Who's Your MAMA A**?

Who's Your Mama Ass?

There is a code. A secret code. Women don't talk about it much. I'm about to break from tradition and put it all out on the table, so to speak.  Mom, please stop reading.

After attending "Not Your Mother's Tuperware Party," I acquired some...um...marital aids.  You know what I'm talking about, right?

Here's the thing about marital aids:  you must keep them somewhere.

That may sound obvious to non-neurotic people who don't stress over every detail of their life.  But where do us neurotic people keep them?

A logical spot is somewhere in the marital chamber bedroom.  But where?

The key is to find a spot no child will ever be interested in opening like your underwear drawer.  Or a place no housekeeper would accidentally stumble upon like the back of your closet.  Or maybe you're more decadent about your marital aids and you keep your swing and whips in a separate red room that is locked to keep intruders out and sex slaves in.  Hey, I don't know.  Maybe you are kinky in a Fifty Shades sort of way.

The point is, if you own marital aids then they are in your house.

That's all fine and good right up to the point when you die.
When you die someone will need to pack up all the things in your house.  I am sure this will involve judgement even in a marital aid-free home.

When I die people will know what an absolute slob I am.  When they move my couch, they will discover I never cleaned behind it nor did I ever clean up the mass of crumbs, pencils, hair balls, and other items that no doubt live in the couch cushions.  Nah, I'm not cleaning there.

Although I'll be dead, I'm still confident I won't like the idea of people talking about what a slob I am. Having said that, I'll be dead so there isn't much I can do about it, right?

Wrong!

The crap under my couch is small potatoes compared to the marital aids issue.  It's one thing to remember me in death as a slob who cared little for house cleaning.  It's quite another for people to learn I was a kinky horn dog who owned an odd assortment of creams and lotions that heat up and taste like hot fudge sundaes.  I would, quite literally, roll over in my grave.  (In fairness to me, there is tremendous pressure to buy these "goodies" at parties designed to wake up the teenager in you.  Peer pressure isn't just a teen issue. AND who can resist an edible cream that has zero calories and tastes like a hot fudge sundae?  But I digress...)

The point is every woman who owns any marital aid lotion, contraption, gizmo, equipment, device, gadget, or tool needs a MAMA ASS.

What's a Mama Ass?  Well, it's code for:  "Mourn After Marital Aids Are Secretly Secured."

Mama Ass friends know they have a HUGE responsibility.
When my Mama Ass learns I have died in a freak accident, that is hopefully totally unrelated to marital aids, she will make a beeline to my house.  She has a key to my home, she knows where to go, and she knows what to do.  She doesn't have time to mourn my untimely death.  She needs to dispose of all evidence of my sexuality. Get. It. Out. Of. There. Pronto!

After I'm dead, she pledges not to breathe a word to anyone about the loot she has unearthed.  She can also consider it the oddest inheritance ever!

If she has time to sweep the floors, clean the windows, fold the laundry, and dust behind the couch, that would be great, too.  Are you reading this, Mama Ass?  If so, the Windex is under the kitchen sink.

Who's your MAMA ASS?

The Olympic "Spirit"

The Olympics inspire hope, increase patriotism, showcase incredible talent, and remind me of how absolutely un-Olympian I am.

Perhaps it's the fact that I'm breathless after carrying loads of laundry up a flight of stairs.  Maybe it's the fact that when I chase my children, they never get caught.  Or maybe it's the realization that my definition of "swimming" includes a raft and a cocktail. The sad fact is, the Olympics puts my athletic ineptness into sharper focus.

As if that's not sad enough for me, now the Olympics is calling my libido into question, too.  Why does it always come back to sex?

Read this and you'll understand what I mean:  Will You Still Medal in the Morning?

Ok, I cannot lie. I am a little surprised.
I'm not surprised that gorgeous, young, physically fit athletes are having sex in the Olympic Village.  Nah, that's not surprising.  Have you seen these olympians? Sex between consenting, athletic, beautiful people happens all the time in my imagination, in the Olympic Village, and in works of fiction.

This is what surprises me: "At the 2000 Sydney Games, 70,000 condoms wasn't enough, prompting a second order of 20,000 and a new standing order of 100,000 condoms per Olympics."

Only 100,000 condoms?
Yeah, that's right.  Olympic Village needs more condoms.

