This is for all my sister-friends who have pee-pee pants on occasion.
What a lovely parting gift we get after pregnancy, eh? Or, once we hit a "certain" age and something* takes a mean hold on our bladders, squeezing them with the force it takes to milk an over-full cow, without us doing a thing, other than sprinting toward the nearest bathroom.
OH, the joys.
I recommend you put a maxi-pad in its proper place, find a quiet locale, and, without embarrassment, sing along.
To the tune 'O Tannenbaum'
O pee-pee
O pee-pee
Why can't you stay inside of me?
O pee-pee
O pee-pee
Inside would make me hap-py.
When I cough, bounce and/or laugh
You get all over my girly pants.
O pee-pee
O pee-pee
A new bladder would be lovely.
*Is this gravity, the devil, WHAT?
Showing posts with label bladders. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bladders. Show all posts
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A Semi-Screaming Hissy Fit (of sorts)
During cousin's camp I had the brilliant idea of driving from Dallas to Glen Rose (about 1.5 hours under normal circumstances, EACH WAY) to drive SOME MORE through Fossil Rim Wildlife Park (another 3.5 hours).
A couple of things I didn't anticipate as problems:
1. Wednesdays are half-price days. How was I to know that every person from South Dakota to Brazil would make their way to Glen Rose to take advantage of the discount? They, obviously, hail from CHEAPVILLE, just like me.
2. August is, historically, hysterically hot in Texas. Having previously been to Fossil Rim in June, when it WAS in the 100's, I figured most people would avoid going to a place where you roll down all your windows, open the sun roof, and generally bake on leather seats for the whole process. Unfortunately, it was a freak, sub-100 day. As a result of this anomaly, there were TONS of heat-intolerent, penny-pinching people there.
So, along with masses of other crazies trying to see everything from roadrunners to rhinos, we entered the park. I knew, having driven this before, that we had a real problem when we rounded the first bend and sat for 30 minutes at a point we should have blazed through in five.
Apparently the people in front of us had never
a. fed an animal in their lives. I'm guessing their parents never anted up the quarter it took at the zoo to buy food for the koi. These people practically emptied the contents of their feed bags on the pretty little animals before them.
b. seen a white-tail deer before. Yes, they were feeding white-tail deer, for cripe's sake*. I could practically hear them reading the animal map saying, "Look, kids, it's 'Odocoileus virginianus'. Have you EVER seen anything so BE-U-TI-FUL in your life?"
By the time we got to the halfway point and stopped for lunch, I was hungry, had to pee, and was HOT. So, naturally, I led the kids STRAIGHT to the restrooms because me and my bladder USED to understand each other but, now, not so much**.
When we got past the zillion people crowding the entrance to the hallway***, I practically started sprinting the short, narrow passage to the restroom. But, not knowing my plans, about 1/3 of the way to the potty place, my nephew stopped to get a drink. One Nowell son queued up directly behind him, old school style. In this position, both boys took up 2/3 of the width of the hall****.
Meanwhile, I was trying to keep my bladder from exploding as I stood halfway in the bathroom door (about four steps up the hallway), monitoring the boys, and trying to keep the other Nowell and niece in tow.
When my nephew stepped back, away from the faucet, he caused Nowell son #1 to step back. Like dominos they were. Then the domino that was a Nowell lost his balance and fell directly onto a woman's exposed toes.
Now, I've seen, scratch that, BEEN, a drama queen before, but this woman put all others before her immediately under her sandal-laden feet. She cried in mock pain, rolled her eyes, and huffed aloud, as if to communicate, "GEEZ, you idiot."
For a split second I got to get all puffy-chested, because my son IMMEDIATELY said "I'm sorry" while looking her in the eye*****. I almost forgot how full my bladder was at that point.
Then the almost unthinkable happened. This woman had the audacity to ignore my son and say nothing to him. She just scowled and started to walk away.
