Pass the Pepto

Mr. Crybaby has provided our family with one car. It's fine until nights like tonight, when we have to be in two different places at the same time. Then it's downright annoying.

So tonight he's at his meeting and I'm at mine, and he dropped me off because mine started first and his SUPPOSEDLY was going to end before mine did. However, we've set a bad precedent.

Last week, Mr. Jones didn't make it at the appointed time, and because I'm made of 8,000-year-old glass and I break if you look at me, my fellow meeting-ees felt it their duty to stick around until he showed up. I had planned to go back to the room where the meeting was and wait by myself till he got there, but no matter what I said to them, they weren't budging. Imagine my embarrassment when Mr. Jones finally arrived, 40 minutes late.

Besides feeling (and, I'm sure, LOOKING) like a giant stankwad, Mr. Jones got to hear about it from me all the way home. I didn't particularly like being held against my will for the last 40 minutes. What could we do about one meeting-ee in particular, 80-year-old Mr. Ick, who insists on making sure I'm handed off to my husband at the end of the evening?

Mr. Jones came up with this idea: "When it's time to leave," he said brightly, convinced his goofy plan would work, "pretend you're going to leave too, but as you're walking out the door with them, develop a major gas cramp and say, 'HOLY CRAP,' and run to the restroom with your hand clapped over your butt. They'll leave, thinking I'm soon to arrive, and then you can go back to the room and lock yourself in till I get there."

I'm not a good liar, but tonight, I decided to try this plan out. No dice: Mr. Ick didn't care if I belched the alphabet, lit up a smoke or walked laps around the building in the dark, encountering tarantulas, Wiccans, pyschopaths or errant kittens - he was NOT GOING TO LEAVE. Mrs. Blossomhead, another meeting-ee, didn't feel right leaving us alone (because if she weren't there, I'd be all over that 80-year-old liver-spotted scalp like stink on poop), so she sat there too, making small talk with Mr. Ick and checking her watch every two minutes.

We sat there and waited for Mr. Crybaby, who kindly called to let me know that he wasn't coming on time and NOW was the moment to try out his brilliant Restroom Tactic. I told him in code that it wasn't going to work: Mr. Ick was a complete nerdwad and wouldn't leave until he handed me over, pretended severe gas attack or no. Afterward, I sat there, wishing it were permissible to scream, wave my fists in the air and jump up and down until they left. I also tried to sleep.

Meanwhile, Mr. Ick regaled us with stories. He told us that his wife sleeps on her stomach (not a pretty picture to imagine) and that when he rubs her back while she's asleep, she enjoys his back-rubbing so much, she makes noises that sound - this is not a joke - "like she's having an org**m."

Mrs. Blossomhead laughed nervously and I seriously thought I would pass out. A liver-spotted 80-year-old man in my presence had just admitted to having s*x with Mrs. Ick, who is 22 years his junior, not that attractive (I'm being nice), and apparently has org**ms regularly.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!

By the time Mr. Crybaby showed up, I was scarred and traumatized and hyperventilating. I was but a shell and a shadow of my former self. He asked me what happened and when I told him, he said I "messed up" his plan. Apparently my butt-clapping wasn't convincing enough.

I'm going to call in "grossed out" next week - it's Mr. Crybaby's birthday anyway - but the week after, I'm bringing my gym clothes. There's a group of chickies playing volleyball in the same building and it starts right after my meeting ends!!! We may have found our answer!

Mr. Crybaby thinks it's tremendously hilarious that I, his unsporty little missus, must "stoop" to playing volleyball to get out of being baby-sat by Mr. Ick. I think Mr. Crybaby is a no-talent little (bleeeeeeeep!).

But wait, there's more!