Teaching a small child how the potty works is not an easy thing. It's time consuming; one eventually runs out of cheers to hoot and holler, and you lose toilet paper rolls. Lots of them. Mainly because you are busy dragging the portapotty into the living room in order to get said child to go (however, a certain feline's well-known role as the Jeffry Dhamer of toilet paper does not help.)

Are you with me yet? Ok, you have to drag the roll of TP out with the portapotty so you can wipe said child's bits and butt dry.

So what does this have to do with being stranded? Ok, I'll tell you.

Yesterday we came home from work after picking Olivia up from daycare. Scott thinks I'm bit obsessed about this, but that's just because he's a stupid man and doesn't understand.

Hello? Hello? Is this thing on?

Ok, obviously you all are not dedicated fitness buffs. Because if you were, you'd know that at the end of a 40 minute commute I had consumed.... wait for it...

One liter of water. Therefore, I had to pee something fierce. You know what I mean. One of those pee moments that will ensure you'll be sitting there on the toilet for a few sad seconds while you wait...and wait... for your bladder to finally give up and let you have the type of pee that makes your eyes cross (ok guys, just accept it, hmm? Ah geeze. Ok. Imagine it's 3/4ths of the way through your favorite sporting event. You've had ten beers. You don't want to "break the seal" because you've drunkenly convined your boozy friend to vote for the right party in the next election. Almost...)

That was me. Except when I was finished I turned to get my bit of TP and... nothing. The bar was empty. You could almost hear the wind blowing through the empty saloon windows. I swear, a tiny tumbleweed blew across the floor. Or maybe it was a hairball...

Me: "Olivia!! Help Mommy!!!"

Olivia peers into the bathroom and does her 'hand up in the air' move. This is Olivia-speak (well, Olivia-gesture) for "Where'd it go?"

Me: "Ack!! Olivia! Help Mommy! Find the toilet paper. Get the roll of the toilet paper!"

Olivia turns and leaves, and I'm sitting there thinking if she does not return, maybe I can air dry a bit then get up and find the roll.

A few tense moments go by and I'm hearing Olivia's show Hi-5! playing. SHIT. She forgot about me.

Me: "O!!!? Baby?? Help Mommy!!"

Just when I think she has forgotten about me in the bathroom the door slowly swings open. You could almost hear the "ooo-EEE-ooo-EEE-ooo" theme from "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly." I don't know how, I really don't, but she'd somehow found her poncho. All she needed was a hat and a cigarillo and we would have had our very own 2'11" Clint Eastwood. But in her hand was not a revolver, it was the Holy Grail. My roll of Charmin TP. I swear I saw that paper glisten in the lamplight. I was ever so relieved. Mostly because I was ignoring the "do you feel lucky, punk?!?" expression on her face. At least that's what I think I saw, but my legs were going numb, so who knows.

Me: "Yay!!!!! You found the toilet paper!! Woohoo!"

Olivia looks at me, shrugs, goes "bwah PAH! buh sha kah CHA!... bye bye!!!" and walks out the door to finish watching Hi-5.

The moral of the story: no matter how cute and fuzzy cats may be, if you yell at them for toilet paper they'll just stare at you wondering why you're not getting the food fast enough. Only children will rescue you.

Now to get the scent of cigarette smoke out of the furniture...