Urine Luck

You know those nights when you just can't catch a break? The commute seems too much to bear, and the weather is trying to totally kick your ass?

Thursday was a night like that.

I think I must've blocked it out entirely, to save my mental health and well-being, because I have just had flashbacks to the entire event, and now feel a groundswell urge to share it with you.

Then it can be your gross memory, too.

After having a quick after-work drink with a friend, I trudged over to Michigan to catch the usual bus heading north. I shall remind you, as we milk these early morning spring-like temps today, that the HIGH that day was about 2 degrees. So by 7:15 or so when I was leaving the restaurant, it was downright miserable.

Standing alone at the bus stop, I make all sorts of mental pleas with God, little inner charades, overtly ridiculous bargains like, "If the next bus is an even number, then it means that mine will be right behind it." No dice. And, "I promise to volunteer more if you just send me a freaking 145 or 146 bus in the next 30 seconds." No way, Jose.

So, when the 151 finally approaches, I unstick my frozen feet from the sidewalk, and pull a "wet dog maneuver" and try to shake my bones free from the pain, stiffness and dampness to which they are quickly succumbing, and step towards the curb.

As the bus slows to the curb, my frozen brain can't compute that there is a puddle there. It just didn't happen. The tires bounce through the potholes along the curb, and the dirty, snowy, grimy, salty, nasty puddle becomes my new outerwear. I'm covered in it. Wearing that puddle like it is the new black.

Shaking, once again, I dejectedly board the bus. (For those of you that don't ride the bus, the 151 is the last resort. The go-to bus when nothing else comes. Mostly because it stops EVERY BLASTED BLOCK all the way up the inner drive, circling slowly through the park).

I didn't care. God held up his bargain and sent me a bus. I had to get on, dripping wet coat and all.

Warmth immediately spreads through me like a stealth fire, and I'm taken back by how my fingers feel disconnected to my body. I see an off-white-wool-coat-wearing-Lincoln-Park-trixie standing over an empty seat. I nod to her, and offer her the chair. She gratefully takes it. And then, just as quickly, jumps up. Right as the offending odor hits my nose.

The entire bus smelled like urine. Not old, it's been there for days urine. NEW URINE.

Then I see her. The woman who I can only presume is the offender. Yes, I suppose I'm a terrible person and a horrible stereotyper. Don't go there. She's seated next to (and halfway in) the white-coat girl's seat. White-coat girl and I quickly surge towards the back of the bus, trying desperately to avoid the smell.

Smells aren't that cooperative, however. They are far more pushy than that.

This bus wasn't a double-bus, not an accordian bus, so it didn't have those extra 30 or so feet in which to hide. I regrettably take a seat in the mid-section of the bus, and see that everyone around me is what I'll call "scarfing it." Meaning, wearing their scarf as a face mask. Thank God I wear perfume and the scent sticks to the scarf.

White-coat girl and I couldn't help but make eye contact as I mentally send her apologies for even THINKING of offering her into that smell pit.

And then I see it.

As the bus lurches forward to the next stop, I look up to see a fast-moving puddle of liquid heading toward the back of the bus. "Please, God, no, don't let that be what I think it is" my brain thinks. I might have even said it aloud.

Yep. A yellow trail of smelly hell.

Urine.

I can't say any more for fear of losing my breakfast.

Imported, I'm Sure

I'm fairly convinced that cab drivers in Chicago buy, in bulk no doubt, a certain flavor of those hanging air fresheners...

...body odor.

I have been in no less than 5 cabs this weekend going to and from various activities, and every single one smelled terrible.

It was as if I was snuggled up under their smelly armpit, right after they finished a solid, sweaty, in-the-middle-of-summer workout. It is absolute torture!

At one point, I had to open the window to let in the frosty air, just so I could breathe normally again. My mom taught me (during a traumatic incident in church where the woman next to us smelled of dried urine) that if you are singing out loud, it is harder to smell (something to do with the inhale, exhale and mouth open thing)...but it would have been sortof awkward to just ride in the back seat, singing sweetly at the top of my lungs.

Especially in that one cab that was listening to NPR.

Frankly, and selfishly, I was concerned that the smell would stick to my wool coat, as smells have a way of doing, and that when I arrived at my friend's house, I would be the carrier of the Body Odor scent No. 34.

How long are their shifts, exactly?!

The Zoo

I had the distinct privilege of going to the Bears game yesterday, and despite the crappy weather, and the fourth quarter "we gave up the game by letting you score 9 points while we sat idly by" behavior, I had a great time.

I'm sure the four cold beers had nothing to do with it.

Shortly after arriving, as the rain died down and the wind picked up, I walked into the ladies restroom, the one that was nearest our amazing 200 level seats in the end zone, and stopped dead in my tracks.

Animal reference intended.

It had a strange smell. I couldn't place it at first, and then it hit me.

The entire bathroom smelled like a zoo. You know the one—the aroma of straw, dirty floors, animal waste and too many people? Yep. That one.

I looked left. Glanced right.

Nope.

No animals held in captivity below the dripping sinks. No zookeeper lurking in one of the empty stalls. No reasonable explanation for the gross stench.

And that was the LADIES room. I can only dare to imagine what fragrance the men can muster.

Needless to say, the smell lingered for awhile, trapped in my four layers of clothing possibly, or maybe drafting over to our seats from behind us. So, I did what any self-respecting, solid, lived-here-awhile-and-now-I'm-tough, Bears fan would do.

I devoured a Chicago-style hot dog, laden with smelly grilled onions, to make me (and everyone seated within a four-seat radius) forget about the zoo smell.

I think it was pretty damn polite of me, personally.