Miss Elastic Went To Sea, Sea, Sea To See What She Could See, See, See.....In Seattle!

There's an extremely obvious reason why I nicknamed myself elasticwaistbandlady. I'm a best friend to Lee's Comfort Waist pants line and a mortal enemy to belts and belt loops everywhere.

So, I purchased my plane tickets to Seattle back in March- a full 5 months ahead of the Bloggy Beach Party event. I specifically requested the window seat because I couldn't imagine having my fatty white self squeezed like marshmallow fluff between two unlucky plane passengers. Guess what? Yes. I got to play CHUNKY MONKEY IN THE MIDDLE both there and back. Yay me. Luckily, all 4 gentleman that endured sitting cheek-to-cheek with me through a 4-hour flight were gracious and kind individuals.

Have you ever seen a Carrot sprouting black hair before? I did! Carrot Jello and her lovely new black-bobbed haircut met a huffing-and-puffing sweaty me at the Seattle airport baggage claim area. Carrot then whisked me off for a tour of the little Jet City she calls home.

Pike Place Market is the must-see Seattle tourist mecca so that's where Tour Guide Carrot shuffled me off to. We would have gone to the Space Needle but they charge admission. That would not have fit into my itty-bitty vacation budget plans at all.

Ummm, at the Pike Place Market, we saw men.....in bloody aprons......... like they just wandered off the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movie set.....and they were throwing fish to and at each other in a frenzied game of Seafood Scramble which can only be seen live on the Salmon Sports Network.

The fish slapping show was okay but I was more impressed with the tantalizing smells seeping into the seaside market air courtesy of the numerous cafes and walk-up restaurants. Carrot and I dined on big fat chicken gyros from Mr. D's Greek Delicacies. Carrot's gyro dripped all over the place with the cucumbery goodness of tzatziki sauce. I was too cheap to pay the extra $2.00. Even though I wanted to, I refrained from licking the sauce off the wax paper before she threw it away. They also served the most lip-puckering glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade known to mankind. It was sour enough that I think it curdled any future breast milk I might produce. That wasn't any fluke either. We went to another food stand where I bought and gagged my way through their own competing version of The World's Most Bitter Lemonade.

I resisted on the first trip walking past the alluring, treats-stuffed window of the Piroshky, Piroshky Russian bakery. On the second market run-through, though, I caved in to temptation and split a raisin poppyseed cinnamon roll thingie with Carrot. It was piping-hot, and fresh-from-the-oven delicious!

While meandering through the chaotic downtown Seattle streets looking for a place to park, we passed the notorious Lusty Lady Cabaret at least 5 times. I like anything with "FREE" in the title, but alas, we did not spend the afternoon at the Lusty Lady despite the promise of FREE ADMISSION posted on their sign.

The first Thursday afternoon of each month is FREE ADMISSION day at the Seattle Art Museum so we elected to spend some time there instead of that naughty Lusty Lady place. We were on a mission bent on broadening our horizons and educating our artistic palettes.

Oh look, someone placed a toilet that survived a gang graffiti war right in the middle of the Seattle Art Museum showfloor. Wait, what? You mean that's one of the displays? Right.

This commodal masterpiece dates to the year 1964. If you look closely at this work of art, you'll observe the artist's fanciful rendering of coiled up turds that have survived the last 44 years. What a wondrous glory! I used to do that with brown Play-Doh as a child. Who knew that you could get paid for your turd rolling skills?

We also oohed and ahhed at a bunch of hanging art pieces that had "Well, Duuuuuhhhh!" titles. For instance, there was a hatchet buried into the top of a window frame with spoons and stuff attached to it. Oddly enough it was called, "A Window Frame With A Hatchet At The Top And Other Objects." I gotthisclose to a real live Andy Warhol. It was the one with the gun-slinging Elvis's (Elvii?) scrolled across it.

I got to take pictures of this LDS Chapel/Stake Center in the Seattle suburbs. The spire on that thing absolutely amazed me. I marveled at how it descends all the way down, smack into the middle of the foyer area. It reminded me of those giant neon arrows that restaurants and night clubs use to attract attention to their place. I told Carrot they wouldn't need missionaries in that area anymore if they would just add some blinking lights to their super-sized spire.