Surprisingly, Fossil Rim doesn't boast any lions. However, on this day, when the rude girl-child/woman decided to act like a two-year-old and treat my son like a non-person, I channeled the latent lioness within me and sprang into action like a hungry cat on a dik-dik******. Frankly, I even surprised myself with the ferocious, lightning quick reaction that ushered forth.
I looked her directly in the eye and said "I think this little boy just apologized to you. The least you could do is respond." Her lame retort? "I'm just trying to get into the bathroom quickly." Scowl.
So, I turned toward the bathroom door, threw it open the rest of the way, and loudly announced to everyone in the three-staller "Look out, there is a lady coming in with a bathroom emergency."
R-O-A-R.
What I didn't say, and wish I had, was "Lady, we're all hot and tired of sitting in our SUVs, trying to get our 15 seconds with the giraffes and emus. Get over yourself and stop taking it out on the children of this world."
She never said another word to me, just went all evil-eyed into her stall. I hope she remembered me the rest of her hot, slow drive and didn't give the stink-eye to anybody else's kid.
As for the rest of us? By the time we ate lunch, brushed the goats, and talked to the macaws, the rest of the world had gotten hot and left the park. Only once, on the rest of our journey, did we get sidelined by a bunch of cars.
And what was so exciting that it stopped traffic? White-tail deer. AGAIN.
ARGH.
*I BEG YOU, before you visit Fossil Rim again, drive an hour outside of DFW in ANY direction and stay until twilight. Get near a bunch of trees. You can even do this by pulling over off a major highway! If you don't get to see your fill of deer, I'll give you a buck. HA HA.
**This is a sad reality after three pregnancies. I'll be in diapers by 65 at this rate.
***Etiquette note: after you pee (and, hopefully, wash your hands), please move to another part of the building. I understand that you like the lemony smell of the cleaning solutions, but you can sit in your OWN bathroom and inhale for hours, if you like. Here, people need to GO. Get out of our way, please.
****Note to designers of this area of the building: architects you ARE NOT. Please plan for a queue of at least five people at the fountain when it takes two hours to get past the dang white-tail deer and to the fountain/pee-pee place. People will be hot, ready to get a LONG drink, and tinkle. Please plan for this next go-round, K?
*****Something I taught STUCK.
******Stop laughing long enough to pay homage to the cutest, tiniest deer on the safari.
A couple of things I didn't anticipate as problems:
1. Wednesdays are half-price days. How was I to know that every person from South Dakota to Brazil would make their way to Glen Rose to take advantage of the discount? They, obviously, hail from CHEAPVILLE, just like me.
2. August is, historically, hysterically hot in Texas. Having previously been to Fossil Rim in June, when it WAS in the 100's, I figured most people would avoid going to a place where you roll down all your windows, open the sun roof, and generally bake on leather seats for the whole process. Unfortunately, it was a freak, sub-100 day. As a result of this anomaly, there were TONS of heat-intolerent, penny-pinching people there.
So, along with masses of other crazies trying to see everything from roadrunners to rhinos, we entered the park. I knew, having driven this before, that we had a real problem when we rounded the first bend and sat for 30 minutes at a point we should have blazed through in five.
Apparently the people in front of us had never
a. fed an animal in their lives. I'm guessing their parents never anted up the quarter it took at the zoo to buy food for the koi. These people practically emptied the contents of their feed bags on the pretty little animals before them.
b. seen a white-tail deer before. Yes, they were feeding white-tail deer, for cripe's sake*. I could practically hear them reading the animal map saying, "Look, kids, it's 'Odocoileus virginianus'. Have you EVER seen anything so BE-U-TI-FUL in your life?"
By the time we got to the halfway point and stopped for lunch, I was hungry, had to pee, and was HOT. So, naturally, I led the kids STRAIGHT to the restrooms because me and my bladder USED to understand each other but, now, not so much**.
