Who dropped the bomb?

I find bathrooms endlessly fascinating. Public restrooms, personal powder rooms, lavatories, washrooms, latrines, privies and even the loo. All of it just plainly astounding, from the sights to the sounds and good God - the smells. For those of you who've never stepped foot into a "Ladies Room", I hope to educate you; and for those who have - I actually don't hope that you share my pain.

It never fails to floor me how the ideal woman is a soft wisp of a thing that smells pretty and talks sweetly...and how "her" public restroom is one of the most terrifying places on earth. I've heard everything from friends who REFUSE to defecate in a public stall (gee, I wonder what happens when she has the Tahitian Trots...) to actually having prayed, myself, to get explosive diarrhea when I hear a stall inhabitant loudly announce on their cell phone, "Nah, I'm just in my car on the way to the store." You aren't fooling anyone, and I want to be the one to expose you.

Large mirrors run the gamut of the walls. Women set their purses on the sink, the floor, on hooks and any other available surface. They primp. They check to see if there is lettuce in between their teeth. Oddly none of them ever wash their hands and run the hell out as fast as they can.

"Why would someone run out of the bathroom?" you ask. Well - have you ever stopped to notice that there are no toilet lids in that joint? When the water flushes down, are you naive enough to believe that NONE of it becomes particles in the surrounding air...landing on the every available surface you just laid your Coach bag on? Ugh.

Next up: I've yet to find a "ladies" room that doesn't smell like a dead tranny hooker is stuffed into the drop ceiling compartment. [Yes, Tranny hookers smell worse than the regular hookers...don't ask how I know. Just blindly accept.] I've now discovered why most males have NEVER EVER seen or heard a woman "fluff". They all save it up. Possibly for months on end only to unleash it in the public restroom in closest proximity. I cannot begin to think about the horrendous things I've witnessed. - how close females have come to exploding from pent up methane, clogged toilets where apparently folks make oven mitts out of TP to clean house and a random and total disregard for shared space. Those "fluffs" I spoke of earlier should be more aptly called "Sonic-booming Ass Blasts".

I've tried to think of clever ways to unleash this unholiness. I've come up with next to nothing. One thing is for certain: I'm going to start using the Men's Room. At least I know in there, I'm getting a bunch of burping, scratching and leg shaking. And hopefully, most of those in attendance would be too busy holding other things to hold their phone, and at the very least - I'll finally be able to stop my silently uttered prayers to loudly embarrass someone else.

The Day My Soul Died

...and so it began. The day started out simple enough. I shoved the kids into my Jeep. And by shoved, I truly mean CRAMMED. Their two bottom feeding boosters and one high backed five harnessed booster are strapped into the automotive love of my life...a 4WD, manual transmissioned hybrid of kick ass and rugged. We put our buckles on...and we giddy'd up.

My road is currently under construction. For anyone who knows the 4th season of the year in NYS - you are familiar with Orange Cone Season; commonly referred to as: Construction - you know that means that my residential street is tore the hell up. I quickly shifted into second gear and sent a cascade of small pebbles all over creation as I peeled out of the driveway. Delighted squeals exploded from the backseat. I'd even taken off my top for the voyage...no, you pervert! Not that top - my Jeep Top.

Ahhh, the wind in our hair, the sun on our face and the smell of construction dust flying around us. We down-shifted and gassed it through potholes the size of craters. I, at the children's beck & command, blasted through every mud puddle in our path. Hard core, head banging rock music trumpeted from my superior sound system. The four of us were in Utopia. Giggles erupted from the heavens. This was MY day.

We charged on over to Home Depot, where we ruthlessly filled the back end up with dirty things such as mulch and bags of various lawn care sundries. We pulled into the driveway. Wait, no - scratch that. Driveways are for sissies. We parked on the damned front yard! All the kids undid their restraints and gladly jumped out of my Jeep hooting and hollering.

My son. My boy. My pride and joy. My sweet, cherished middle child looked up at me with his soft cow eyes. He batted his mile long eyelashes at me - all smiles. He beamed at me in consuming devotion. I leaned in close, prepared to hear, "Mommy - that was the best ride ever!"

Instead, he joyously pronounced, "That was fun, but Daddy's car is way better than yours..." I was shocked so speechless, I near choked on my own saliva.

In case you were not aware - my husband drives a minivan.