Boxed Wine Equals One Bad Ass

I love wine.  I love wine so much that I drink at least a glass a day.  Did you know that if you drink it in moderation, it’s good for your health?  That’s why I really like it but it also makes me feel relaxed after a long day.  There is nothing like that warm, calm feeling I get after that first sip.  You know, kind of like that feeling you get during a massage but almost better.  I said almost.

Wine can get expensive and I am cheap.  If I could, I would buy my wine in a box all the time.  I would sit that baby up on my countertop with its little spigot and just go and drink from the fountain whenever my heart desired.  It’s there, it’s ready, it’s fully loaded with lots of liquid yummy-ness.

But I can’t.  I’m about to say something that will make you say, “hey Mo, this is waaaay too much information” but that’s okay.  Because we all know that I am all about sharing TMI, putting it all out there.  When do I ever hold back?  Anyway, I discovered that I was sensitive to the amazingly awesome invention of the boxed wine during my engagement party circa 1991.

Here’s how it went down:  I drank a couple of glasses of it, I was having a great time.  The future DH and I were at the front of the room opening our ten thousand gifts when the first “rumble, grumble, pop” hit me faster than a run-away freight train going down the Himalayas.  I excused myself and ran — not walked — to the nearest restroom.  What came out of me was obscene.  And it didn’t stop.  For a very long time.  I had a horseshoe printed on my bottom from sitting for so long.  I’m surprised it wasn’t followed up by a hemorrhoid.  What was especially sad about this story is that when I finally exited the lavatory, most everyone had gone home.  You could hear crickets.  Seriously.


Yes, that is a pic of me on the left sitting on the toilet.  My wonderful mother snuck her camera up over the stall.  You know, just in case I forgot the turmoil of what was supposed to be a happy day.  The future DH is feeding me some alcohol in the form of Imodium AD.  Does Imodium even contain alcohol?

Was it a coincidence?  Possibly, but I’m not 100% completely certain.  So to test it, I had some boxed wine at Thanksgiving that year.  Just half a glass.  All I can say is that thank God none of the 20+ people in attendance were using the toilets in the house at that moment because it came on strong, hard and sudden.  Although the planter in the hall would have worked just fine as a second choice.  And I would not have had a problem using it.  Not that I really would have had much of a choice.

As if there weren’t enough proof, I actually tried boxed wine one other time after that.  I don’t remember the details exactly but I do remember the same effect.  I’m guessing that there is some kind of preservative they put into boxed wine to make it last longer.  I’m also going to take another guess and say that I don’t get along well with this preservative.  Who knows.  All I do know is that I can’t drink it.  Not even a sip.

So, if I am coming to your house, please don’t serve me wine in a box.  Unless you want to see a show.  Or hear a show.  Or have a sudden septic problem.  Seriously.  Don’t mess with me.  It will backfire.  Pardon the pun.

The Big Flush


I have some words of advice for women who use the bathroom at their child’s preschool during menstruation.  Don’t put your tampon in the toilet.  I actually broke my own rule this day.  I usually never put a tampon in the toilet.  Even if I was at Caldor.  Or the mall.  Or a campground.  Because they are not good for the system, whether it be septic or sewer.  I know, I was very thoughtful.  Usually.

I was dropping The Kid off at her preschool when I realized I was having a problem down below.  I found a bathroom in the hall and used it.  The toilets were of the teeny tiny kind.  The kind where when you sit, your knees hit your chin.  And your ass cheeks hang over the side like a 1/4 Pounder shoved into a mini croissant.  Unless you are 4, probably not a good idea to try.  With or without your period.

I forgot my head, and suddenly realized I dropped the thing into the toilet.  I flushed.  It swirled around and around.  Like the Merry-Go-Round at the mall.  Needless to say, it didn’t go down.  Another flush.  And another ride around the rim it did.  I started to break out in a major sweat.  And felt like I had to poo (when I get really nervous, I get the sensation.  And I’m not talking about that kind you have from being on top of a cool mountain).

Now, there was a way to rectify the situation.  Stick my hand in and pull the sucker out, wrap it in toilet paper and toss it into the can.  Garbage can.  I even could have just left it there.  No one would have been the wiser.  But the old Catholic guilt was eating away at me.  Instead, I proceeded to the office of the school’s Director and told her about my problem.  There is nothing more embarrassing than having a woman who you do not know watch your bloody tampon do pirouettes in a toilet made for munchkins.

I got reprimanded.  “Mrs. M., please do not use the children’s bathrooms anymore.  We have toilets for big girl’s down the hall.  And no tampons.  Please.”  I was expecting her to slap the back of my hand and send me to the corner.  It was then that the thought of going fishing occurred to me.

Whenever I see the director around town, I literally run in the opposite direction.  Or hide until she goes away.  Not that she would remember that I was the tampon lady.  But just in case.  So, if you see me cowering at the local craft store between the acrylic and latex paints, you’ll know why.

Does a Bear Poop in the Woods?


There should be bathrooms along the roads.  At least a porta-potty here and there.  Something.  Because let me tell you, there is nothing worse than having to go to the bathroom and there not be a place to relieve yourself.

The family and I were out at a street festival in a neighboring town.  My mistake was the free chocolate sampling. I loved the chocolate.  The chocolate did not love me.  The sensation was sudden and strong.  Of course, it didn’t hit until we were in the car in the middle of a deserted street with nothing but trees on both sides.

I was in full-on panic mode accompanied with the sweats and a little nausea.  No amount of “the dance” was going to help me.  So, I did what every proper and self respecting woman would do.  I screamed at DH to pull over.  This business could not wait another second.

I rifled through the glove compartment and found 2 squares of one-ply napkins.  The kind you get at the chinese take-out restaurant.  I practically rolled myself down the embankment and into the woods.  Not quite sure how deep I went.  My attitude was equivalent to that feeling you have when you are in the throe’s of childbirth.  You could not care less if everyone including the Pope was there watching.

So to answer my own question?  Yes, they do.  And apparently so do grown women.  Words from the wise:  Never have anything less than 50 two-ply napkins in the car at any given time.  You never know when you will really need them.