As promised, Carrot took me on a Value Village tour where she utilized the assistance of a marked down wheelchair with no brakes to show me around her cut-rate stomping grounds. I tried to buy us matching fluorescent-orange fanny packs from Howard Johnson's. They were only a buck! Sadly, I realized that to accommodate my girth I would have had to buckle two of them together.

I learned an ingenious little trick at Value Village: If you should ever break one of your crystal dishes you can salvage the lid by placing a piece of cut felt underneath it. The dish may be gone but the crystal lid beauty lives on!

Value Village was selling shelf-after-shelf filled with useless felt-bottomed crystal lids.

You can always find Pooh, Winnie or otherwise, down at Ye Olde Honey Bucket Port-a-Pots.

So then Carrot and I-triumphant from our Value Village foray- were tooling through the hilly suburb streets, listening to her Neil Diamond's Greatest Hits CD when we happen to look over and fortuitously see this bumper sticker slapped on the back of an old white Buick. And then, it was ON.......I told Carrot to speed up so we could get next to the car and sing Neil Diamond as loud as if we were Neil Diamond groupies who named our kids Shiloh and Sweet Caroline just to honor him. Carrot cranked up the Carrot Van stereo and we belted out Solitary Man at the top of our lungs with the van windows down......and then we glanced over at the Neil Diamond bumper sticker car to see their reaction. It was a humiliated-looking young teenage boy with a floppy EMO hairstyle. He was desperately trying to not even shift his eyes a fraction of an inch our way.

We laughed along to the rest of the song, too drunk with our dorky, teen-repellent power to finish the lyrics.

No wonder Washingtonians all seemed so smiley and cheerful.......who wouldn't be happy when there's some Big O action around every corner??!?

*It took me two weeks to write up this Great White Infidel Goes To The Pacific Northwest vacation update. One day I might get around to showing you all our most excellent bloggy beach adventures. One day.*

You Should Never Sing Wildfire At The Top Of Your Lungs In A Crowded Movie Theater...........

I think that qualifies as a federal offense or something.

I didn't intend to make this an all-classic rock-all-the-time theme week. Maybe I was unknowingly possessed by the ghost of a 1970's radio DJ during the night and he's controlling my every move. That would go a long way towards explaining why I wanted to dress up in a crochet vest today and why I keep asking everyone-even the dog- "Hey baby, what's your sign?"

When I was a little whippersnapper my mom had the sheet music to Wildfire. We spent many hours of my youth wailing for Wildfire along with the earnest Michael Martin Murphey. My mom and I also sang the Bumblebee Tuna jingle over and over. Bum-Bum-Bumblebee, Bumblebeeeee Tuuunnnaaa.......... I think she was grooming me to land some commercial work and bring home either a check or a lifetime supply of canned Bumblebee Tuna.

Anyway, I ran calling Wiiiilllldfiiiiire so often that I'm surprised I wasn't branded by the neighborhood residents as The Girl Who Cried Wildfire. No, we didn't live on Yellow Mountain. I think those people got accustomed to a lady screaming "Wildfire!" a long time ago.

There's a particularly memorable line from that song that goes:
There's been a hoot-owl howling by my window now
For six nights in a row
She's coming for me, I know
And on Wildfire we're both gonna go

When the oldest of my mini-Infidels were younger we had a scintillating discussion about owls because an owl family decided to nest in the tree right outside their bedroom window.
The conversation turned towards that line in Wildfire. I explained that Michael Martin Murphey (Seriously, that name is so freakin long. Why can't we just call him MMM?) wrote that because according to Indian legend, an owl perched outside your window means that somebody is going to croak off and croak off soon.

That was a big mistake. One that should be chronicled into the humongous tome filled with my sometime appalling parenting skills.

The three of them were terrified of sleeping in their rooms because with every piercing Hoo-Hoo of the owl they grew more and more certain that signified death swooping in to take them away.

So traumatic. When I was a child I was terrified of owls, too. But that's only because I knew they couldn't be trusted to be honest with you if you gave them your Tootsie Roll pop and asked them to tell you how many licks it takes to get to the center.

The owl family eventually took their Hoot-a-Palooza across the street to our neighbors. They have a magnificent oak tree with branches that extend towards the heavens and a trunk big enough to shield me when I duck behind it to avoid the Boy Scouts peddling popcorn on our street. It's far superior to our lowly pine. Snobby owls.

So there you have it. Need a guest room? Import some owls to live in your trees and then tell the Indian Legend of Certain Death to your smallish children. They'll refuse to ever step foot back in that room again and you'll have gained valuable bedroom space.