Do the math.

There are more than 10,000 athletes at the London Olympics.
The Olympics last 16 days.
That's 10 condoms per athlete with less less than 1 condom per day per athlete.

Maybe I've been watching men's swimming and diving events too long, but I think they better order more condoms.  Any sexually frustrated housewife can tell you, the men's swim teams need their own supply of condoms.  Just one look at those wet, buff bodies and you will agree I need to stop watching every men's swim event.  I wish I could say I'm just showing my patriotism, but I didn't see a single skeet competition.  Not one.

Seriously, have you seen them swim?  Strong, hard bodies swimmers.  Seriously, I need to watch other events.  Somehow I don't think it should be men's gymnastics or men's track.

Ironically enough, I'm writing this while my husband watches woman's volleyball.

Sigh.

I am no Olympian.  A statement that shocks no one, I know.

Surviving Heat Wave without Electricity

After surviving 9 days without electricity, I consider myself an expert on a few matters. I feel obligated to share them. Should you find yourself in hell without electricity for an extended period of time, you might just be grateful for these pearls of wisdom.

Your power will only go off for an extended period of time if it's going to be over 100 degrees or below 15 degrees. This is just a simple fact. My experience with hell power outage was during a heat wave so I'll focus on that. Given my luck, I'll blog about power outage during a deep freeze in mid January.

Although the electricity is the first to go, it will be followed shortly thereafter by your sense of humor. Do not waste your time trying to regain your sense of humor. It will return exactly 24 hours after the electricity. Your patience may never return as it has literally melted into oblivion.

You will have frequent thoughts about digging shallow graves in your backyard. Resist the urge to do so. It's just sweaty work for you, and your house is messy enough without you bringing in dirt and mud.

Once upon a time you loved your partner and your children. It's ok to look up the phone numbers of divorce attorneys, but refrain from calling. Trust me, "Power Outage" and "Heat" cannot be listed as reasons for divorce.

Give up all attempts to keep your house clean. The rest of your family will only sabotage your efforts and make you want to dig in the back yard. Instead, find the coolest place in your house and sit. Don't move for risk of sweating.

Do not, under any circumstances, sit on any leather or faux leather furniture during the inevitable heat wave. You will stick to it and the puddle of sweat may cause stains.

Speaking of puddles, when you wake up in a pool of your own sweat, do not panic. You are not dying. You are just really hot. Rehydrate by drinking lots of alcohol fluids.

When there appears to be more bugs inside your house than outside of it, try not to be alarmed. Tell yourself this is just like camping. When your Self reminds you how much you hate camping, take a moment to randomly scream "Camping sucks!" at the first person who wanders by you.

Buy a generator. Being able to open the refrigerator and feel the cold air is worth the cost. Don't keep the generator in your garage or near an open window. The fumes are toxic. Then again...

When the power eventually comes back on, walk around your house turning on every light and electronic device you have. Bask in the glow of electricity and gain greater appreciation for the concept of "survival of the fittest."

Know, with absolute certainty, that had you been born prior to the invention of electricity and indoor plumbing, you wouldn't have survived past adolescence.

Sociology Experiment Gone Bad

The lack of electricity coupled with the heat makes me think we may be part of some secret sociology experiment. What happens when you take a typical middle class family and deprive them of electricity?

Here's what happens:

Days 1 & 2:
Family plays games together. They show each other love and respect. They give thanks for the things they do have... like family.

Day 3:

Family cleans out refrigerator and freezer. Large amounts of food are thrown away. Children remain cheerful as their mother forces them to eat 48 mini cream puffs that are thawing in the freezer. Cracks begin to show in the parents' cheerful attitudes. To compensate, they attempt to drink a bucket of frozen margarita that is thawing in the freezer. Everyone goes to bed sweaty, but drunk full.

Day 4:

Husband arrives at hardware store before 7 AM because store is getting a new shipment of generators. He spends all eternity waiting for the shipment to be unloaded from the truck and then spends the kids' college savings on a generator that will run the refrigerator, one lamp, and a fan.

Wife washes dishes by hand after heating water on the gas stove top. Because she is mentally a blond, she forgets boiling water is hot and nearly burns all ten fingers in an attempt to clean a pile of dirty dishes.

