Will we ever be able to discuss bladder weakness with the door open, in an audible volume? Depends...

OK - now that I've dispensed with the requisite soggy undergarment humor, let me impart a bit of wisdom gleaned from the past 18 months as a part-time caregiver to my elderly, wheelchair-bound mother-in-law and the daughter of a woman whose urinary frequency exceeds the rate at which Lindsay Lohan has court appearances: Take care of your bladder.

The old saying for seniors is that you should never pass up an opportunity to go to the bathroom; in my mother-in-law's case, this applies whether or not there's actually a facility in which to go, as I will illustrate with this re-enactment from last year when she stayed with my husband and me for a month:

Me: "Honey...your mom's gotta pee. Your turn."
My Honey: "Huh? What time is it?"
Me: "Time to take your mother to the bathroom."
My Honey: "Zzzzzzz..."
Me: "Hey! Wake up! Your mom needs to go!"
Mother-in-law: "Never mind..."

Sadly, this problem has now become the determining factor in where she lives, where she can go, and who she can go with; it turns out her bladder is an unrepentant night owl. Momma's got a squeeze box, alright - and while it's playin' all night, it ain't on her chest.

My mother, on the other hand, is nothing if not practical about her indelicate condition. As a southern woman it takes her no less than two hours - with final pee - to prepare to go anywhere, including the mailbox (actually, especially the mailbox, as the likelihood of seeing someone from the caucasian-and-stucco retirement community where she lives is greatest there). My father is so well trained that he knows it's time to get the car keys when the toilet flushes. The second time.

Yes, there are various heavily advertised medications designed to relieve this issue (bouncy balloons and metal-pipe stick figures anyone?), but the side effects made them impossible for these ladies to tolerate. Which brings me to this: We're clever enough to develop a way to make Hugh Hefner a viable sexual partner (I didn't say desirable - a perfect storm of low IQs and high financial resources are required for that) but we can't fix a leaky human faucet. Kegels and cranberry juice are our only defense. Why is that?

Pardon the sexism, but honestly, I think it might be because for the moment most scientists are men - and like my husband, they're not the ones who gotta get up and take mom to the bathroom.

Again.

Experts in caveman psychology (how they got the cavemen to cooperate, I don't know) love to tell their exasperated girlfriends that they can't commit because males are biologically programmed to spread their seed in as many flowerpots as possible. Magazines like Maxim and Men's Health are contractually obligated to run this myth story every decade, alongside an educational illustration of the starlet-of-the-month eating a popsicle in a plaid mini-skirt.

Another bit of pseudo-science now accepted as fact is the idea that, when it comes to sex, men are primarily stimulated by visuals. Females, however, tend to become aroused aurally (a word whose homonym I could use with equal accuracy, but I won't because I don't want to upset my mother). In real life, this means that men chase bikini models and women chase good karaoke singers - and you need only to hang out in a Chinese restaurant bar on a Friday night to know this theory has some truth to it. A paunchy, middle-aged car salesman in a cheap cabana shirt who does a passable version of the white-man anthem "Takin' Care of Business" will be surrounded by women well out of his league, while Susan Boyle will still be buying her own drinks at midnight. This premise also applies whenever you see skinny, greasy rock stars who never call their moms with their tongue down the throat of a homecoming queen.

So this latest bit of anthropological insight would have us believe, based on the above, that if a woman wants to get married and stay married, she must look good and stay looking good. Otherwise your man will likely become dissatisfied and start dragging the weekly kill to a skinny Cro-Magnon who, because she's not raising his spawn and hunting and gathering herself, has the time to do a full-body shave and put on a saber-tooth necklace. Lucky for men, women still appear to be just as accepting of ear hair, flat butts and short-bus fashion sense as they were when Larry King was being raised by wooly mammoths.

Look at it this way, guys: The next time the woman in your life spends the rent on cosmetics or takes two hours to get her hair just right, she's doing it for the sake of your relationship. So be quiet and read a magazine. Who knows? You might just discover the latest scientific evidence that you can increase your lifespan by collecting power tools you'll never use.

"It's incredible," the sisters will tell you. "But wherever we are, there's a kitchen appliance that makes perfect margaritas!"

The Traveling Blender never fails to churn out a communion of fruity, intoxicating goodness - lime, strawberry, or the special late-night version favored by the Sisterhood: the "No more mixer, let's just throw the rest of the tequila and ice in there and call it good" flavor.

There are always rituals when the Sisterhood meets. First is the much anticipated Clothing and Accessory Exchange, a rite which involves an offering of apparel and jewelry that each member has deemed too awful to ever be seen in again, but which will look amazing on one of her beloved Sisters.

After the exertion of the first ritual, there is another margarita communion, accompanied by the holy inhalation of chips, salsa and chocolate chip cookies, as the Sisterhood believes the body is a temple that must be filled to capacity at every given opportunity.

This is followed by the all-important Playing of the Chick Flick. A little-known secret about the Playing is that the Sisterhood never actually watches said flick. The movie is simply a device for enabling the most venerated tradition of the Sisterhood: Embarrassing Drunken Confessions (EDCs).

"That happened to me one time," a sister will tearfully say when a female character in the Chick Flick has had her heart figuratively ripped from her body and impaled on a fence. At this point, the Chick Flick is muted, and the Host Sister acknowledges that the EDCs have begun. EDCs can vary wildly in subject; common themes are "Men Versus Pizza," "Why My (Relative/Co-Worker) Can Kiss My Ass", and my personal favorite, "No Really, I'm Over It, Really."

