I know to you, this might sound strange (and lyrically familiar), but wish it would rain. Just a day or two. Or three.

Yeah, yeah, we really need rain. And yeah, it's been hotter than a turd on a silver platter, despite the recent cold front that drop-kicked temperatures from the mid 90's, all the way down to the upper 80's.

But the motivation behind my special rain prayer is not out of concern for the parched and thirsty countryside. It stems not from worry for the locally-grown blueberries, going raisin on the vine, long before making it to the back of my refrigerator, where they typically shrivel under my direct supervision.

No. This all about my being sick to frickin' death of having to take The Cakers to the park. Every day.

To the park, where there is no shade.

To the park, where there is no breeze.

To the park, where the combination of blacktop and woodchip creates a temperature variable of up to 15 degrees.

To the park, where the drinking fountain water tastes like the smell of 3-day roadkill, and is just 5 degrees cooler than the air temperature, blacktop variable notwithstanding.

To the park, where, there are no public restrooms, aside from the well-baked lovely port-a-john.

Yeah, you guessed it. It's that last pointe du pottay which is the real issue for me. Because ever since my trip to the hospital, with my special variation of bladder wrack, I've been a bit peeanoid ::or paravoid?:: of going out in public, without proper, porcelain support. And I'd go in the sandbox before I'd use the park porta-sewer.

So that is why I wish it would rain. Just a day. Or two. To reduce the pressure and restore my sense of security.

And to stop a mother's lying (The park is closed....been overrun by rabid dogs.....and bumble bees, on crack. See that little boy over there? In the wheelchair? He was walking fine when he got up this morning, before he went to, the park...)

I guess I am managing my pee fear a little better, considering that I actually got in the car with my husband, last weekend, and went on an 150-mile car trip. This was especially meaningful, since I had somehow associated my illness with having to boldly hold what no man has ever held before, on our previous ride home from the cottage, a couple weeks back.

Not that my husband is a cold-hearted,healthy-pee-hole killer (tormenter, maybe, killer, non), but he's a guy. And when we're on the road and I need to go, I typically endure the standard peequest protocal, as follows:

1) Can it wait until we see a pink elephant, with a monkey flying out of it's butt? No.

2) Can it wait until we get home? No.

3) If I slow down to 80 mph, can you go in that Pringles can? No.

4) What if we eat the Pringles first? No.

5) Can it wait 20 minutes? Ummmm, I guess.

And a couple of weeks ago, less than 24 hours after the most recent, bladder-stressed trip, I was in the ER, fearing my imminent demise.

And once the diagnosis of UTI was announced, I looked at my frightened, bleary-eyed husband and slurred "You Bastard."

And he looked away. Ashamed.

So, when it was time to leave for our anniversary trip, I balked.

I'm not ready.

Your peeing pleasure will be at my command. I promise. Just say the word and we stop.

Too much pressure. I'll end up with the dry urges, then I'll just sit there, and feel guilty for wasting time, while praying for no weird noises or smells or drop-and-roll colostomy bags from the stall next door...shit happens. And I'm scared.

But I thought you wanted me to tie you up??

Oh yeah. Mmmmm. Okay. But we stop, drop and pee, on a dime.

Promise.

Well, 6.5 hours later, we arrived at the cottage, bladders unharmed. And the rest is recently blogged history.

Okay, so I tested the integrity of the husband's p-promise. A little. So, maybe a few p-stops weren't so necessary. So, maybe a couple of times I just washed my hands and checked my ass in the mirror.

But I was scared, dammit.

And my ass was lookin' mighty fine.

And now, I just wish it would rain. Just a day. Or two.

In the meantime, there's been an emergency public service announcement on the TV. Seems that the local parks have been over run by senior citizen nudists. Public officials are urging people to stay in their homes, close to their toilets televisions, until the crisis is under control. And the swings and teeters are thoroughly sanitized.

Crap. That one won't work. She'd wanna go watch....

Labels: Boobs and Pee and Poo, From My Loins, Now You're Whining