I'm sitting here, all alone, in the quad room (office/den/laundry room/dart room) and I really gotta go pee. I'm doing the chair version of the pee pee dance, and seriously, it's not fun.
I've finally gotten the two kids that I keep during the day down for nap time and let me tell you, the baby fought me tooth and nail. Every time I'd get her all settled in her play pen, I'd walk out of the room and she'd stand up and throw her bottle out of the cage. Not funny little girl! So I go back in there... lay her back down, stick the bottle back in her mouth, mush the blankey up to her side and watch her eyes roll into the back of her head... hopefully a sign that she's going to sleep and not that I've given her a concussion. Leave the room again, and she's up and throwing that damn bottle out of the cage again. Finally, on the third try... after I let her cry for about 5 minutes... she's down. It appears that her 3 y/o sister is down for the count as well. Yippee! Auntie gets quiet time.
I meander into the quad room, thinking I've got some peace and quiet to stalk more blogs... er, I mean work... yeah, that's it... WORK... and I've got to pee like a Russian racehorse. Only I'm too scared to venture back into the rest of the house, through the dining room, slide through the livingroom, down the hall and finally to the torlet. Why? Because my damn floors squeak and crack everytime my elephant ass steps on them!
So I sit here, trying to occupy my mind of anything other than the fact that I'm going to pee my pants, my feet tapping the floor, knees locked together and a grimace on my face... seriously, I could be turning blue right now but I don't have a mirror down here to check.
So while I was searching google pics high and low for an image that described my predicament... I ran across this Kenyatta Jones story on TMZ when he tried to pee on a dance floor.
Wowzerz! That reminds me of a gross story. I was at a club one time (mind you, I was still in my 20s and clubbing was the in thing) and this chick, who was apparently having a visit from "Aunt Flow", was a drunken dancing fool that night, in her miniskirt and barely there top. Well, I guess she got a little too jiggy with it b/c her "plug" somehow managed to find itself on the dancefloor. Drunk as she was, she didn't seem to notice her nickname was immediately changed to Bloody Mary as the other club patrons pointed and laughed, all the while backing away from the dancefloor and "Mary".
I told you.... gross.
And with that story out of the way, I bid thee farewell... I'm off to pee.