When we got past the zillion people crowding the entrance to the hallway***, I practically started sprinting the short, narrow passage to the restroom. But, not knowing my plans, about 1/3 of the way to the potty place, my nephew stopped to get a drink. One Nowell son queued up directly behind him, old school style. In this position, both boys took up 2/3 of the width of the hall****.
Meanwhile, I was trying to keep my bladder from exploding as I stood halfway in the bathroom door (about four steps up the hallway), monitoring the boys, and trying to keep the other Nowell and niece in tow.
When my nephew stepped back, away from the faucet, he caused Nowell son #1 to step back. Like dominos they were. Then the domino that was a Nowell lost his balance and fell directly onto a woman's exposed toes.
Now, I've seen, scratch that, BEEN, a drama queen before, but this woman put all others before her immediately under her sandal-laden feet. She cried in mock pain, rolled her eyes, and huffed aloud, as if to communicate, "GEEZ, you idiot."
For a split second I got to get all puffy-chested, because my son IMMEDIATELY said "I'm sorry" while looking her in the eye*****. I almost forgot how full my bladder was at that point.
Then the almost unthinkable happened. This woman had the audacity to ignore my son and say nothing to him. She just scowled and started to walk away.
Surprisingly, Fossil Rim doesn't boast any lions. However, on this day, when the rude girl-child/woman decided to act like a two-year-old and treat my son like a non-person, I channeled the latent lioness within me and sprang into action like a hungry cat on a dik-dik******. Frankly, I even surprised myself with the ferocious, lightning quick reaction that ushered forth.
I looked her directly in the eye and said "I think this little boy just apologized to you. The least you could do is respond." Her lame retort? "I'm just trying to get into the bathroom quickly." Scowl.
So, I turned toward the bathroom door, threw it open the rest of the way, and loudly announced to everyone in the three-staller "Look out, there is a lady coming in with a bathroom emergency."
R-O-A-R.
What I didn't say, and wish I had, was "Lady, we're all hot and tired of sitting in our SUVs, trying to get our 15 seconds with the giraffes and emus. Get over yourself and stop taking it out on the children of this world."
She never said another word to me, just went all evil-eyed into her stall. I hope she remembered me the rest of her hot, slow drive and didn't give the stink-eye to anybody else's kid.
As for the rest of us? By the time we ate lunch, brushed the goats, and talked to the macaws, the rest of the world had gotten hot and left the park. Only once, on the rest of our journey, did we get sidelined by a bunch of cars.
And what was so exciting that it stopped traffic? White-tail deer. AGAIN.
ARGH.
*I BEG YOU, before you visit Fossil Rim again, drive an hour outside of DFW in ANY direction and stay until twilight. Get near a bunch of trees. You can even do this by pulling over off a major highway! If you don't get to see your fill of deer, I'll give you a buck. HA HA.
**This is a sad reality after three pregnancies. I'll be in diapers by 65 at this rate.
***Etiquette note: after you pee (and, hopefully, wash your hands), please move to another part of the building. I understand that you like the lemony smell of the cleaning solutions, but you can sit in your OWN bathroom and inhale for hours, if you like. Here, people need to GO. Get out of our way, please.
****Note to designers of this area of the building: architects you ARE NOT. Please plan for a queue of at least five people at the fountain when it takes two hours to get past the dang white-tail deer and to the fountain/pee-pee place. People will be hot, ready to get a LONG drink, and tinkle. Please plan for this next go-round, K?
*****Something I taught STUCK.
******Stop laughing long enough to pay homage to the cutest, tiniest deer on the safari.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Potty dances
Once you become a Mom with kids who can walk, even in a roly-poly, Weebles-wobble-but-they-don't-fall down kind of way, it becomes a matter of self-preservation to avoid public restrooms at all costs. I've known this for a VERY long time as my kids mastered the art of single-handedly describing my underwear-down anatomy in extremely loud voices while simultaneously performing a pretzel-worthy stretching act under the partition to smile and wave "hi" to the poor throne dweller who parked next to us. All this talent perfected by each of my boys before they hit about three.