Michael Martin Murphey On Letterman Performing Wildfire

*Holy freak, MMM aged really well. He retired his 70's blond bob look that he stole from Toni Tennille along with his puka shell necklace and he now looks like a respectable older cowboy. A cowboy that wears impractical non-weatherproofed fringe suede, but you know. He should have passed his ten-gallon cowboy hat around the audience to take up a collection. Maybe MMM made a lot of money selling Wildfire to the glue factory at the same time he was selling copies of the Wildfire song and doesn't need the cash that bad. Who knows? He ran calling, whooooo will buy Wildfire..........He ran calling, whooooo will buy Wildfire.......*

Hey, It's A Flashback Wednesday Without The Actual Flashing Part!

Uh yeah, this is a Flashback Flash-Free Zone. No clothing will be removed because we don't have to take our clothes off, to have a good time, oh no.

So then, right there in front of all our congregated bloggy sisters, I blurted out to my friend Millie, "Hey Millie, everytime I hear that song, I Wanna Kiss You All Over, I think about YOU!"

She giggled nervously.

See, awhile back Millie had the funniest blog post where she pointed out that growing up, us 30-40 somethings didn't have any clue what animal/mineral/or vegetable was cranking out the hot top 40 tunes we heard on our radio. In the days before MTV, music was strictly an auditory experience unless you went to concerts or watched variety shows on TV. Anyway, after catching a glimpse of some of the original artists singing the original songs we all know and love, Millie discovered that perhaps radio was the safest place for them and for us, too. She once famously wrote, "Oh my heavens.........after I saw those guys from Exile, it made I Wanna Kiss You All Over seem like a horrible threat."

EXILE- I WANNA KISS YOU ALL OVER

If you can get beyond the unfortunate set designed by Lippy Lippinschitz you'll notice the bangs-wearing lead singer who appears to be a cross between a walking stick bug with an Uncle Rico face and a human metronome. Witness how he tick-tocks back and forth in his smoooooth Sansabelt polyester pants while keeping perfect time with the funky rhythm. But really, the giant lip minefield littering the stage? Are they the remnants of some Mick Jagger lip perfection experiments gone horribly awry? Maybe they borrowed them from the props department at Steven Tyler's Sharty Like A Rockstar Academy.

On the left of Uncle Rico circa 1978 is the bearded guy who didn't look quite "brotherly" enough to fit into The Doobie Brothers.....or The Bellamy Brothers.....or The Righteous Brothers, so he had to join up with Exile. I bet those nice Jonas Brothers would have given him some band member asylum.

To the right of our lead singer is obviously the mustachioed stunt double for John Oates who was hired to shield John from the ladies flinging their panties onstage at Daryl Hall. Nobody wants to lose an eye whether they be Private Eyes or otherwise.

You HAVE to watch the entire video to appreciate the very non-charismatic backup musicians in Exile. Their zombie faces are more glazed over than an entire bakery stuffed full of glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Remember the robotic animal band at Chuck E. Cheese that sang Happy Birthday to you that year you turned 9? Well, guess what? The guys from Exile were actually the ones performing underneath those furry costumes. Surprise!

WALTER EGAN- MAGNET & STEEL

Oh how many countless times I've breathlessly told my Papi, "You are a magnet and I am steel." I've seriously always loved this song. I never bothered to look up Walter Egan on youtube until last week. It's quite apparent that Walter Egan's stylist based his onstage persona to resemble that of a sinister-looking Shirley Temple ventriloquist doll. Yeah, it was the 70's. Yes, I know that a lot of men during that era wore make-up combined with navel-grazing satin shirts and white bell bottom ensembles. Sadly, only toothy Andy Gibb or David Cassidy could pull off those dapper disco looks.

If Walter Egan had told me that I was a magnet and he was steel, I'd of had to have myself promptly demagnetized.

Next up we'll explore the secret life of Dave Loggins. Was he simply an innocent, starry-eyed troubadour pining away for his love to "Please Come To Boston" or was he really a secret agent working for the Travel And Tourism Commission?

I Spent 3 Bucks On Some Old Bread Yesterday........And It Was Absolutely Delicious!

Behold the power of a few slices of mighty, mighty white Bread! I used to think that Bread was stale and on a one-way course to the depths of the crusty crouton drawer. Lately, though, I've rediscovered just how healthy a nice serving of cheese dished out by Bread can be.

