The road to relief is fraught with danger and excitement.
I had the wonderful opportunity to have the grandchildren visit me this last weekend. Every time they visit, I’m shocked at how quickly they are growing up. We got measuring, and the top of the oldest grandson’s head now reaches level with my fourth chin. Holy crap! How did that happen? It was only one year ago that he was level with my sagging breasticles.
That got me reminiscing about when they were babies and Mr. Pap Smear and I would babysit them for the weekend. Ever since the first grandkid came home from the hospital, I have been waging a relentless campaign to be the most popular grandparent. I guess to some extent, I have been successful. At this point, I should give a warning about being careful about what you wish for, because becoming the favorite came with unintended consequences. Whenever there was a stinky, smelly, disgusting, no good dirty diaper issue to deal with, all three grandkids repeatedly, without fail, would choose me to be the preferred diaper-duty grandparent.
One time when the oldest boy, who was very verbal for his age, was just a couple of months shy of doing a big boy poo poo in the potty, had a voluminous “number two” incident in his diaper. This particular child had become an expert escape artist. Once the diaper was opened up and the mess was cleaned away, he knew exactly when to throw is leg over the opposite hip and roll away to naked freedom. I had developed a counter-strategy of distraction. I would either ask him to hold onto the baby powder bottle while I worked, or I would keep talking to him about anything I could think of to keep his attention from escape.
This particular time I kept exclaiming, “Oh My Goodness! There is so much poop in this diaper! Oh my goodness! I just can’t believe how much poop is here. Where in the world could all this poop have come from?” He was just lying there, uncharacteristically quiet. I was mentally preparing my reflexes to counteract the inevitable escape maneuver. When I heard his little voice state matter-of-factly, as if how could I be so stupid as to not be able to see and understand this simple concept, “It came out of my bum!” Dumbfounded, and struggling not to laugh out loud, I fell for his stealth tactic, and he successfully performed the escape maneuver. I broke down and ended up laughing so hard, it took me five minutes to catch him and “wrap up the present,” as it were.
I have found that this strategy of distraction works very well with adult gay men as well. In their case it just amounts to flashing them some sparkly objects and their attention is mine. This concept has served me very well in crowded situations. I just turn on the flashing lights on my breasticles and low and behold, it’s as if Moses himself was parting the Red Sea. The blinking breasticles work better than a cow catcher on the front of a locomotive in clearing a path.
Happily, we have all progressed passed the diaper stage, that is, until I begin to require Depends. Sadly, this may become a necessity much sooner than I might anticipate, because being a queen with a certain modicum of style and grace, comes with some inadvertent potty issues. First and foremost, at events like Pride Day and other festivals, I cannot fit into a Port-A-Potty. My beehive hair is much too tall, and my crinoline petticoats are much too wide and voluminous to even fit in the door, let alone being able to lift it all out of the way in order to “undrink my morning Mountain Dew.” “Committing myself to the Dumpatorium” is just out of the question altogether.
In other public places, such as the casinos in Wendeover, I can only use facilities that have a direct no turn, no obstruction no door approach. When accompanying the Big Gay Fun Bus to Wendover, I have found that at the head of a herd of queens, my blinking flashing breasticles are very effective in clearing the public out of a men’s rest room. However, on one occasion, I left the group and strode unaccompanied across the casino to the men’s room on the far side. Forgetting that there is safety in numbers, I walked inside alone. I approached a urinal, and while “makin’ tea” I heard a couple of rough sounding “gentlemen” exclaim, “What in the God-damned hell is this fucking thing all about?” At that moment, I decided that going solo might be a dangerous thing, and I vowed to never … no, never ever again go potty alone.
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:
1. Which is the more astounding, that the grandson is growing up, or that my chins are growing down?
2. If I go on a crash diet, can I make my third and second chins disappear before the grandson’s height catches them?
3. Should I change my name to Potty Pap Smear to reflect the grandkids designation of me being the potty grandparent?
4. In preparation for my future, should I develop for market a sequined adult diaper?
5. Should I name them Petunia’s Panty-Q’s?
6. Should the advertisement say, “Fit for a Size Queen”?
7. Should I patent my blinking flashing breasticles and market them to fire departments to mount them on the front of fire trucks to clear traffic from their paths in an emergency?
8. Just where in hell can a queen hang her purse while doing a number one?
9. What is an appropriate tip to pay a bathroom escort?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.