So, not surprisingly, I am a big fan of any store, restaurant, or parent who installs a "potty-chair"* in their throne room. I've been known to holler "YES" when stumblin' upon one of these little beauties**. This miracle invention allows you to strap sweet cheeks into a fold-out chair about 3 feet above ground level. It's an introduction to the virtues of Six Flags for the toddler set*** that allows you just under three-minutes to finish your duty before your little angel realizes "HEY! This isn't the Texas Giant. Get me out of this thing!"
Now, last week, I entered a restroom where there wasn't a potty-chair to be had. It didn't matter a bit to me because, in a rare stroke of luck, I had managed to arrive early and, having not picked up the babe yet, I was SANS KIDS! But, I wasn't the only Mom in the restroom. No, in fact, I was within five feet of a woman who forgot the cardinal rules of Mothering:
Rule #1: always use the restroom BEFORE you leave the house and don't drink a drop of ANYTHING before you arrive back home****.
Rule #2: if you violated rule #1, do not rush to your child's side but to the nearest water closet! Even if you have to pay $1/minute for being late.
But back to our bathroom: Mom and her threeish-sounding son managed to nab the coveted handicap stall. Stall number two was occupied by an unknown, very quiet, person. Now, my bladder was FULL. And no one in either stall seemed to be moving beyond a snail's pace. So, I crossed my legs and waited.
What came next was nothing short of blog fodder. The threeish son started to perform for his Mom. It went something like this:
Son: "Do you want to see the potty dance?"
Mom: (in the same small, sweet voice all Moms have for approximately two minutes after picking up children they haven't seen for a couple of hours) "Sure."
Son: "Potty dance, potty dance, poo-poo, pee-pee." (Shuffling sound from stall. No rhythm or rhyme to the lyrics.)
Mom: (trying to sound interested, yet slightly worried that this has no where to go but down) "Well, that is an interesting song."
Son: "Potty. Poo. Pee." (More shuffling. Lyrics annoyingly repetitive.)
Then it happened. Mom did the unthinkable, yet natural, thing that accompanies sitting on a toilet. She passed gas.
Son: "OOOOHHHH. Farty song. Do you want to hear my farty song?" (So very excited. Practically auditioning for Tap Dogs inside stall.)
(ME? My legs are squeezed together so tightly I think they might break. WHY, you ask? Because I'm engaged in one of those noiseless, internal, body-shaking fits of laughter that I'm afraid is going to cause me to pee instantly, on the floor, rendering useless my time waiting for the sluggard to vacate stall number two.)
Mom: "That's not very appropriate, Evan. Let's not talk about that." (Pulse-racing, wondering if anybody else is in bathroom.******)
Evan (who now has a name!): "My potty, farty song. (muffled sound). (More muffled sound). (SCREAMING, muffled sound) WHY ARE YOU COVERING MY MOUTH, MOMMY?"
Sound of toilet flushing. Stall number two opens and mystery person turns out to be bigger brother of flautulant Mother and dancing brother. Totally unaffected by events from the family line, he exits stall and dutifully begins washing hands. Toilet in handicap stall announces itself with loud flushing.
By this time, I have bonded with Evan. He is so much a Nowell that I could adopt him on the spot. He'd fit right in with my brood and I HAVE TO, down to the marrow of my bones, see his face to be sure he wasn't born of me in some wierd "when did that alien abduct and impregnate me" kind of way. So, I hold my ground and appear busy by rifling through my purse, aimlessly.
When Mom and Evan exit the stall, I catch a glance of a flat out adorable little guy. He's bouncy and happy, with wavy brown hair and big eyes. Cute, but no Nowell/alien lineage to be had. His Mom, no doubt mortified that someone else WAS in the loo, acts like I'm a wall tile and whisks him right by me, using her Mommy kung-fu grip******.
