Still. Damn you, laws of physics.

In other news, my last two columns are awaiting your peepers. This week’s is about the police with pepper spray vs 8 year old Colorado boy and last week’s examines the world’s fascination with Suri Cruise.

I once dated a guy who was a 35 year old virgin. He had learned what little he knew about sex from pornography which, in theory, seemed totally endearing and somewhat hot. In practice, though, it left a lot to be desired. And it took a long, long time to get to the practice. You know, because of the whole “virgin” thing. When we finally got to it (my suggestion, naturally), I ended up the sadclown in a 3 ring shit circus.

We headed upstairs in his parents’ house, which was where he lived (hey! how ’bout them stereotypes?), for my first glimpse of his bedroom. It smelled musty, like an old man’s pockets, and was covered in stacks of comic books. Like, every square inch had not just a comic book on it but at least a foot of them. Also, Toy Story sheets.

He tried to undress me in a sexy way but I wasn’t having any of that. I had waited two months and it felt like this might take two more months, so I hissed, “Stop it! Just take off your clothes!” You know, because I’m a lady. Also, we all know that there was no way a virgin was going to figure out a bra clasp his first time out, right? Right.

So, we’re nude. He’s ready. I’m ready. We’re standing next to the bed. I’m a cowgirl and I’m trying to figure out how to get this guy to lay down. He’s standing there, awkwardly grabbing my breasts and kissing me, but in a weird half-mouth/half-face kind of way. Like he missed his mark but kept on trucking like a little trooper.

“Um, hey, you wanna lay down?”

“No, I wanna slide my throbbing love muscle into your beautiful flower.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I want to bury my throbbing cock in your secret garden?”

“No talking, okay?”

“Okay.”

I finally got tired of standing there, naked, staring and kissing in a way that was making my semi into a bye-bye and climbed up on the bed. He was 6′ 7″, I am 5′ 6″. It really was a climb. I laid there as he sort of hung over me on all fours, unsure of what to do.

“Really, if you’ll lie down, I’ll take care of this.”

Still hovering. No laying. Just looking at me.

“Are you going to join me down here?”

“Can I talk now?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“I want to snake my tongue deep into your hot, juicy pussy…”

“I gotta go.”

“Please stay.”

I did. For thirty more minutes of Cirque du MakeMeGay. Porn had taught him such valuable lessons as “girls can climax from just intercourse”, “sixty-nine is fundamental so climb on up there and dangle it in her face”, and “hey, she’s got another hole, fill it!” The acrobatics rivaled those of a Russian gymnast and felt desperate and sad. Any attempts I made were half-hearted, at best. In the end, neither the throbbing love muscle nor the hot, juicy pussy met their bliss.

Not even I’m horrible enough to break up with someone after that shit show, so I hung in for another month or so. We never again attempted what he called “lovemaking”. Barf. We still talk from time to time. He says he lost his virginity with me but I contend he could still claim virgin if he wanted to. I don’t think he does. The good news is, I think he’s got a promising future with Ringling Brothers, should he choose it. Me? My future’s in the rodeo.

I think that everybody entertains the odd notion from time to time. But most of you are smart enough not to admit to the short circuit in your brain that makes you hear voices, see things that aren’t there, or buy Ke$ha cds. I, however, don’t know how not to share every single thought that crosses my mind like so much emotional diarrhea. I am an open book that won’t. fucking. shut.

Today I wanted to write you an email about some stuff but didn’t because I’m afraid you’ll find out I’m totally crazy.

I’ll listen…

I just want to be friends with you for a little longer before I reveal that I think I might be invisible or one of my other thousands of crazies. Today, though, invisibility.

well, I think everyone’s prone to being invisible from time to time.

It wasn’t “I feel invisible” in an After School Special kind of way. Actually invisible.

…

THEN I was driving home from a friend’s house and the stoplight wouldn’t change, even though I was sitting there. It took 7 minutes. I was like “oh I’m not invisible, I don’t exist!”

like you’re patrick swayze in ghost. but not a ghost. And not patrick swayze.

Just to be clear, most of the time I’m PRETTY SURE that people can see me. But don’t get me started on my theory that gravity is different for me than everyone else.

as in you can float from time to time. because if you can, that’s fucking awesome.

Stop reading my mind! Also, I read minds. Sometimes. You won’t believe it and then you’ll be like “why did you just say that? that’s exactly what I was thinking” and I’ll just say “I know”. Mostly, people hate it.