Sure Bread may not be the appetizer of choice on every iPod listener's menu, but they fill up my ears as well as my soul..........this is the only kind of Bread recommended for those on The Atkins Diet.

I've been fighting an unseen elevator music force for two years now. Wherever I roam, Bread's song, "Everything I Own" follows me. It's gotten to a point that my mini-Infidels know all the words. After the initial shock of being stalked by a seemingly innocuous Bread song, they now giggle as I enter a store and inevitably "Everything I Own" ALWAYS begins emitting down from the overhead speakers. I've even heard it blaring from my phone as I've sat on hold. What can I do? I just decided to surrender myself to that song and download it for myself. There must be some kind of hidden message in it that the Universe is trying to get through to me.

Three Dollars Bought Me Three Tasty Bread Loaves:

Everything I Own

Goodbye Girl

It Don't Matter To Me

(I tried to waggle my eyebrows suggestively at Papi while softly whispering, "I Want To Make It With You." He didn't get it. I wonder if Bread ever recorded in Spanish back in the 70's like ABBA did?)

And Now All My Blog Friends Know That I'm Rated X.......They Saw The Tell-Tale Size Sticker I Left Behind On My Shirt

I happily made it back home from Summer Blog Party 2008 adventures alive which is a very good thing because who else is going to take care of the mountains of laundry that greeted me at the front door?

I didn't really sleep at all the entire weekend. No, there wasn't any vampire kitties, I just wanted to soak up the sprightly essence of all 14 blogger ladies I was hanging out with. You can't do that if you're laying unconscious in a bed. I can sleep when I die.

I've just completed all the stages of Blog Party 2008......Blog Party Buildup, Blog Party Breakdown (trying to decide what to pack and what to buy for blog friends), Blog Party Boom-Shaka-Laka (while partying and shoulder-shaking with blog buds), and finally the last step, Blog Bust (when a weekend with no responsibilities comes to a close and I had to immediately trot off to work as soon as the plane landed).

When I have a spare moment I'll write the requisite Blog Party recap complete with pictures.

Here's some highlights:

1. The Pacific Ocean is nipply cold. I never got the chance to wear my bathing suit. However, one lucky bloggy lady opened the door and saw me in my birthday suit. Her vision is still intact, thankfully.

2. Thanks to Aubrey and Glittersmama I now have the sweetest smelling eyeballs of any blogger you'll ever meet.

3. Nobody bought me lunch and tolerated my endless and inane stories. I am now a believer that there really is such a thing as a free lunch contrary to what others may say. I had the salmon. :)

4. Carrie, Millie and I may be married 30-ish Mormon mommies but we still got what it takes to attract dirty old men who chatted us up about oysters while asking us to bite some seaweed while they took pictures. If you're reading this guys, I hope you aren't still spillin tears in your beer that we didn't make it for Happy Hour at the Cougar Bar. We're not cougars, after all. Nope, we be a hottie trio of MILF's!

5. Carrot Jello didn't throw me out of her van even when I was stomping the floorboard on my imaginary brake pedal. Thanks Carrot! I also got to sit at her computer where she makes all her bloggy magic come to life. *sigh*

I'll see you all later when I'm not out in 95 degree weather working. It was 50-64 degrees in Oregon. Such a contrast to go from sweat-free Blog Princess back to a perspiring and stinky Blog Toad in just a matter of a 4 hour plane trip.

What Does A Beaver, A Dumass, And A Mormon Chick All Have In Common?

Well, riddle me this and riddle me that. It just so happens that I'm the unifying factor behind the implausible list of seemingly unrelateable items!

In just 6 short hours I'm boarding a plane that will whisk me off to the wonders of The Beaver State where I'm planning to spend my weekend frolicking in the company of Carrot Jello, a Millie Chicken, and 12 other assorted bloggy chicks with strange and wonderful bloggy aliases. Three whole days of Blog Sister iniation rites including (root) beer chug-a-lugs and getting "Bloggy Sisters 4 Ever" (temporary) tattoos inked on our biceps. Shhhh, don't tell anyone, but I'm going to attempt to single-handedly revive the old sleepover party trick of placing a victim's hand in a glass of warm water while they sleep.

