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Boogers and Near Death Experiences23.January.2004I'm going to be talking about something rather delicate in this column today. It's not something generally spoken of in polite circles, unless your circle contains a family that has had the gene of inhibition genetically bred out of your clan. I hear that happens in the South sometimes. I'm just kidding. That gene was never in your pool. I had a near death experience in the bathroom today. Whilst taking care of, er, business, I was perusing Dave Barry's newest book titled, 'Boogers Are My Beat'. Since I'm not too far into the book, I still have no idea where the boogers come into play, so to speak. When I saw Dave Barry on a September evening here in Seattle, he mentioned that he'd named the book thusly in order to make famous people say the word 'booger' on national television. He's achieved his life long dream of embarrassing stodgy, staid news-type persons by forcing them to say 'boogers' repeatedly while he's on the booger book signing tour. Oh that all such lofty goals were so achievable.But I digress. While, um, sitting in the only room in the house that I am sometimes able to be completely alone in, I suddenly realize I am in trouble. Big trouble. Huge trouble. Trouble of such magnitude that I wondered if I was going to be stuck in this small room until an adult came home. No, I wasn't laughing so hard that I fell. Although 'Boogers Are My Beat' is amusing, it wasn't so amusing that I lost my balance. There was no toilet paper on the roll. Not even one measly square of one-ply salvation. I knew I was doomed. The only other human beings in the house consisted of my four-year-old daughter Ashley and her three-year-old friend Emma. They were sitting at the kitchen table eating peanut butter and jam sandwiches they had created themselves. It was a stupendous mess they had delightfully engineered and I had applauded their efforts on my way to the blue bathroom. When the horror of my situation settled down upon me like the mist of a pine scented room freshener, I did the only thing I could do. I hollered for help. "Ashley!" I yelled. There was no answer except for more giggles and what sounded like Ashley saying 'that's ok, the dog will eat it'. "ASHLEY ROSE!" I bellowed, adding her middle name to make sure she realized the importance of my summons. All children know that the addition of their middle name by either parent means they're in some serious doo doo. I use that technical term because as a columnist I pride myself on always using the right word for the right moment. Doo doo is the correct word for this situation. In more ways than one. "What?" my four year old blond bomber yells back at me. "Honey, there isn't any toilet paper in here and I need you to go to the pink bathroom and get some for me." I am pleasantly surprised when one of my children answers my calls for help with "Yes Mom! I'll be right there! Don't you worry!" This wasn't one of those times. "Why should I?" said my little angel, who has obviously spent some time learning the fine art of parental handling from her fourteen year old sister. "YOUNG LADY!" It's common knowledge among the young that if these two words follow the first and middle name of any child, said child is aware that doom is imminent. "What?" She says with a giggle, knowing full well that she has me right where she wants me and laughs in the face in doom. She holds all the power. "There is a whole case of toilet paper on the bed in the pink bathroom. Please bring me some RIGHT NOW!" (Yes, there is a bed in the pink bathroom. Don't ask. And it was pink when we bought the house, so again, don't ask.) "But my hands are all sticky!" she yells back at me, as if the condition of sticky hands is a serious handicap for which she will be unable to do anything asked of her for years to come. Like having sticky hands has ever kept her from doing anything in her life. The walls and windows in my house come to mind. There are even sticky handprints on the antique mirror over the antique square grand piano in our living room. I have no earthly idea how she managed that and I'm afraid to ask. So, using my broad powers of Parental Authority, I verbally, and quite loudly informed her that I didn't CARE if her hands were covered in peanut butter and jelly just get me the toilet paper! After some time, and lots of muffled giggles, I hear someone coming towards the bathroom door. Now, I know you've all been in this situation at one time or another. Don't try to pretend that you haven't. It's one of the little jokes that life plays on you. Life is such a prankster. It loves to snatch away whatever modesty you have so zealously guarded over the years. Anytime you're feeling overly important about yourself, go use the facilities without first checking to make sure you've got an adequate supply of TP. That will bring you down a notch. When the two girls arrived at my bathroom door, I discreetly opened the door a crack to accept the one roll of toilet paper they were to have brought me. What I ended up doing, after realizing they'd somehow managed to drag the entire case of double-ply salvation to my door, was to open the door wide enough to lose all pretense of modesty. This made them drop the case and run screaming and giggling down the hall. Can't say as I blame them. I was holding up 'Boogers Are My Beat' and that alone is enough to frighten anyone with any sense of decorum. Not that I have any of that left anymore. |
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