Warning: This Post Contains Info About My Bowels.

I have found that the longer I am actively working as a nurse, my boundary lines seem to get more and more blurry. Not to say, that I haven't always been a bit inappropriate, but dealing intimately with people, and their problems, and their bodily fluids, has made it almost impossible to define what is kosh to incorporate into a regular conversation. Dave is a good buffer for me, though, so I usually try to run my day by him, and if he doesn't throw up, or faint, then I feel like we have had a good conversation.

A couple of weeks ago, I stopped on my way home from work and picked up some Bajio for dinner. When I got home, we snuggled up on the couch and tore into our salads. I took a few bites, and then smelled something horrible, so I said, "Does your salad smell like morbidly obese, somewhat elderly, vagina?" Dave choked on his salad and managed to squeak out a "no." So I sniffed my salad, then sniffed my forearms, shrugged, and kept on eating. The smell must have just been burned into my nose from the spelunking I had to do earlier in my shift, with a Foley catheter. Dave did not fare so well. I think he threw up a little, then just stared at me, and banned me from ever sniffing myself in front of him again. My bad.

Anyway, Hannah slept over last night, so this morning we decided to go back to Happy Valley with her. It was a big day for her, since she was taking her written boards for beauty school, so we took her to lunch. We ended up at Pizza Factory, where Hannah is a manager, and had a great lunch, made even better, by our waitress who was wearing a low cut top. I didn't notice it right away, but after she left our drinks, my sweet little Dawson leaned over to me and said with a nervous grin, "When that girl gave me my drink, I could see her boobs." Hannah and I started laughing, and I told him to look away, when she brought his lunch, and he agreed. It was way harder for Hannah and I to do the same, and we gawked at her enormous jugs about 10 times over the course of lunch.

Previously, before even going into Pizza Factory, I outlawed the boys from getting any raspberry lemonade, and when they put up a fuss, I had to remind Dawson about the last time he got it, and we had to stop every 5 miles on the way home so he could poop. He remembered and said, "Yeah, that's when Heavenly Father stopped my diarrhea when we were at that Deer Creek porta potty." Um, yes.

We split with Hannah right after lunch and I promised the kids they could play at a park for awhile before we hit Costco. As we sat at the light, waiting for it to turn green though, I felt my tummy start rumbling a little. By the time the light turned, I had broken out into a full blown sweat. I could feel my heart beating fast in my neck, and I knew if I didn't get somewhere fast, I was going to S.M.P.(shit my pants.) It is a damn miracle that we didn't get into a car accident in the short 3 blocks to Costco, because every 2 minutes when my stomach would cramp, I would have to take my foot off the gas, and arc my back so as not to have any pressure on my guts. It seemed like an eternity to get to Costco, and then of course, the parking lot is 10 miles long. By that time, my pants were unbuttoned, I had tears streaming down my face, and I was alternately swearing, and praying out loud to God to help me make it to the bathroom. Dawson had fervently joined in the prayer effort, and the backseat was a cacophony of Dawson's prayers, Emma's bawling, and Dylan laughing his little ass off at my misfortune.

Everything became somewhat of a blur from there. I know I gave the finger to a poor young family when they started motioning for me to move my car out of the way of their minivan, but at the time I was having one of my cramps and had assumed the arc position. I attempted to get out of the car a couple of times, and then finally just made a run for it. I can hardly imagine how I looked with my tear-streaked face, Emma in one arm, and my other hand trying to squeeze both my butt cheeks together while I did the straight-leg stumble through Costco. Eventually I made it, and I can proudly say I did not S.M.P. I called Dave from my bathroom stall, since I had not one shred of dignity left, and apologized for unsympathetically laughing at him last week when he had a similar experience. He forgave me, and I pulled myself together, splashed a little water on my face, hugged the Hoodlums, and we carried on with our bulk shopping.

That's probably more than anyone wanted to know, but at least I didn't upload a picture.