I'm too friggin slothful pressed for time to link all 3 of the posts I've written singing the wondrous carne asada praises of our favorite taqueria: Dumass Tacos. Mr. Dumass himself gave me one of their famed Dumass Taco T-shirts as a Christmas gift.

On the first day of Christmas Mr. Dumass gave to me.........a T-shirt with a buck-toothed donkeeeeee........

Anyway, I've been saving it to wear for a special occasion. I can think of nothing more befitting than sharing the gospel of Texas Taco love with the fine, Dumass Taco-less citizens of Oregon.

And yes I will be partaking of the Vamp/Werewolf novel (Breaking Dawn) madness that's sure to permeate all conversation this weekend. I'm going to read it on the plane.

I already correctly guessed one of the main plot twists. My Twilight-obsessed daughters reluctantly revealed that a new character in the book is named Reneesmee. That equals to the perverted equation of Rene+Esme. It's a classic Mormon name smush..........which given that the author, Stephenie Meyer, is, in fact, a Mormon, that's not too surprising.

I've had a lot of fun taking the Stephenie Meyer naming logic and applying it to my own kids. Here's the rules: You simply cull a new set of craptastical, never-before-heard-of names by combining the monikers of your closest family members.

My Tribe Of 6 Mini-Infidels Have All Been Rechristened As:

Jacaria

Macquelyn

Hectames

Leorro

Edwio

Melacio

Oooooh, they're all so UNEEK and so PURDY! I'm going to sit down and pen a novel right now using the above list as a source for all my character names.

And finally I'd like to wish a Happy Birthday to my youngest son, Boo Boo, who will be motherless today as he kisses his whirlwind year of being 6, goodbye. Boo Boo is the grand prize winner of the Maternal Guilt Sweepstakes. I never splurge and order character cakes from the store because I'm ridiculously cheap. Why pay 20 bucks for a 1/4 sheet cake when you can make your own for a couple dollars? Anyway, I felt bad about not being here to celebrate his birthday. I hope the joy of a Kung Fu Panda cake will balance out the pain from my absence. Actually Boo Boo will likely always remember the next few days without me as a hap-hap-happy "NAG-FREE JUBILEE!"

*Boo Boo was an unexpected surprise baby but his nickname does not pertain to any birth control mishaps, just in case you're wondering*

Take good care of my blog while I'm gone, aight? Don't forget to feed and water it (NOT after midnight!).....oh, and my blog likes to be rubbed on its belly sometimes. You'll make this blog whine through the night if you don't leave it at least 100 comments. It'll also crap on your new carpet. I trust you'll do the right thing.

May The Saturated Fat Force Be With You!

If you've ever been remotely curious as to what happened to the original band of 70's era Star Wars geeks, don't worry. 

A paltry few of them actually escaped the dank recesses of their video game-filled Hobbit Holes in their parent's basement and went on to find gainful employment.

Lucky for Kroger's grocery stores and supremely lucky for the rest of humanity, these former George Lucas worshippers found a tailored career fit within the specialized Kroger's Generic Brands Naming Division.

Of course, the days of their youth spent endlessly imitating Master Yoda- swamp swami extraordinaire and model of what happens when a dehydrated kiwi suddenly gains the ability of speech- has inevitably spilled over into their job performance.

These guys have obviously been swatted about the head with a lightsaber a few too many times. (Probably by their wives when asked to put on a Princess Leia costume and neck shackles) Observe the name they chose to christen this knock-off brand of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter:

 

At least we can all be grateful that Kroger's didn't tap into the bevy of Star Trek groupies laying around in their butt-hugger Lycra Enterprise uniforms(those outfits are what caused the real Wrath Of Khan), otherwise we'd end up with product labels and names written solely in the Vulcan language.

According to this online Vulcan dictionary  Butter It's Not would be translated into: 

Rhombolian Qual Se Tu Ri?

Yeah. Although I'd like to assume that Mr. Spock would bypass such artery-clogging fakeries and throw his Vulcan Nation endorsement towards something more apropos like gigantic tubes of  Captain Kirk Crack Ointment- soothing hemorrhoidal cream relief!

I Got Plenty Of Sole Inside! (Unfortunately It's Way Too Squishy)

Both pairs of my beloved Birkenstocks have seen a better day. I really did try to equally distribute the gift of potent Elasticwaistbandlady foot sweat between them, but they're still weathered down to a point where the insides look like Tiny Tim's teeth after he's been on a licorice bender while tiptoeing through the tulips.