Hmm…

And it’s more like gravity’s hold on me is tenuous and I might come untethered and float into space at any moment. Hahaha. I am Girl, Interrupted.

That’s right, invisibility, existentialism, gravity-defying, and ESP in one conversation. Yes, I’m a superhero. But I’m also nuts. Wait, maybe that’s my angle. Can you fly in a straightjacket and peepants?

In my life, I’ve tried out many a ‘do on my Little Miss Don’t. For the first 25 years or so, she roamed free. Like a gazelle. Or maybe a porcupine. Then I found porn and realized that everyone didn’t look like me down under. Up until then, I had only seen other cooches in anatomy textbooks or National Geographic magazines or in my college dorm room. Every one I had ever seen pretty much looked like mine, give or take a few tufts. This world of partially hairless love pillows intrigued me. A snoozy sex life (I was watching the porno alone so, uh, yeah) lead me to try to jazz up my vageezy. I took a little off the bottom at first, as sort of a fuzzy version of training wheels. Or, at least that was the plan. But, for some reason, I couldn’t get it right. I couldn’t get it straight. I tried again and again to make a neat triangle, taking off tiny bits at a time. The triangle got smaller and smaller. Narrower and narrower. Soon, I was left with Hitler’s mustache, staring back from the handheld mirror. No, I supposed that wouldn’t do. I went full tilt boogie, cleaning up until all I was left with was a mound resembling a hamburger bun, split and all.

While it took a little getting used to, visually, I wasn’t really looking at it all that much. What I WAS doing was feeling it. It. Was. Awesome. I felt free, I felt sexy, I felt itchy. Okay, yes, it was a little itchy. But free and sexy! I vowed to never go back to the jungle!

But, time and two kids lead me back. I wandered away from the clean shaven muffin of yesteryear. I got busy. I got hairy. Then I got a job showing my business on camera. I went back to completely bare down there. But it seemed like a chore. It was for work, so I automatically resented it. It was a uniform for my pussy. As soon as I went back to wearing clothes for a living, I went bushy again. In fact, I’ve gone back and forth most of my adult life. My poor ladyfriend is a schizophrenic in a hall of mirrors.

So, back to this morning. I didn’t have time to fix her up right then and there in the shower. Once you get to the stage where it looks like you are smuggling Rip Van Winkle in your panties, it takes a while to right the wrong, if you know what I mean. I was late, as always, but drove extra careful on my way to work, lest I have an accident and have to be stripped naked in a hospital, only for them to find Richard Simmons’ fatter twin between my legs. I also tiptoed around at work, sure this would be the day that I amputate my arm in the flower chopper or one of my excoworkers comes in all disgruntled to settle the score. Not with me but, you know, sometimes there’s collateral damage. “Please don’t let me die today,” I prayed, “Not this way. Won’t spontaneously voiding my bowels be punishment enough for my misdeeds?” What I secretly DIDN’T reveal in the prayer was the fact that spontaneously voiding my bowels is not unique to death and, instead, pretty much a daily event for me.

So, I made it through the day without incident and am finally safe at home where I can makeover Wednesday Addams and take her from slightly frumpy to totally humpy. But it’s late. I had a hard day. I am tired. And the Berenstain Bears are on. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow… doubleprayers and then double blades. Probably.

What normal people call a weekend, retail workers call a vacation. And we sometimes have to stand on our heads, or knees, to get one. I may or may not have resorted to hinting to my boss that I was feeling a little overwhelmed at work and, when overwhelmed, I have a tendency to pee in coffee pots. She likes coffee, so she graciously agreed.

I wasn’t sure what to do with my two whole days, but I knew I wanted to take my adorable little family on the road. We decided on Baltimore, Maryland because a) it is only a 2 1/2 hour drive from our home in Richmond, Virginia; b) I had heard good things about the National Aquarium; and c) Baltimore in Summer is pretty much synonymous with beauty. Like Spring in Paris. But with more humidity, yelling, and spraying fire hydrants. Naturally, the whole thing turned into a traveling 3 ring shitshow, proving that I ought never leave the house except to replenish dwindling frozen pizza and Mountain Dew supplies.