By the time they leave the bathroom, Mom has managed to lose the sweet, small voice, in favor of her usual brand of talk, which is somewhere between Army seargant and Hitler. She has also endeared herself to me because I see myself in her: She's simultaneously embarassed and frazzled, yet can't wait to have five minutes alone with her husband to recount the "bathroom story" and laugh about how cute Evan is and how responsible his older brother is becoming. ME? I'm just happy to have made it to the open stall.
And, fair prince Evan of my (potentially) favorite bathroom story: You made my day. Rock on!
*Does this thing have a technical name?
**And you can be darn sure I'll be back to THAT place when I'm toting kids and have to wee. Even if it means a twenty-minute trip out of my way to get there.
***If you play your cards right, that is. You MUST get all happy-clappy and silly so your kid thinks this is FUN, and not recognize they are really strapped into a carseat hanging off the wall.
****This is the only iron-clad way to avoid PRE, commonly known in psychology circles as "public restroom embarrasment".
*****So sorry, yes, there is somebody else here. And, sadly, your moment of shame is about to be blog material. But, carry on.
******His arm was practically blue, I tell you! But, I completely understood her dilema: kung-fu grip or spanking? HMMMM.
So, not surprisingly, I am a big fan of any store, restaurant, or parent who installs a "potty-chair"* in their throne room. I've been known to holler "YES" when stumblin' upon one of these little beauties**. This miracle invention allows you to strap sweet cheeks into a fold-out chair about 3 feet above ground level. It's an introduction to the virtues of Six Flags for the toddler set*** that allows you just under three-minutes to finish your duty before your little angel realizes "HEY! This isn't the Texas Giant. Get me out of this thing!"
Now, last week, I entered a restroom where there wasn't a potty-chair to be had. It didn't matter a bit to me because, in a rare stroke of luck, I had managed to arrive early and, having not picked up the babe yet, I was SANS KIDS! But, I wasn't the only Mom in the restroom. No, in fact, I was within five feet of a woman who forgot the cardinal rules of Mothering:
Rule #1: always use the restroom BEFORE you leave the house and don't drink a drop of ANYTHING before you arrive back home****.
Rule #2: if you violated rule #1, do not rush to your child's side but to the nearest water closet! Even if you have to pay $1/minute for being late.
But back to our bathroom: Mom and her threeish-sounding son managed to nab the coveted handicap stall. Stall number two was occupied by an unknown, very quiet, person. Now, my bladder was FULL. And no one in either stall seemed to be moving beyond a snail's pace. So, I crossed my legs and waited.
What came next was nothing short of blog fodder. The threeish son started to perform for his Mom. It went something like this:
Son: "Do you want to see the potty dance?"
Mom: (in the same small, sweet voice all Moms have for approximately two minutes after picking up children they haven't seen for a couple of hours) "Sure."
Son: "Potty dance, potty dance, poo-poo, pee-pee." (Shuffling sound from stall. No rhythm or rhyme to the lyrics.)
Mom: (trying to sound interested, yet slightly worried that this has no where to go but down) "Well, that is an interesting song."
Son: "Potty. Poo. Pee." (More shuffling. Lyrics annoyingly repetitive.)
Then it happened. Mom did the unthinkable, yet natural, thing that accompanies sitting on a toilet. She passed gas.
Son: "OOOOHHHH. Farty song. Do you want to hear my farty song?" (So very excited. Practically auditioning for Tap Dogs inside stall.)
(ME? My legs are squeezed together so tightly I think they might break. WHY, you ask? Because I'm engaged in one of those noiseless, internal, body-shaking fits of laughter that I'm afraid is going to cause me to pee instantly, on the floor, rendering useless my time waiting for the sluggard to vacate stall number two.)
Mom: "That's not very appropriate, Evan. Let's not talk about that." (Pulse-racing, wondering if anybody else is in bathroom.******)
Evan (who now has a name!): "My potty, farty song. (muffled sound). (More muffled sound). (SCREAMING, muffled sound) WHY ARE YOU COVERING MY MOUTH, MOMMY?"
