What IS It with Me and P?

This post brought to you by my bladder.

Day before yesterday, I was minding my own business when out of nowhere, I was bombarded by pee. First, before I could mute the t.v., that stupid Tena Twist ® commercial came on. You know what I’m talking about. Tena ® is a product for bladder control issues, and the embarrassing commercial features several average women (read: NOT thin) dancing with abandon to the twist, made popular by Chubby Checker in 1960. 

On a side note, Chubby was recently in the news because he strongly (and legally) objected to a new phone app called the "chubby checker" with which men can check the thickness or their...yeah. You get it. The problem with the app is that any guy who uses his phone for that purpose is a dick all over. But I digress.

Tena Twist ®. That's where I was. The point of Tena Twist ®, I guess, is that while you are dancing, and pee is just squirting out, the bladder control pads or briefs (gaaaaaccckkkkkk) will sop it up so you can continue looking like you are having spasms more-or-less to the beat of a 50-year-old tune. Because there is nothing more mortifying than visiting your doctor to learn the physical reason behind your leakage except maybe enduring a price check over the intercom in Wal Mart after you plop down a package of pee-leaky pads in front of guy buying a pack of Marlboros and a foreign couple who consistently ignore the "20 items or less" sign and haul up two buggies of supplies for their restaurant.

Not that I've had that experience. Yet.

My second urine run-in happened just seconds after I saw the Tena ® ad. I got up from the couch because I'd had to pee for, like, an hour, and now could no longer hold it because people on t.v. were all excited about having to pee. It must be noted that due to my recent knee injury, it takes a few moments for me to adjust to standing. So before I could quite get into fully erect mode (i.e., in which I can clamp together my gargantuan thighs in order to "hold it" when I have to go), my bladder went on the offensive. 

I didn't have that regular sensation that occurs when I pee with permission. This was more like an imaginary imp pouring a 2-liter of warm something down my legs. There were no tissues nearby--which seems impossible since I keep Kleenex ® in business with my allergies--so I had no choice but to wad up the bottom of my nightgown to stanch the golden gift. Class-saaaaaaaay. Needless to say, I will be burning that garment.

So then, in my effort to make it to the potty before the coming deluge, I was stumbling down the hall clutching my peeful crotch when I stepped in a huge, cold, wet patch of carpet. My extra-thick sock wicked so much liquid that some ground water came up. I snapped my head back to glare at my poodle, and she slinked her 14-year-old bladder out of view. Bitch.

I can't tell you how much fun I had hopping on a damaged leg while trying to hold a gallon of urinary juice inside a sack with no cut-off valve. I was like a palsy victim trying to run while carrying a giant mixing bowl of sloshing water. Pee everywhere!

I finally made it to the bathroom, but it was academic. In the end, I could not get the pee to go in the one place it was acceptable. Screw incontinence! If you need me, I'm sure you can find me cleaning something. But at least I won't have to pee.

Snot Suxxxx.

Why am I up at 4:fucking-thirty in the morning writing this when I could be totally enjoying the insides of my eyelids or some dream where I’m cooking various chicken dishes with Kristen Wiig? And, yes, I had that dream a few nights ago, and I was very unhappy to be awakened before I discovered why my favorite comedienne did not care for chicken #2. Was it overcooked? Too spicy? Too much sauce? I’ll never know. But the point is never, ever, ever to eat fried food right before bed.

Crazy culinary dreams, alas, are not my insomnia’s raison d′être this early, fucking morning. No. This time the blame goes to my cilia for not doing their goddamned job. All I ask of my tiny body hairs is that they effectively carry out their intended occupations. My eyelashes should not only keep shit out of my eyes, but they should also look long and lush and sexy, and they should not allow their Maybelline ® Great Lash mascara in Royal Blue to flake into my contacts. The cilia in my lungs should kindly sweep away any nasty-ass cigarette cancer chemicals before they taint my airways. And my nasal cilia should capture and detain any and all allergens, bacteria and viruses, allowing me to deposit them in a Kleenex ® tissue where they belong. And while I’m on the subject of tissues, let me just say that I practically keep the Kimberly-Clark Corporation afloat in the cold and flu season alone. Bitches should give me an endorsement.

But back to the catalyst for my late-night mucus-musing: my nasal passages, which are currently as swollen as Lindsay Lohan’s lips. I tried—oh, how I tried—to drift off to a peaceful slumber where Ryan Gosling in his natty, navy blue silk pajama top and cream-colored, seven-hundred-dollar slacks scrambles eggs with goat cheese in my kitchen. But every time I settled back into my memory foam pillow, this mother-fucking elephant would sit her ginormous ass right on top of my sinuses. The only upside to this mammalian suffocation is that it is impossible for one to smell elephant ass when one is being smothered. I have banished this gentle-but-perverse giant repeatedly, but apparently the shit about an elephant’s memory is all lies. She keeps coming back no matter how many decongestants and allergy tabs I throw at her. My Mount Everest of tissues doesn’t faze her a bit. She wants me to suffer, and I have no idea why since I was kind enough to save her from that brutal beating by Christoph Waltz in Water for Elephants and let that fucking vampire, Edward Cullen, take the credit. Whatever.

I am freaking sick of all of this chartreuse snot plugging my entire head and puffing up my mucus membranes and making it impossible for me to cook in my sleep with a quality celebrity. Fuck you, snot and the common cold and germy people who don’t wash their hands and then touch all the public surfaces that I must hold onto so that I won’t fall down as much. I could be having five variations of crème brûlée with Clooney right this second, dammit, and that is NOT too much to ask.