Now, there’s something that you should know about me: I have no navigation skills, whatsoever. In a game of Pin The Tail On The Donkey, once I’m blindfolded and spun around, I couldn’t tell you what country I am in, let alone what direction I’m facing. I get turned around every time I venture outside of my neighborhood. If the Ingalls family had been cursed with me as a guide, they’d have never found the Little House. Hell, they’d have never found the Prairie! Sure, like most of my quirks, it can be charming for a short period of time, in a “silly girl can’t find her way out of a closet” kind of way. However, the charm quickly fades when you have to stand on a corner for an hour, waiting for me to show up while I desperately call you and play, “I’m coming. I swear. I just have no idea where I am.” Bonus points if I burst into tears. Double bonus if I miss the actual event we are meeting for. Anyway, the kids know this and have learned to dread every car ride. Bigger car ride = bigger dread and bigger likelihood I will accidentally take us somewhere we don’t want to go. It didn’t take me long to justify their misgivings.

Things really hit the skids (PUNS!) in Washington, DC. I’m not sure why the trusty mapping website I chose took us right through the middle of the city, but it did. The problem was, it got us in but couldn’t get us out. Seriously, we circled the Washington Monument many, many times. At first I was excited about the majesty and beauty of the mighty obelisk, then frustrated, confused, and angry. A girl hasn’t felt this nauseous near a giant white phallus since Monica Lewinsky got a little on her dress.

The natives grew restless.

Her: There’s no way we’re ever going to make it. They will find us ten years from now and we’ll be just bones.

Him: Yeah, but bones that are still driving around DC, trying to find their exit.

Cute. Driving Skeletons. At least they were amusing themselves.

Her: Gah! This trip is like Survivor. VOTE ME OFF THE ISLAND, PLEASE!

Timely. I wasn’t aware that she even had the money to hire 1990′s sitcom writers to express her displeasure.

Him: Hey, Mom, maybe the exit is like Platform 9 3/4. You just have to believe it’s there, and go at it at full speed.

Her: YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Let’s just try it. The worst that could happen is we would die.

Him: Really? The worst?

Her: Right.

Big high fives followed that last one. None of them from me.

Him: I wish I had a volleyball for a best friend right now. WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILSOOOOOOOOOON! WIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIILSOOOOOOOOOON! I’m sorry, Wilson, I’m sorry!

Wilson Volleyball could not be reached for comment.

I got us there. It took five hours, during which the girl spent a good amount of the time trying to find something sharp enough to end her misery and the boy begged me to never again have one of my “good ideas”.

Wilson? Well, Wilson just stood there.

I am the creative type, I am whimsical, I am a flibbertigibbet; I can’t be bothered to recognize the signs of impending urination. Biology means nothing to a daydreamer. So, I am caught completely unaware each time my tinkle comes knockknockknocking on heaven’s door, just about to let itself out. In fact, I don’t know how I manage to hang onto my chubs when I am a such frequent sprinter. To the bathroom.

When I was in elementary school, I was consistently the best speller in my class. I’ve always had a knack for hearing something and being able to visualize the letters it takes to make that sound happen. Someday, they will find some kind of tumor growing at the base of my brain and it will explain spelling genius in what is clearly a non-genius person. But, when I was a kid, it was the one thing I had that made me unique. In fourth grade, this anomaly took me to the school spelling bee.

Four contestants from each grade sat on the stage of the auditorium/cafeteria in front of the whole student body, who was psyched because they were getting out of class but not psyched at all to be watching a damn spelling bee. There was a constant buzz of conversation, even though the principal periodically reminded everyone to quiet down. As my competitors got fewer and fewer, I was thrilled to have a bigger audience to myself and was trying to figure out how to work a song and dance number from Annie (The movie, not the musical. Aileen Quinn 4 lyf!) into my next turn at the mic. As Eminem says, “You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow. This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo”. I was loath to miss my chance to blow and was considering ways to shine like the top of the Chrysler Building when I heard my name called. At the same time, I realized I really had to pee. Or, more accurately, was starting to pee. All over myself.

I approached the microphone as I felt my pants soak through with urine. When I finally arrived at my destination, I realized I wouldn’t be the star of the show, after all, and the only song I would be singing was the blues. And there was nary a harmonica in sight. I stood and finished what couldn’t be undid as I was given my word. It was “aquarium” and I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out how it was spelled, even though I’d studied it. My mistake was not having studied it while standing in a puddle of what was only a few hours ago two cartons of chocolate milk.

I was called out and made to sit back in my seat because I wasn’t really out until the next person spelled their word right. I prayed that they did. And that they didn’t notice the small golden pond of piss they were standing in or the strong smell of hobo emanating from me. Thankfully, the next girl spelled her word right and I made a sad face, while simultaneously being thankful that the whole thing was over.

