The Law According to Murphy

Today we hoofed it around The Mall. Again. I am 1 part too excited about the weather to go underground to take the Metro and 2 parts too phobic to ride the Metro as the Grown Up In Charge. The last time I was in DC, I was a whopping 17 years old and being led around by the Close Up Foundation. The biggest responsibility I had was deciding what color I wanted them to make my hair at Commander Salamander.

So, we walked. And, truly we're just a few block from the Capitol. However, if you've been to DC, you know that the Capitol and, say, the Washington Monument are a smidgen apart from one a mile-long smidgen. And, if you know me then you know that I am the world's number one couch potato. In fact, there are many times I don't even go all the way to the couch as it's just too far from my oh-so-comfy bed. God bless Tempur-pedic.

There's a point in here. I swear. I'll get to it eventually. First, I must also explain that we had plans to meet up with friends. (Yes, I have some.) It just so happened that Traci, of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, was visiting DC with her family at the exact same time as us. Kismet. Karma. Not for nothin', but we weren't gonna pass that one up. The last time I saw Traci, she was ripping one in a Whirlpool tub in Whistler. She's that kind of girl. You'd like her.

What Traci isn't is a girl who remembers to charge her cell phone. This meant that we didn't actually connect until this afternoon. The kids and I were photographing our way through the Sculpture Garden when my cell phone finally rang. Turns out that Traci and the family were seated just 2 blocks away. Wicked kismet. (Can you say wicked and kismet together or will karma bite you in the butt?)

We quickly abandoned our photo shoot of the spinning cube thingy and sprinted limped over to Traci and Family who had the brilliant (like Einstein brilliant) idea to park our butts on a trolley/double-decker tour bus. Have I mentioned that I love Traci? Have I mentioned how smart she is? She has a PhD in Good Ideas. Within the hour, we had our iced coffees in hand and were situated on the Red Line of the Double Decker tours, boarding just outside Ford's Theater (home to Lincoln's assassination by John Wilkes Booth). I don't know what the tour cost. I would have given them an ovary for the ride. As it turned out, I nearly gave them a kidney.

After handing over our plastic payment, we parked it on the top deck. In fact, we found that the seats glued themselves to us (either through some magical heat-to-denim reaction or the filth-to-heat-to-denim reaction...don't want to know which). We handed the kids our cameras, sipped our iced coffees, and yakked on like we were separated at birth. Until we were about halfway through the tour.

At that point, my bladder decided to break the rules. The rules, for the unfamiliar, are that you Don't Break The Seal. Ever. EVER. Certainly, not before your frickin' kids have to go. For The Love Of God. I tried desperately to reason with my bladder. My bladder said F.U. I haven't peed since we got here you dehydrated beyotch. I have to go NOW. Next, my kidneys piped in. We're Not Gonna Take It. No. We Ain't Gonna Take It.


Traci got out the map. We strategized. Bug went down to the lower deck to ask the driver if another bus would be coming along soon. Could we get off? Nope.

I did my best Lamaze breathing. Eventually, my body gave up. "It's all good," said my kidneys. "I can hang," said my bladder.

"By the way," said the driver, "we just need to swing out to Arlington to pick up the passengers of a broken down bus. I won't be more than 10 extra minutes."

So, we chatted. And circled. And circled. And circled. We were the Winnie the Pooh of tour buses. We circled the Jefferson Memorial at least three times.

My bladder said, "WTF?" My kidneys said, "Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?" I said, "Where's that reflecting pool? I've got your reflection right here."

We never did pick up that group of stranded bus-riders. I think it was a ruse. It was a conspiracy to make me vote for McCain. I was being waterboarded. Okay, maybe not. But, my teeth were floating. I'd turned three shades of yellow. I was certainly being tortured. We circled one snack shack/gift stand/bathroom-must-be-in-there place over and over and over. I considered jumping over the railing. I considered hanging my butt over the railing. Traci's husband, Tony, considered making faucet sounds.

Back to the Lamaze breathing. And, eventually, we returned to Ford's Theater. Lincoln may have been shot there. He may have died across the street. But, I nearly lost a kidney and I want a plaque, damn it. Instead, I got to pee in the toilet in the basement of the Marriott. I love the Marriott. Even if they don't have ass gaskets in their bathrooms. Smooches to you Big M.