Tween unearths every battery operated toy she has ever been given. The battery operated microphone is the worst gift to ever give a child. She is so enchanted by new found toy that she loudly sings an unapproved version of our national anthem. It goes a little like this: "Oh say can you see...by the Don sir's delight..."

Son is scared of the dark so after dusk, he acts like a tick and attaches himself to the family member closest to him. He uses every glow stick and flashlight as a sword.

Husband attempts to hook-up the generator while excited children run around him singing and poking each other with glow sticks. He yells obscenities at the generator which the children will no doubt repeat in Sunday school.

In an effort to allow hubby to focus on hooking-up the generator, his supportive wife threatens the children with, "If you ever want to drink cold milk again, you'll leave your father alone!"

After threatening the children, she realizes she cannot find her glass of red wine. It's dark and she is thirsty damn it. Upon finally locating the glass, she drops it and listens (because it is too dark to actually see any of this happening) as it shatters into 65,000 tiny pieces. This is when she realizes how good a cold beer would taste.

Children race through the house in an effort to annoy each other. Their mother tells them to stop running because they might hurt themselves. At that moment the once sane woman steps on a shard of glass. Her son continues running, but her devoted tween assists in locating additional flashlights, tweezers, band aids, and, of course, the microphone.

Finally, the glass is swept up, a shard of glass is removed from the frenzied woman's heel, and more wine is poured. Husband enters and requests help moving the refrigerator so it can be hooked-up to the generator. Although it is pitch black, the couple cannot help but notice the yeti who has been living behind the refrigerator. Its large enough that they both think he may have assisted in pushing the refrigerator out. The couple is so grateful, they release him into the wild.

At last, the children fall asleep in the cool basement, the generator hums in the driveway, and the yeti runs free. Family survives another day without creature
comforts.

Day 5

The family huddles around the one oscillating fan as they plan their day. It may involve breaking and entering, but no one voices any moral objections. After all, prisons are typically air conditioned so that would be a step in the right direction. Friends are out of town and their house sits empty. The house has electricity. The house is air conditioned. The increasingly irritable family of four have a key to said house.

Operation Goldilocks is planned. The family will ask their sweaty, dirty clothes to walk themselves into the hamper. Family will take between 2 and 20 loads of laundry to friends' home. They will clean their clothes, shower, watch a movie and try to repair their damaged relationships in the coolness of the abandoned house.

This works wonders! For several glorious hours the family feels love and affection towards one another again. This feeling of love lasts right up until the blast of hot air hits them upon returning home. Easy come; easy go.

Day 6

Happy Fourth of July!
Family nearly forgets it's a holiday. Independence Day only reminds them of their total dependence on things like....ELECTRICITY!

They celebrate our Nation's birthday by sweating, taking cold showers, and sweating some more. No way is the family going to light any fireworks. Between the heat and their streak of bad luck, both parents are convinced fireworks could potentially burn down the entire neighborhood.

In an effort to lift everyone's spirits, they drive around in their air conditioned van. Suddenly living out of the van doesn't sound so bad. They talk about whether or not an air mattress could fit in the back with a mini fridge.

On the way back to their hot house, they convince their sweaty children that the lightening in the distance is actually fireworks. They would worry about going to hell for that, but alas, they are already there.

When will this little experiment end?
It is going to end, right?

"Why Interacting with Women Can Leave Men Cognitively Impaired"

Hey, Men, don't get snippy with me. I didn't come up with the title of this blog all on my own.

Nope, it's the name of an article in Scientific American. You can read the article here.

No, I don't typically read Scientific American or anything scientific. I have a strict policy about that. Ironically, my husband forwarded me the article. I think he wanted to explain why he is cognitively impaired but was too cognitively impaired to articulate it.

Instead he sent me an email with the article attached.
Yes, we are married so we communicate more via email and text message than we do face to face.

As women have known for eons, it's a scientific fact that men go stupid when talking to an attractive woman. Now it's also a scientific fact that men go stupid even when ANTICIPATING talking with a woman.

I, for one, think this explains an awful lot.

Maybe politicians are not as stupid as I thought. They are just cognitively impaired as a result of speaking to women. Perhaps this is why they all seemingly hold a grudge against women and women's rights? The oppression of women is the only way of keeping us from taking over the planet.

