How My Mom Lost Her Panties

Before you read this, make sure you read the last blog called "African American Chamber of Commerce." This is part 2 of the same story.

     So the last blog ended with the fact that my mom lost her panties at work. At work, in a big fancy building downtown full of rich old white people and the African American chamber, of course. After she read the last blog, she fessed up to exactly how the panties went missing. Below is a true story that I only edited a little bit, strictly for your mental and emotional protection. My translations are in parenthesis.

The story, as told by my mom

     When I take AZO (a medication for urinary tract infections) my pee turns angry orange. (removal of way grosser information about how her entire lady business had been affected, not just her pee. After a hilarious conversation with urgent care, they assured her that her business was fine and was in fact not angry, just also affected by the AZO.)

     In an effort to not have weird bladder spasms, I'm taking Detrol LA. They say it's for bladder spasms but what they mean is, it's for dancing bladders, which I have. I call it the "don't dance no mo" bladder pill. So the Detrol LA actually knocks the dancing bladder in its bladder head so it just stays there being a pee vessel. No dance. No squeeze. No SENSATION. With no sensation comes hours of comfort. Yay!

     Until the bladder is completely full, at which point it says VERY LOUDLY "okay sister, time to go." Not a gentle message like "hey girl, let's look for a potty in the next 30 minutes. I'm gettting tired of carrying yo waste." Message is "PEE NOW or you will pee now without any written consent from you." RUDE.

     So I have the five second warning in the elevator of a high rise downtown. Alone in an elevator, I could hear the horns of a submarine crisis in my head. BWONG. BWONG. BWONG. I wanted to get out of the way, I really did. I heard, felt and envisioned the disastrous collision. I calmly became Maya Angelou in my head. Speaking calmly but with authority. Deep voice, slow words. "You will not pee. You will not pee. You. Will. Not." Maya couldn't get the job done so my over active brain decided to try Lisa Simpson to control over active bladder. Higher voice, faster word cadence. (cue the Lisa Simpson voice)

     "You will not pee. Don't pee! I said don't peeee! Oh crap, just hold yourself down there to keep it in. Me and my friends in the 2nd grade do it all the time. And it always works - the teacher lets us go to the bathroom when it isn't even bathroom break time."

     So...I grabbed it. In an elevator alone, crossing my non-dancer but perfect for a lumberjack legs and grabbed my area to keep it safe from leakage. Wrong.  Apparently at some point in life between the 2nd grade and middle age, the button evolves. It is no longer a "hold it" button. Mine morphed into a "GO!" button. It was like turning on a fountain. Turning ON instead of off, which was my original plan. And because there were gallons waiting to be released and because there was a finger on the end of the water hose, I was able to squirt it and aim it different directions. I found a giant new party game that I can take with me anywhere. Playing "watch this - I can be a fountain!" just crossed the gender lines and all of the sudden I was one of the guys. I was technically peeing standing up too.

     Luckily the clean up was easier than I thought and as traumatic as it was to find my male peeing skills that have previously been hidden, I was proud of my middle aged body for trying out new things. So then I had to take off and rinse out my angry orange panties and put them in a Walgreen sack.

     I continued to the office, wondering just how much wiggle was going on under the dress. Actually I was very aware of how much was wiggling. My real concern was how much wiggle can be seen from 10 yards away. Then clients came into the office, friends came to the office, my youngest offspring (me) came to the office and my 10 yard buffer was busted! So I confessed to my daughter that I wasn't wearing panties, who responded with "empowering, isn't it?!" I thought for a second that she, too, peed her pants but no, she just goes without panties for fun on some days. (that's true - I do. You're welcome.)

     A voice over begins the final wrap up of this event: "No lives were lost and no testing was done on animals during this scientific discovery. Wet panties rolled in industrial paper towels shoved into a Walgreens sack still remains unfound. There is a reward offered for the return of the panties for the next 24 hours. After that, the panties will be worthless except for the cocktail party story as told to you today. This message brought to you by a panty-peeing executive businesswoman and current card holder of the Centex African American Chamber of Comemerce. Be breezy, yo.

Moral of the story: You ain't cool unless you pee your pants.