Last night I had a dirty dream featuring me and.... wait for it... wait for it.... me and George Lopez! Yes. That George Lopez. And no, I don't mean Mario Lopez! I mean George Lopez - comedian, sitcom star, and talk show host. Now I realize that he is not the traditional "sex symbol" but I am not ashamed (my aunt once had a really FILTHY dream about Al Roker). Anyway, it wasn't really that dirty just some kissing and what my mother once referred to as "heavy petting". Besides, in my dream, George was super sweet and a fantastic salsa dancer and offered me a robe when I found myself in lingerie at the baseball game (it was a really weird dream) and honestly I was just glad that I was dreaming about a guy who was old enough to vote and was not sitting in a urine soaked toilet paper diaper. I say this because my last little foray into the erotic unconscious involved a young man who may not yet be able to drive without his mother in the car and my apparent need to up my Keigle exercise repertoire. Let me explain:
It is was about a week and a half before Christmas, maybe three days into Hanukkah, and I was still unemployed and had done little-to-no holiday shopping. Therefore I am sure you can imagine the two questions that were pulsating through my brain. #1. Does simply having an (exceptionally) erotic dream about a 17 year old boy make you a pedophile? And #2. When the hell did I start leaking piss when I cough?
I'll start with #1. I am ashamed to admit that I like millions of other women and girls (and approximately 1,352,143 fabulously gay males), have fallen under the spell of The Twilight Novels and subsequently the movies. And since being introduced into the Wonderful World of Vampires and their Undead Heartaches I have fallen into love with Jacob ... The Werewolf. And apparently, if my dream was any indication, in lust with the actor who plays him… the trouble is that man (o.k., boy) is only seventeen years old. Don't judge me! I have no idea how this happened. I am definitely not that type of girl. I am NO cougar. (Well, except for back in ’98 when I had brief (but incredibly intense) and terribly inappropriate crush on the Disney Channel’s Famous Jett Jackson. But that wasn’t really my fault; he was too good looking for his age. I blame Disney! They knew mothers would be watching – they were baiting us.) Seriously though, I generally want a man who possesses profound wisdom and a wealth of life experiences. A man who knows exactly who he is and what he stands for. A man who can take complete control of a situation and handle his business! And I cannot imagine that a 17 year old, a 21 year old, or even a 30 year old could be that wise, resolute or commanding. So, then how did I find myself panting and cold sweating over a high school senior? I felt so dirty! Like I should join some damn support group (Hi, my name is Davis and I like teenage boy action heroes) or put myself on an Internet available list that hinders me from living 500 feet from a high school, a Boys’ Club or a neighborhood basketball court.
Anyway, I was so disturbed by this offensive albeit gloriously sexually liberating dream that I could do nothing but think about it for hours and hours… I thought about it while I lounged in the bed, I thought about while I cleaned the house, I thought about it while I ran errands and made my family dinner, I thought about it twice while I soaked in the tub, and I was still thinking about it when I finally curled up in my favorite chair to rest. How could I be so disgusting as to have such distressingly erotic fantasy about a boy my son’s age? I mean, it shouldn’t matter how buff and muscular he is or how his smooth tanned young flesh seems to actually glisten on screen or how delicious his plump über-kissable bottom lip might look whispering my name… over and over... and over… but I digress, he is just a child! Someone’s baby! So, I was just sitting there, hormones raging, brain cells on over-drive, contemplating what I could do to ensure the sexual safety of teenage boy werewolves everywhere when I began to cough. And cough. And cough. And cough. And deep, croopy, painful cough that left me winded and just a teensy bit… shall I say... moist.
MOIST! but not in a good way! What the hell? When did I start leaking piss when I cough? I WATCH the Golden Girls! I am not ONE OF the Golden Girls! But I calmed myself... maybe it was just a fluke. I was, indeed, just getting over a nasty bout of pneumonia and perhaps I had over-hydrated! Yeah, that was it! And maybe the meds I was on had caused my pedophilic dreams So, I just got up, changed my clothes, slipped quietly back into my normal routine.
It is was about a week and a half before Christmas, maybe three days into Hanukkah, and I was still unemployed and had done little-to-no holiday shopping. Therefore I am sure you can imagine the two questions that were pulsating through my brain. #1. Does simply having an (exceptionally) erotic dream about a 17 year old boy make you a pedophile? And #2. When the hell did I start leaking piss when I cough?