Sound of toilet flushing. Stall number two opens and mystery person turns out to be bigger brother of flautulant Mother and dancing brother. Totally unaffected by events from the family line, he exits stall and dutifully begins washing hands. Toilet in handicap stall announces itself with loud flushing.
By this time, I have bonded with Evan. He is so much a Nowell that I could adopt him on the spot. He'd fit right in with my brood and I HAVE TO, down to the marrow of my bones, see his face to be sure he wasn't born of me in some wierd "when did that alien abduct and impregnate me" kind of way. So, I hold my ground and appear busy by rifling through my purse, aimlessly.
When Mom and Evan exit the stall, I catch a glance of a flat out adorable little guy. He's bouncy and happy, with wavy brown hair and big eyes. Cute, but no Nowell/alien lineage to be had. His Mom, no doubt mortified that someone else WAS in the loo, acts like I'm a wall tile and whisks him right by me, using her Mommy kung-fu grip******.
By the time they leave the bathroom, Mom has managed to lose the sweet, small voice, in favor of her usual brand of talk, which is somewhere between Army seargant and Hitler. She has also endeared herself to me because I see myself in her: She's simultaneously embarassed and frazzled, yet can't wait to have five minutes alone with her husband to recount the "bathroom story" and laugh about how cute Evan is and how responsible his older brother is becoming. ME? I'm just happy to have made it to the open stall.
And, fair prince Evan of my (potentially) favorite bathroom story: You made my day. Rock on!
*Does this thing have a technical name?
**And you can be darn sure I'll be back to THAT place when I'm toting kids and have to wee. Even if it means a twenty-minute trip out of my way to get there.
***If you play your cards right, that is. You MUST get all happy-clappy and silly so your kid thinks this is FUN, and not recognize they are really strapped into a carseat hanging off the wall.
****This is the only iron-clad way to avoid PRE, commonly known in psychology circles as "public restroom embarrasment".
*****So sorry, yes, there is somebody else here. And, sadly, your moment of shame is about to be blog material. But, carry on.
******His arm was practically blue, I tell you! But, I completely understood her dilema: kung-fu grip or spanking? HMMMM.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
HGTV's unfortunate programming decision
If you are like me, inspiration comes at odd hours and I often don't have control over it. Take the night/morning this blog was born: I created the site and wrote six entries right then. Who knew I had so much pent up writing inside of me?
Which brings me to my topic: HGTV. I love HGTV. I pretty much love anything that has to do with decorating, redecorating, looking at houses, cooking, etc. But, the people at HGTV have made a colossal mistake. Or, maybe they just don't get people like me*; if they did, at 3am they wouldn't put up that heinous message that says "Good Night from HGTV" and turn the station over for TWO AND A HALF HOURS to "Paid Programming" (Billy Mays will live on FOREVER if I can't get this oversight corrected! Oh, the horrors.)
I'm reduced to either:
1) putting the pedal to the metal and getting the project done without the fun of watching Candice Olson, The Iron Chef, or Carter Oosterhouse while I work -OR-
2) going to bed and not being able to sleep because I haven't finished my project.
Is there a good answer here, folks? I think not.
So, later today, after my tall cuppajoe, a good workout at the gym, and a few cartoons*, I'll attack this problem by sending HGTV an email detailing how their messed up programming is having a negative impact on my life.
Do you think they'll give a YIP?
*In about four hours I'll be stopping by Exxon for my 24-ounce coffee. And my bladder WON'T thank me.....
**A treat for the kids; sleepytime for Mom!
Monday, July 20, 2009
The burning question: WHATZUP W/ THE *****?
