you just peed on me."

Indeed I did.

To be honest, I am not sure how many women would have been as cool as Heather was about it. She laughed it off, but made me promise to send flowers. Princess made it a little better by relating numerous stories of times her boyfriends have peed on her. It happens.

Heather's only requirement was that I send flowers.

***

Finally, I settled on something to tell the florist. I couldn't do it. I really, really wanted to give that florist a chuckle, but I wasn't sure if she had it in her, and I think it was probably a good idea not to fuel her already-shattered image of the generation following behind her.

Me: "Just say, 'Hope these brighten your day. S.'"

Good times.