The Birkenstock Two have lost all ability to properly grip my massive feet. So consequently I struggle when I'm walking to keep my tootsies from sliding around. They also make unholy armpit fart noises from the foot friction. I've grown weary of laughing off the embarrassment and telling people that I opted for shoe insoles manufactured by the Whoopee Cushion company.

I don't enjoy shoe shopping at all. If I could get my house full of mini-Infidels to work like little sweatshop elves-cobbling together shoes- I'd happily take that option over dragging myself to the store.

Luckily, I found these tanned leather beauties that scream out "MIDDLE-AGED MAMA!" while replacing my oldest daughter's black EMO shoes that sprung a leak last month. (I think she wore them down from constantly polishing them. I have weird kids with weird shoe fetishes)

Since Ross Dress For Less discount stores don't offer complimentary hose footies for trying on shoes, I snagged my new sandals without even giving them a trial run through the bargain lingerie section.

The first day of ownership I wore them to Church without incident. The second time I slipped them on though, I noticed an odd "SSSSSSSSSSS" sound that followed me everywhere I went.

I keep losing steam as I age, but I'm not losing air. My mind kept nagging me. Maybe I did have a slow leak somewhere? Well, I wasn't about to stick the tire pressure gauge in any of my holes to find out!

Perhaps my Made In India shoes came specially equipped with a bunch of baby snakes inside, and that's them in there, hissing with each step I take?

I exhausted all logical possibilities and finally concluded that the annoying sound was emanating from the ridiculously puffy sandal insole.

Terrific. Now the first impression I make when I sashay into a room will be my lifelike impression of air whooshing out of a padded, cushiony toilet seat when you plop down on it.

How will I ever win the Hide-And Seek Grand Championship when my shoes betray my location with every step? 

These sandals have been rejected by the Stealth Ninja Society and The National Library Association.

*I kept the 10 sticker inside so I could show any doubters that I am and always will be a PERFECT 10!*

Make Sure You Have A Tissue Ready Before Reading This Post........

My sucktastic job has a rather long history of shafting their hardest workers. They continually deny carriers any pay increases to help offset some of our ever-staggering fuel costs despite the company enjoying a record profits gain last year, courtesy of their ad revenue ka-ching.

Lately though, they've taken their nickel-and-dime scrimping to all new depths of Scrooginess. The corporate powers-that-be have evidently decided that us lowly inkprint-stained peons are not even worthy enough to bother stocking toilet paper anymore down at our stinkhole warehouse. 

So now when us community newspaper carriers hold our weekly pity party at the warehouse it'll be a B.Y.O.B.W (Bring Your Own Butt Wipes) event.

Naturally, we weren't apprised of the T.P. cutback measures in advance.  My oldest Infidel daughter, Sunbum and I had to find out the hard way last week.

I hearkened onto Sunbum's pitiful cries as she bellowed out to me from the restroom: "Moooooooom, I need some toilet paper....PLEASE!"

Paper, paper everywhere....but not a square to wipe with. I know that theoretically the warehouse supplies plenty of multi-functional paper sufficient for our wiping needs, but the thought of smearing newspaper print across my giant jiggly-juggly rear end makes me shudder with revulsion. I remember pressing newspapers to my arm as a kid so I could watch the black typed letters magically transfer onto my skin. My friends all did it, too. It was the Poor Man's version of temporary tattoos. You should have seen my Silly Putty back then. It was a tattooed freak!

So after ransacking my truck in search of something, anything to help out my poor toilet-bound Sunbum, I just gave up and started singing this catchy little song I made up on the spot to the tune of Paul Simon's Slip Slidin' Away: Drip Dryin' Today, Drip Dryin' Tooddaaaay.....When You're Out Of Toilet Paper You Know You'll Be Drip Dryin' Today! 

Sunbum emerged from the restroom completely unamused. Meanwhile, I laughed so hard at my Weird Al-inspired lyrical cleverness that I found myself in need of the facilities too. 

My dutiful little Sunbum uncovered a long-forgotten pack of tissue paper, that we'd used to wrap a last minute present, shoved into the door of the truck.

What choice did I have? Of course I used the tissue paper. After all, my body is a gift, so why not use gift paper on it? Delicate tissue for my delicate tissues.......

*I left the remainder of the tissue for the next commode inhabitant to pamper themselves with because I'm considerate like that*