Here are my favorite lines from the article:

"Although the studies on their own don’t offer any concrete explanations ... the reason may have something to do with men being more strongly attuned to potential mating opportunities."

Yep, men are that simple.
The mere thought of potential rolls in the hay "mating opportunities" is enough to leave men cognitively impaired. No doubt the impairment is the result of blood rapidly leaving their brains and traveling to their dominate organ.

My husband is interrupting this brilliant observation to point out that it is scientifically inaccurate ("Cerebral blood flow is well maintained during the act of...blah, blah blah").

He's talking to me, but I only listen to him when he communicates via text message.

Plus, he's cognitively impaired now anyway, right?

A Public Service Announcement for Men

"Do These Jeans Make Me Look Fat?"

Any answer short of "Hell no!" is the absolute wrong answer.

Listen up, Men. Some questions are disguised as opinion seeking questions but they actually have potentially lethal consequences.

The, "Do these jeans make me look fat?" is just one. Here are some other examples :

"Would you still love me if I lost all my limbs in a freak accident?"
"If I died, would you consider dating my best friend?"
"Don't you wish I had the same figure as when we first met?"

Any of the above questions could lead to your demise. No one actually wants to hear the truth. Truth is over rated.

Also, while I'm trying to keep this brief since I know you aren't really listening to me, I also want to add that you should not make any noise whatsoever when your significant other reaches for a second helping of potatoes. A cough, a sigh, a loud swallow can all be misconstrued for the following statement:

"Geeez, Lard Ass, lay off the carbs!"

Since you risk being misinterpreted, I suggest not breathing until your love is completely finished eating.

If you have any doubts about an appropriate response to any question or situation, consider saying, "You are right."

You MUST be sincere when saying this or you risk losing your own limbs in a freak accident.

This message was brought to you by a woman who is always right and who, incidentally, has exactly the same figure as she did 15 years ago. She knows this because her husband told her so when she asked him.

My Daddy is a Pageant Star

How many kids can say that? Mine can!

Yes, this will practically write itself.

My husband is a pageant star.
Can I say that one more time?

My husband is a pageant star.

Honestly, that must be the strangest sentence I have ever written. The words "my husband" and "pageant star" are so grossly unrelated that I can hardly understand the sentence, and I wrote it!

Hubby works at a university (it happens to be the same university my BFF, Matt Lauer, attended, but that's another story altogether). Hubby was asked by a service fraternity to be in the pageant which is an annual event to raise money for St. Jude's Hospital. The fraternity finds several suckers faculty members to volunteer to be in the pageant. It's a creative idea for a wonderful cause.

Like any supportive wife, when I learned hubby was asked to participate, I spent nearly 5 minutes laughing before I could ask, "What's your talent?"

I was momentarily worried that this opportunity to mock my husband would unravel should we be unable to identify his talent. I suggested he sing. Not because he can, but because it would make the entire evening all the more enjoyable for me.
(Insert evil laughter here.)

I nominated myself to be his manager. I watched an episode of "Toddlers in Tiaras" in hopes of getting some good tips. Instead, I ended up with indigestion and night sweats. Are those people for real?

As it turns out, hubby juggled while wearing a clown wig and a red nose.
Seriously.
His bitchy manager didn't even suggest the wig and the nose. It was all his idea.
Yes, his gonads are the size of melons.

Sadly, there was no swimsuit competition and a tiara was not required.

In the end, he was not crowned the pageant winner, but in our house he is a total pageant star!

Nobody else in our house can say that...blessedly.

My Oscar Speech

They don't give Oscars to working moms who lack all talent and aren't in movies.

That's really too bad because I know I could win an Oscar for my role in my life.
I play a woman who appears occasionally organized, superficially competent, and mildly witty.
It's not reality. It's just a role I play.

However, on the off chance I need it, I've written my Oscar acceptance speech.
I can just imagine giving it...

I need to preface this with the fact that when my name is called, I will act completely shocked. Notice I said "act." In my heart, I am sure I deserve the award, but I don't want to be presumptuous by walking halfway to the stage before my name is announced.

As it is, I will wait until my name is called, feign shock, and then walk slowly to the stage. My slow pace will be based partly on my desire to drag out the applause and partly on the fact that I will have difficulty maneuvering in my dress.