I'll start with #1. I am ashamed to admit that I like millions of other women and girls (and approximately 1,352,143 fabulously gay males), have fallen under the spell of The Twilight Novels and subsequently the movies. And since being introduced into the Wonderful World of Vampires and their Undead Heartaches I have fallen into love with Jacob ... The Werewolf. And apparently, if my dream was any indication, in lust with the actor who plays him… the trouble is that man (o.k., boy) is only seventeen years old. Don't judge me! I have no idea how this happened. I am definitely not that type of girl. I am NO cougar. (Well, except for back in ’98 when I had brief (but incredibly intense) and terribly inappropriate crush on the Disney Channel’s Famous Jett Jackson. But that wasn’t really my fault; he was too good looking for his age. I blame Disney! They knew mothers would be watching – they were baiting us.) Seriously though, I generally want a man who possesses profound wisdom and a wealth of life experiences. A man who knows exactly who he is and what he stands for. A man who can take complete control of a situation and handle his business! And I cannot imagine that a 17 year old, a 21 year old, or even a 30 year old could be that wise, resolute or commanding. So, then how did I find myself panting and cold sweating over a high school senior? I felt so dirty! Like I should join some damn support group (Hi, my name is Davis and I like teenage boy action heroes) or put myself on an Internet available list that hinders me from living 500 feet from a high school, a Boys’ Club or a neighborhood basketball court.
Anyway, I was so disturbed by this offensive albeit gloriously sexually liberating dream that I could do nothing but think about it for hours and hours… I thought about it while I lounged in the bed, I thought about while I cleaned the house, I thought about it while I ran errands and made my family dinner, I thought about it twice while I soaked in the tub, and I was still thinking about it when I finally curled up in my favorite chair to rest. How could I be so disgusting as to have such distressingly erotic fantasy about a boy my son’s age? I mean, it shouldn’t matter how buff and muscular he is or how his smooth tanned young flesh seems to actually glisten on screen or how delicious his plump über-kissable bottom lip might look whispering my name… over and over... and over… but I digress, he is just a child! Someone’s baby! So, I was just sitting there, hormones raging, brain cells on over-drive, contemplating what I could do to ensure the sexual safety of teenage boy werewolves everywhere when I began to cough. And cough. And cough. And cough. And deep, croopy, painful cough that left me winded and just a teensy bit… shall I say... moist.
MOIST! but not in a good way! What the hell? When did I start leaking piss when I cough? I WATCH the Golden Girls! I am not ONE OF the Golden Girls! But I calmed myself... maybe it was just a fluke. I was, indeed, just getting over a nasty bout of pneumonia and perhaps I had over-hydrated! Yeah, that was it! And maybe the meds I was on had caused my pedophilic dreams So, I just got up, changed my clothes, slipped quietly back into my normal routine.
And then it happened again! COUGH! COUGH! PISS!
And then again! COUGH! COUGH! PISS!
And again! COUGH! PISS! COUGH! PISS!
And so on... and so forth.or .. until I was completely out of underwear and down to one wholly pair of sweats! At this point, desperately I slip into a pair of husband's boxer briefs and start searching frantically for a maxi-pad, a mini-pad, wings, no wings, ANY sort pantie protection. (Sidenote: I had a hysterectomy years ago, my daughter was out of town and had seemingly taken all of her "supplies" with her, and my husband was gone with the car - so things were not looking up) I rip into the hall closet searching to no avail for an abandoned pantyliner or possibly a sample Depends Undergarment that may arrived in the mail without my knowledge. (Had anyone been home at the time I must have resembled crackhead looking for a fallen crack rock in a white shag rug.) I was maniacal, mad with distress, and was having no luck... no luck at until... well, until I found the Little Swimmer.
- YES, in fact, I did find one of my granddaughter's Little Swimmer swimming pool pampers!
- And, YES, I did use scissors and a safety pin to fashion this pamper into an archaic form sanitary napkin which I then used to protect my husband's underwear from my impromptu potty squirts!
- And, NO, I am not proud of this moment in my urinary history!
BUT, I am not ashamed, either, because
a.) according to the Internet "light bladder leakage affects 1 in 3 women" and
b.) walking around in boys' underpants with a Little Swimmer stuffed between my legs really waters-down my desire to be anybody's Prom Date.
So for now, I am dry and teenage boys everywhere are safe!