In case you haven't noticed*, I am a fan of the *.** This all began when Mike took me to a Barnes and Noble on a "married" date***. I was cruising through some section and noticed a book with a cute outline of a dress on the cover and, upon reading a few sentences, realized it was quite possibly the funniest book I'd ever read!**** Literally, my post-birth bladder couldn't handle it and we almost had an accident.*****
ANYHOO, this book had a * after almost every sentence. I could hardly wait for the next * to reference me to the bottom of the page where another morsel of hysterical sidenote had been written. This literally SPOKE to me.******
So, thanks to a married date, you are forced to make a choice:
1. Read through my blog entries, ignoring the *'s, and enjoy the comments at the end
-OR-
2. Everytime you see a *, move the slider bar to the bottom and try to locate the pithy comment that accompanies the *.*******
Aren't you glad I solved THAT mystery for you?********
*Immediately return to the first post and OPEN YOUR EYES.
**The single * at the end of the sentence wasn't a reference. But I guess you figured that out? Smart, smart readers.....
***You know the kind: Dinner, movie, Barnes and Noble. The stop at BN is only because you hired a sitter and it would seem goofy to return home at 8pm on a Saturday night. Shoot--8pm used to be when you got started SHOWERING when you were dating as a single. Plus, every minute you stay out past your kid's bedtime is one more minute they have to fall asleep before you arrive. Hence, going to Barnes and Noble is something like foreplay!
****Jen Lancaster is a wordsmith AND a diva.
*****Notice I didn't write "I almost had an accident" but "WE almost had an accident". THAT would be the royal WE, as in me and Mike, because, had my bladder burst on the spot I sure wouldn't be running for the first available employee to "clean up the spill on aisle 5", I'd be sprinting to the bathroom with my contraband book, bounding through the doors setting off the "book alarm", so I could hold in the silver button on the wind tunnel hand dryer while thrusting my pelvis forward to try and dry my peepee pants. Thus, I would already HAVE a job and Mike would get to make the embarrassing walk to the service desk and do the honors on that one!! Now THAT'S a royal WEE.
******And, I bet, you are completely digging it, aren't you????
*******Blogger does not accept responsibility for reader's whiplash, carpel tunnel syndrome, or my inability to humor you.
********No.
ANYHOO, this book had a * after almost every sentence. I could hardly wait for the next * to reference me to the bottom of the page where another morsel of hysterical sidenote had been written. This literally SPOKE to me.******
So, thanks to a married date, you are forced to make a choice:
1. Read through my blog entries, ignoring the *'s, and enjoy the comments at the end
-OR-
2. Everytime you see a *, move the slider bar to the bottom and try to locate the pithy comment that accompanies the *.*******
Aren't you glad I solved THAT mystery for you?********
*Immediately return to the first post and OPEN YOUR EYES.
**The single * at the end of the sentence wasn't a reference. But I guess you figured that out? Smart, smart readers.....
***You know the kind: Dinner, movie, Barnes and Noble. The stop at BN is only because you hired a sitter and it would seem goofy to return home at 8pm on a Saturday night. Shoot--8pm used to be when you got started SHOWERING when you were dating as a single. Plus, every minute you stay out past your kid's bedtime is one more minute they have to fall asleep before you arrive. Hence, going to Barnes and Noble is something like foreplay!
****Jen Lancaster is a wordsmith AND a diva.
*****Notice I didn't write "I almost had an accident" but "WE almost had an accident". THAT would be the royal WE, as in me and Mike, because, had my bladder burst on the spot I sure wouldn't be running for the first available employee to "clean up the spill on aisle 5", I'd be sprinting to the bathroom with my contraband book, bounding through the doors setting off the "book alarm", so I could hold in the silver button on the wind tunnel hand dryer while thrusting my pelvis forward to try and dry my peepee pants. Thus, I would already HAVE a job and Mike would get to make the embarrassing walk to the service desk and do the honors on that one!! Now THAT'S a royal WEE.
******And, I bet, you are completely digging it, aren't you????
*******Blogger does not accept responsibility for reader's whiplash, carpel tunnel syndrome, or my inability to humor you.
********No.
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