I've chosen a dress by my favorite designer who also happens to be my daughter.
My budding fashion designer has literally countless years left of practice before anything she designs can make it anywhere near the red carpet. The dress is made out of feathers, glitter, and her favorite blue bed sheet. It's assembled using pins, yarn, and hot glue because who can be bothered threading a needle?
I look stunning. Well, stunningly ridiculous, but no one will have the nerve to say that to my face.
Why?
Because I'm an Oscar winner! Try to keep up with my rich fantasy life.

Once on stage, I will smile down at Oscar and then clutch him tightly to my breast as I recite my speech:

"It's such an honor just to be nominated. So many amazing women in this category. The PTO president, the homeroom mom, the church choir director, and ...oh, I'm sorry, I'm so nervous I can't remember everyone.

"I want to thank my obscenely dependent family. I would not be standing here without them. If they were just marginally more organized, I wouldn't need to pretend to be. If they could learn to take care of themselves just once, I would never have even been nominated! I would also like to thank the woman who made this night possible...my manager. Wait. That's me! Well, needless to say, my manager is amazing! She's really the glue that keeps me and the rest of my family together."

At this point, I would look straight into the camera and say, "Somewhere out there a little girl is watching. She wonders if she can ever be an overwhelmed, stressed mother who lives in a fantasy world. A woman who wakes up each morning and totally acts like something she is not...balanced. To that little girl I say, Yes! Yes, this chaotic, outrageously cluttered life can be yours, too. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."

Music will start playing and the crowd will cheer loudly. Oscar and I will exit stage left.

Once off stage, I will realize I forgot to thank my own mother.

Well, isn't that just typical! Even Oscar winners can't remember to thank their mothers!

Not Your Mother's Tupperware Party

**Warning: If you are nun or a Puritan do not read any further. This will embarrass you, and you will lose all respect for me in the process. I love the respect of nuns and Puritans so please stop reading.**


The rest of you, dirtbags, are curious about what kind of vulgarness I'm about to unleash, right? Well, here goes...


I attended my first sex toy party. I am 39-ish and I've been married for over 15 years.
I have never attended a sex toy party (gasp!). When invited, I thought I could go for "research" purposes.

Well, apparently I was raised by a Puritan nun.
I, myself, am as pure and clean as newly fallen snow on a winter's morn.
This was NOT your mother's Tupperware party!

My pupils are still dilated and my cheeks remain blushed. It's been days since the party.

First of all, did you know they make waterproof, electric sex toys?
That's got to be a safety risk. These toys resemble power tools except they are brightly colored and have clever names like "Mr. Dependable," "Thumbs-Up" and "Disco Stick." One even glowed in the dark. They cannot possibly be safe to take into the water.

I couldn't risk that type of purchase because the image of the newspaper headline announcing my death haunts me:

"MOM OF 2 DIES IN A FREAK DILDO ACCIDENT AFTER BATHING FOR 6 HOURS"

My other fear is that my nosy curious children would find one of these industrial sized toys rendering me shamed and speechless.

I suppose I could swing it around and convince them it's a light saber.
After all, it lights up, glows, and makes a strange humming sound.
'Show and Tell' would never be the same if one of these accidentally found its way to school via a child's book bag. The only way I could recover from such an incident would be to change my name and move out of state. Of course, I would have to take Mr. Dependable with me. He really is a sight to... um... behold.

Have you ever wanted a Merkin? Do you even know what I'm talking about?
A Merkin is basically a toupee for a cleanly shaved pubic area. These were not sold at the party which was really disappointing to me because I was hoping to see one. A Merkin can be made out of feathers, fabric, fur, or get this...someone else's pubic hair.

Again, I was obviously raised in a convent. Who would shave their nethermost parts and then glue someone else's pubic hairs to them? Who does this? I'm 99% sure my husband would pass out if my who-ha hairs were replaced by brightly colored peacock feathers. I know this because my husband was also raised by a Puritan nun.

I will confess that the edible body glitter caught my attention. Most of the lotions, creams, and glitter products were all flavored and edible. I wonder how many Weight Watcher points those are?

Now there's a marketing strategy they should explore further.
"Item is appropriate for use on nipples, genitalia, or as a lite dressing or marinade because it's only 1 calorie per serving."
Mmmm, nothing like a salad served with a side of "Nympho Niagra" lubricant.
No, I'm not making up these names. "Nympho Niagra" exists for all you nymph-o-wannabes out there. I am not one, of course, because I am married.