But it wasn’t. Fate, cruel mistress that she is, had it that I wasn’t going home after school that day, but horseback riding with the Girl Scout troop full of popular, pretty girls that my mom was trying to force me into. Good news: I had brought extra pants for the occasion. Bad news: For some reason I had chosen a pair of red sweatpants that hadn’t fit me in years. They were way too short, the elastic around the “ankle” hitting me at mid-calf, and rolled down under my chubby tummy. They looked like spandex leggings, before spandex or leggings even existed and should NOT have been worn without underwear, which I had to do because I’d ditched my pee-soaked pants and underwear in the school bathroom when I changed. Camel toe, much? Yes. Just picture a ten year old fat girl with a bowl cut and visible labia clomping around clumsily on a horse, while five Farrah Fawcett lookalikes tossed their feathered hair and flaunted their Jordache jeans, which didn’t smell like pee, by the way, and bounced as gracefully as if they had been born into the saddle by pregnant mothers who rode a little too far into their ninth month.

When Charlie’s Angels and I finished riding, I rolled my pants back up over my belly and finally took my sore ass home. I never told anyone what had happened to me but I did notice that my keds smelled like pee and am not sure how the subject of missing pants/underwear never came up. I DO know that I didn’t learn any sort of lesson, whatsoever, and have wet myself maybe hundreds of times since then. In fact, unless I’m at work, I’m almost exclusively a dress/skirt girl primarily so I can shave a few seconds off of my peemergency response time. Plus, it makes it easier to ditch wet panties in a wastebasket and still seem fully-dressed. Even without a smile.

This post was inspired by this over at Sara Swears A Lot. I would hold her vagina, any day.

“Me too. Barf.”

“I know, right? Actually, I wish I hated it more. It’s cool to resent your kids.”

“And write a book about it. ‘My Kids Ruined My Life’.”

“But everybody’s kids ruin everybody’s lives.”

“Yeah. That’s what makes it relatable.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Now, one thing you absolutely must know about me is I love to sing. It’s the greatest joy I’ve ever found and I suck at it. Really. I can’t carry a tune. I am completely tone deaf. I tied for last place in the only karaoke contest I’ve ever entered and my fellow loser was so drunk that she couldn’t read the words and then ran off the stage to vomit. I’m not kidding. I feel like it’s the most perfect punishment ever to create someone who only feels truly alive while singing and then make them sound like a cat in heat while achieving that bliss. Fuckin’ universe.

The other thing you need to know about me is that I’m the Weird Al of Pottytown. I can’t sing a song, no matter how somber, no matter how serious, without substituting bathroom words. It just ain’t in me. Take, for instance, Sinéad O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 Poo”. Or Huey Lewis’ “The Fart of Rock and Roll”. Or perhaps Jefferson Starship’s “We Built This City (On a Toilet Bowl) is more your speed. Regardless, if I can slip “poop”, “pee”, “fart” (sometimes “shart”, just to mix it up), “diarrhea”, or “butt” into a song (and I usually can), then I will.

So, back to the living room, from where I have just excused myself to use the restroom, and Kris Allen is singing about making the most of every day, just in case you kick the bucket. Upper, right? I fixed that.

I finished my business, washed up, and decided to give myself a laugh. I ran down the hallway and slid back into the living room, a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business, singing at the top of my lungs “GOTTA FAAAART LIKE WE’RE POOOOPING!” and, as I was singing and sliding, caught sight of my son’s face, which was wearing an expression of pure horror. He turned his head toward me, and I saw that he had his cell phone to his ear.

“Uh-huh. Okay. I’ll be in one day this week. Thank you. Bye,” he said in his “For Grownups Only” voice.

I instantly burst out laughing. Tears came so suddenly that they sprayed the inside of my glasses.

“Oh. My. God.,” I choked, a snort escaping. “Who was that?”

“My principal, saying the honor roll awards came in and I could pick up mine any time over the summer,” he growled.

He gritted his teeth while he spoke, which only made me laugh harder. Can’t put them biscuits back in the can (a homey-sounding expression that I just made up), so you might as well laugh, right?

“I’m so sorry,” I said, now nearing hysteria. My breathing was ragged, my face was red, and I was doing a screamlaugh that caused our upstairs neighbor to stomp around, angrily.

“No you aren’t,” he said.

I wish I could have argued, but the kid knows me.

