Potty-Mouth Post or More Than You Wanted To Know

I am cursed with the worlds tiniest bladder; a fact known all too well by anyone who's ever met me. I used to run by Feisty RebelMom's office door shouting "Super-Bladder!" with my hands raised in the air on a mad dash to the bathroom; this occurred about every half hour when drinking coffee. It's actually a pretty inconvenient and rather sucky problem. In fact, when I decided to move to New York, everyone's first comment was "What about bathrooms? What will you do?". You see, in my fair city people are very bathroom stingy; you usually have to buy something in order to use the bathroom, which is not an ideal proposition for a penniless actor in huge amounts of credit card debt. I learned how to bypass this technicality early on, by telling restaurants and businesses that I was pregnant and really really needed to use their bathroom. Most of the time it works.

So tonight My Little Vidipookikins took me to see this awesome show which was a very humerous collection of dance performances called Dance Off and I made the mistake off having a huge cup of coffee before the performance; not a good idea for someone with TB (tiny bladder). The show (which was awesome and hysterically funny) had no intermission. I had to run in between 2 pieces and sneak out before I leaked out, and we were unfortunately seated way way down near the front. Instead of subtlely sneaking, as planned, I rather noisily clumped in my heavy high heeled boots up the stairs and back down again. Both were in between pieces, as I am a very very consciencious audience member, but I still felt awful about it. At least my cell phone was turned off, that's a far worse crime in my book.

Then, coming home from the East Village, where we went for a beer afterwards, I got stuck waiting forever for the train and it was really cold, and well...it was a miracle I didn't wet my pants on the train. I was totally doing the pee dance the whole trip back, and I probably knocked over 2 people as I bounded from the train and up the stairs in desparate search of the closest bathroom. I was, of course, refused permission (customers only...par for the course) and instead of giving the usual story about being pregnant, I just started crying. It was that bad. Talk about humbling!

So now you have two highly successful ways to gain bathroom access in Manhattan restaurants...something I'm sure you were all dying to know about.

I'm actually quite concerned about having TB (tiny bladder), as I fear the hell pregnancy and old age will inflict upon me. My mother has some bladder problems and said that she wasn't anywhere near as bad as I am when she was my age. Great. i'm going to be wearing adult diapers by the time I'm 40! Of course, we are talking coffee and beer here...two known diuretics. Still, there are nights when I curse myself for having moved into a 5th floor walkup, as I make a mad dash up the neverending stairs.

I'm sure your lives are all so much more enriched now for having read all about my tiny bladder. I don't know why the hell I chose to write about this when there are far more important things on my mind. Avoidance, I suppose. That and the fact that I have to pee.

So does writing this post mean I have a potty mouth?