(sigh)
Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned sex?

Must I appear covered in body glitter, wearing edible undies, brandishing a whip, a fist-full of anal balls, and a small arsenal of electric toys varying from pocket-sized to jumbo-tron-sized? Is that really necessary? Do I really need handcuffs, a swing contraption that looks like a future insurance claim, and a costume in order to be sexy? If that's not enough, I then need to shave every single hair from my vajayjay and glue someone else's pubic hair to my who-who?

Is this absurd or am I just a total prude? Don't answer that question.

I think I was at the wrong party because what I really need is a plastic container that comes with an airtight lid. I'll take 4 of those, please.

The Sanctity of Marriage

Can we talk about sex? Wait..wrong blog. This one is about marriage so no need to talk about sex.

I hate to be the one to break the news to all of you lovely gay people. Awkward!

I just think someone needs to clarify all the outrage around the idea of gay people getting married and tying the knot.  

(Tying the knot! That expression is so apropos. Why am I only now seeing the reference to bondage and suffrage? Or is it a knot as in a noose? Hmmm...) 


Sorry...internal dialogue derailed me for a moment...back to the sanctity of marriage.

Historically, us heterosexuals have been...well...inconsistent with our marital bliss. Something like half of us say "I do!" only to later say "I did, but now I'd like a do-over!" If you're famous, the "do-over" request can come within hours of the reception.
Kim Kardashian, if your reading this please send back the lovely cutlery set.

Some of us are so supportive of marriage we do it 2, 3, or even 4 or more times in our life. Yes, marriage is that great! Our failure at marriage doesn't deter us from trying again, and again, and again. We are a determined bunch of marriage-loving losers!  If gay people were to marry successfully how would that make us heterosexuals feel?

Others of us suffer from gay envy. Yeah, I said it. Gay envy.

You already own the market on cuteness. Hello, Nate Berkus!
Everything he touches is cute, cute, cute! (I'm talking about his decorating skills here.) Once gay people start to marry, do you know what that will lead to?
Cute marriages! It's totally outrageous because us heterosexuals know there is nothing cute about marriage. Weddings can be lovely, honeymoons can be fun, children can be cute, but marriages? No way! Those suckers are nothing but hard work and miscommunication!

Then there are those who are just plain ignorant and confuse homosexuality with predatory behavior, unlawfulness and downright criminal behavior. I suppose it's analogous with the way I confuse politicians with predatory behavior, unlawfulness and downright criminal behavior.

I mean it's one thing for a man to have a wife, a mistress, and support a prostitution business on the side, but it is totally inappropriate for two people of the same gender to express their love for one another, right?

Some people just don't like the idea of individuals of the same gender having sex.
Any happily married couple can tell you there is hardly enough hours in the day to get anything done given how much sex we are all having.

Clearly marriage is the only avenue for two people to engage in intercourse, love making, the nasty, the hanky panky, a friendly game of hide the salami, pickle tickle, the dirty deed, a home run, a roll in the hay, a roll in the sack, bumping uglies, boinking, banging, bumping and grinding, and the wild thing (I could continue, but I know my mom is reading this, and I'm fairly certain she passed out 2 sentences ago).

On this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I dream of a society where all of us can target our hatred on things that truly deserve it such as poverty, violence, war, and discrimination.

I do.

Happy Holidays, Amtrak!

Thanksgiving is the kick-off to the frantic, stress-filled holiday season. With family spread from Cleveland to Boston, Thanksgiving is also the start of our own personal traveling frenzy. We've made the trip from Ohio to Boston countless times in several different ways. We've traveled by car and minivan. We've flown direct flights and circuitous indirect flights. As we planned the journey this year, my husband pondered, "Wonder what it would be like to travel by train?" We purchased 4 round-trip Amtrak tickets. We were ready for an adventure!

I suppose there are longer and more uncomfortable ways to travel to Boston. For example, next year we might travel by mule.

