I would really like to blog about my conversation with my BRAND NEW FRIEND that I met at Big Ray’s funeral today, but he was a bit stodgy about the whole blogging thing and practically made me swear that I would not mention him or any likeness of him that may be discovered by some random person in some random area of the world that will be brought up to him in conversation at a later date. For a person in a profession that requires a “look at me, look at me” attitude, I think I might even find that remotely refreshing.

I could also blog about the ants in my mother’s house because they are worthy of their own story/recognition. Right now I have the minutest ant running up and down my arm. I can feel him but he is too fast and I have wasted too much energy slapping skin unproductively.

I could blog about the little incident on the playground when an unidentified family member was so excited about being on the mile-high slide that he/she failed to go to the bathroom and just pooped in his/her pants. And then went down the slide, which led to an epic mess. After a long (and might I say VERY drawn out saga), the underwear ended up in the trash can. In case anyone is wondering, it was not me….

So I guess I’ll settle for last night’s drama. To set the story up properly, the Boo Boo Kitty, after a miserable time last week of “let’s-learn-to-sleep-in-our-own-bed-because-Mom-is-tired-of-having-you-plastered-to-her,” the Boo is living La Vida Loca because he is at Marmie’s house this week. Marm doesn’t have a crib and Mom decided she wasn’t going to lug one more thing on the plane, like a crib, so now he gets to sleep directly against Mom, like a Boo sandwich, all night long, GDI. In Mom’s bed from high school. Which sags toward the middle precariously for anyone in it since it is like 20 years old.

All was right with the world.

Until 3 am last night. When I awakened soaking wet in a pool of only God knows what. Oh my God, did I wet the bed? I don’t think I have wet the bed in around 30 years. I think. Anyway, I think Derek could verify that I haven’t wet the bed in the last year and a half, at least.

So I am soaked and there is so much damn pee that it had to have been me. Except that I have to go to the bathroom really bad. Wouldn’t I feel relief if I had already peed? I looked at the baby. He’s only 14 lbs. Could he have peed that much? I mean, really. There was so much pee that he would have had to, like, pee forever to wet this bed this good.

This probably wouldn’t have happened if I had just listened to my mother and used the bigger diapers she bought instead of being my cheap-ass, unemployed self, determined to use up every damn diaper I have, since I only have to buy around 6,000 more before this kid stops peeing on me.

If my BRAND NEW FRIEND, whom shall remain nameless, has found this blog, I hope he is thinking that our conversation today regarding American culture would have been a much more appropriate read than this and that he knows that this is all his fault.

OK, not true. I would have written about the pee anyway. It was a life-altering experience.