I felt the familiar dampness, followed by dread, somewhere around what felt like mile one million, and remembered that I had thrown everything into a seldom-used purse I’d chosen to match my diplomatic relations expertise and can-do spirit. What I hadn’t remembered was seeing a tampon.

When I finally arrived at the International House Of Orange Couches, I made a beeline for the ladies room. Once there, I rummaged through my bag to make sure I wasn’t wrong about the tampons and see if I could find a quarter for the “Feminine Hygiene Products” vending machine mounted on the wall. Shit. No quarter? But I always have change! A woman came in as my forehead started to bead with liquid desperation. I thought I saw her give me the slightest side eye as she slid by me and into the closest stall, carrying a large purse that I imagined contained 47 tampons and not one other thing.

When it became clear to me that my bag contained neither quarter nor tampon and all the wishing in the world was not going to call forth the Kotex fairy, I resigned myself to Plan G, at best: the toilet paper torpedo.

If you are not familiar with the toilet paper torpedo (patent pending), it’s the name I’ve given to the emergency makeshift maxi pad we’ve all made at one time or another by rolling toilet paper around our hand about fifty times, folding it in half, and stuffing it into our panties. It doesn’t have dri-weave or wings but it’s free and readily available. If you are a complete flibbertigibbet when it comes to your period like I am, you might use this more often than you’d like to admit.

Anyway, I chose a stall far away from the tampon hoarder and looked at the mess in my pants. I had fortuitously chosen my darkest denim jeans that day, so I wasn’t terribly worried about strangers seeing my bloodbath, but, when I looked down, I was reminded of a terrible fact: it was laundry day and I wasn’t wearing panties. I yelled out, “BALLS!” having heard the Queen of Not Sharing leave a few seconds before. I could MAKE the toilet paper torpedo, but how would I keep it in place? I just had to hope that my pants and unusually strong labia majora would be enough to keep it from migrating. I thanked god for the fact that I am a fatty because I thought my thighs touching might come in handy for this assignment.

I crafted my toilet paper torpedo and carefully placed it where it was most likely to prevent further damage to my pants and pride, and pulled up my jeans. I did a little dance in the stall and everything felt fairly secure. Secure enough to hike through two football fields-worth of stylish, affordable bookcases preferred by bachelors, young couples, and single moms on a budget? I hoped so.

I walked through the giant maze that is an IKEA store, grateful for the giant arrows painted on the concrete floor that kept me from wandering off the path and spending days trying to find my way back to the post cards they want you to frame and call art. I mean, I don’t WANT to go all Donner Party on other customers to survive but I will if I have to and, if you are lost in what is essentially an enormous airplane hanger that’s been converted into a giant game of Chutes & Ladders, things might get real and mistakes might be made. Delicious mistakes.

The walking was uncomfortable, but no more than you’d expect for having half a roll of toilet paper stuffed between my legs. I was in the home stretch! I was going to pull this off! I finished getting everything I needed and was making my way toward the cash registers when the walking got more comfortable, suddenly. I froze in my tracks, terrified to move. No! But the jeans! The fat! The labia majora! It couldn’t be! It was.

A horrifying tickle went down the inside of my thigh, then calf, then ankle, and the bloody toilet paper torpedo landed next to my flip flop-clad foot. I wanted to disappear. I wondered which saint Catholics pray to for the earth to open and swallow them up. I contemplated sprinting out of the store, Flo Jo-style, and never looking back. I finally did the only practical thing that came to mind: I reached down, scooped up the damp wad, and threw it in my bag while simultaneously smearing the small red wet spot on the floor with my shoe. I ran back to the ladies room, disposed of the offending item, and made another, relieved that it only had to stay in place for a few minutes until I could safely sit in the car and hold it in place with my giant ass.

The second toilet paper torpedo did what it had to do and I arrived home to start a load of laundry, which included the jeans that I had massacred and the panties I should have been wearing to prevent mortification. I also took a giant, gulf oil spill-solving size box of tampons and distributed a few to each purse I have in the house and some to the car, as well. While it’s rewarding to be the Garrison Keillor of horrifying menstruation stories, I am determined to not be caught without supplies again. At least until next month.

“I have diarrhea.”

“Um, yay?”

“No, seriously, it’s really bad. I am giving birth to Satan. Out my bum.”

“Oh. Dear.”

“You know that song The Devil Went Down To Georgia? Well, I am going to change the name of my butthole to Georgia.”

No answer.

“Hello?”

“One sec, I’m forwarding these texts to Child Protective Services.”