Blessedly our 8 and 10 year old kiddos were quite content for the entire 20 hour trip to Boston. Yes, 20 hours. It wasn't advertised as a 20 hour trip, but trains can be delayed just like planes. The trains are equipped with electrical outlets so our children's treasured electronic devices never ran out of juice. As I watched my children's eyes dilate to twice their normal size, I did wonder about the long term effects of nearly 20 hours of uninterrupted electronic bliss. Sure they risked thumb cramps from the constant pushing of tiny buttons, but I treasured their silent contentment.

Their quiet contentment gave me ample opportunity to reflect on the environment around me.

Public bathrooms are often unfortunate places. Train bathrooms are in a league of their own. Imagine a small, moving, coed, public restroom. Let me help you get a better mental picture of this traveling urine-rich space. Picture a small walk-in closet. Shrink it by 3 feet and add a metal toilet and sink. It's basically 2 times the size of an airplane bathroom.

Keep in mind the following facts (yes, facts):
1. Men are not known for having great aim when sober and standing perfectly still.
2. The train has a popular "lounge car" that sells mediocre, over-priced alcohol.
3. Men's ability to aim while intoxicated and while moving along bumpy train tracks is almost laughable.
4. Women do not like to have their bare cheeks touch public toilet seats.
5. A woman's ability to hover over a seat is greatly decreased thanks to the lounge car and the moving toilet seat.

Multiply the 5 facts above by 20 hours and see how long you can "hold it."

The door slides open, and the first step into the pee-zone warns you of the coming scene. Your shoes stick to the floor and you pray to the bathroom gods that there is a rational explanation for this other than the fact that you are standing on the semi-dried pee of your fellow travelers. The smell reminds you of toilets you encountered as a youth in college bars. You pause a moment and realize how much fun you had in college compared to how little fun you are having at this very moment. Perhaps it's the memory, or the stench around you, but tears come to your eyes. The tears are a blessing. They keep you from clearly seeing the droplets of urine on the toilet seat. For the first time, you truly understand penis envy. You contemplate trying to pee like a man. That's clearly what the lady prior to you must have done. Instead you make vain attempts to sanitize the area before allowing your own precious butt cheeks to make contact with anything in that space. When your bladder is empty you whisper a prayer that it will remain empty for the remainder of the trip. Despite the urge to drown yourself in the lounge car, you resolve to not drink anything for the remainder of the trip. Dehydration has its advantages!

You return to your seat to find your children hovered over their electronic devices. You say something to them, but their precious brains have begun to ooze out of their ears as a result of electronic nirvana. They turn their glassy eyes towards you briefly, but you know they hear nothing but the beeping of their electronic games.

You turn to your husband and find him making vain attempts to sleep. The train chairs are wider than airplane seats and they recline more, too. However, the seats are ill designed. Imagine a slide on a playground. Now imagine a tall adult trying to sleep at the bottom of the slide. If there is a way to sleep comfortably on a slide I don't know how one does so. The chair reclines and gravity slowly pulls you towards the floor. You recall the floor in the bathroom and you know with absolute certainty that your own shoes have brought dried urine back to your seat. You dare not touch the floor, and you fight with your seat to keep from slipping to it. You pull out numerous neck pillows only to realize you've forgotten an eye mask. You try not to beat yourself up about this, after all you're a novice train rider. How did you know that Amtrak would keep the lights on for the entire trip? You rig up some strange contraption that involves a napkin, sunglasses, and a headband. You are suddenly desperate to cover your eyes and sleep. Just as you start to drift off, the evilness of the reclining chair slips you closer to the floor. You jolt awake and sadly the napkin on your eye mask contraption slips and falls gracefully to the floor. You want to cry because there is no hope for that napkin. It has been contaminated. You realize you may never sleep again. You look at your watch to discover you only have a mere 6 more hours to go.

After 36 hours (amount of time for the roundtrip journey)of trying to sleep on the train, I declare it impossible. I believe I've invested enough hours into trying to accomplish this impossible task that I can be considered an expert on such matters.

On the plus side, the Amtrak staff are delightful people. Nearly every single worker we spoke to was friendly and helpful. I imagine the workers at the stations are just grateful they don't actually work on the trains. As for the staff on the train? Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps cheerfulness is a side effect of dehydration or perhaps there is a clean staff restroom hidden on the train.

All of that to say... Happy Holidays, Amtrak!
I hope the New Year brings you shorter trips, fewer delays, and pee-free environments!