While EDCs can be exhausting and tend to deplete the stock of intoxicants, all Sisters understand that this cleansing is essential, and eventually leads to the uninhibited closing ceremony: Dancing to Salt-N-Pepa in the Kitchen.

Because after all...being with the Sisterhood is as good as a shoop any day.

1) Oprah is cold and controlling. Ya think? The woman runs a multi-billion-dollar empire and she's controlling? She made it to the very top of the nasty media world as a fat black woman and you think she might be cold? Surprise, surprise. What's sad to me is that we would judge her for that. Were Oprah a man, not only would her success be less amazing, but she'd be given a pass for these particular personality flaws that were arguably necessary for her to achieve what she has.

2) Oprah once ordered two pecan pies from room service and *shudder* ATE THEM BOTH!! And what, Kitty Kelley? The earth tilted on its axis from Oprah's subsequent weight gain? As I've mentioned many times before in this blog, I'm a food addict, and if indeed Oprah suffers from the same problem (which I personally think she does) eating two pies in a sitting ain't no thang. I have, after a particularly bad day, personally inhaled a whole pizza and chased it with a cheesecake. Talk to any non-billionaire food junkie and you'll hear stories of food abuse that make Oprah's two pies look like a freakin' SNACK.

3) Oprah had an affair with the King of Milquetoast, John Tesh. The only thing I can fault her for here is bad taste, and even that charge is dubious because I have a cousin who also briefly dated John Tesh (hey, college is all about making bad decisions, right?). My guess is that Oprah dated him because of a serious insomnia issue, and anyone who has listened to Tesh's radio show for five minutes can tell you he's a miracle cure for that malady.

I'm no Oprah apologist - I find the show maudlin and self-conscious, especially the last few seasons. Occasionally, there's something or someone of interest on the program, but Oprah's self-involvement and mediocre interview skills often make the show difficult to get through. That said, I also have great admiration and respect for Oprah and what she's accomplished. As a large woman who has worked most of her life in broadcast media, I can tell you that being labeled as controlling, eating two pies in a night, and dating the human equivalent of tapioca are small sins for a talented person to commit when they're trying to get ahead in that business.

Well I'm here to tell ya, that ain't news, Katie Couric. The Obesity Holy Grail, when it is found, will likely be an empty bag of Cheetos stuffed into the cushions of an old sofa next to a TV remote. I know this because I myself have been in possession of at least 138 of these particular (baked) grails in the past six months.

Most people who have struggled with obesity are Knights of the Fat Table, valiantly going forth in our stylish Lane Bryant sweaters and stretch denim to fight off the immortal Food Addiction Dragon every single day of our lives. Just like for our brothers and sisters who struggle to slay the winged Red Bull and Vodka Dragon, the dangerously jittery Meth Dragon, or the crazy One-Armed Gambling Dragon, it is a never-ending fight, but with a difference: Those of us bound to take on the Food Addiction Dragon must make a pet of our enemy at least once or twice a day. In other words, we gotta eat.

The fact that the rest of the world is just now acknowledging the sweaty, please-don't-make-me-walk-uphill battle of the Knights of the Fat Table is a laughable to say the least. For decades we've been lured astray by the siren Little Debbie, been defeated by the ubiquitous one-eyed Krispy Kreme Demons, and had our ship sunk in the Sea of Dominos. We've cried out for help, only to be told to call on the god Will Power, who, alas, was seriously injured when he attempted to aid Tiger Woods and is now resting comfortably on a beach in Barbados. More recent studies have shown that one of our best warriors, Sir Exercise, has been a traitor all along, making even the most brave knight a slave to hunger. There are those who say the secret to killing the Food Addiction Dragon lies down the twelve-step path, however some of us lack the proper shoes for that journey.

But the Knights of the Fat Table will rally their rag-tag, fugitive forces every Monday morning, only to be vanquished again the same afternoon. Maybe it is some small consolation that the rest of the world has now taken note of our struggle; maybe now there will be at least a nod of understanding when we inhale french fries like sweet mountain air or run our finger lovingly across the plate to gather pie crumbs. Or maybe they'll still roll their eyes and wonder why we don't just put down the fork, push away from the table, or go take a walk.

That's ok. We'll battle on, and maybe one day, when we've figured out what demon from hell unleashes the dragon against us, we can slay it for good and feast on its chicken-fried heart.

Here's a little background: As I've mentioned before, the typical gender stereotypes are somewhat reversed in my house -- he's the ultra-supportive, sensitive homebody who remembers birthdays and anniversaries, hangs up his wet towels, likes to cook, and loves to shop. I'm funny and throw my underwear on the floor, which as you can see, makes it an equal partnership.

Actually, I know many women are reading this and thinking I hit the spouse lottery. It's true except for the fact that, if indeed I won any kind of real lottery, the money would be completely blown within a year on radio-controlled airplane parts and the latest weight loss miracle, as my sweet husband has a passion for both. The miniscule utility room in our house contains a washer, dryer, 350 boxes of unused Medifast meals, 14 bottles of Acai berry liquid metabolism supplement, a case of Wu-Yi weight-loss tea, and 32 propellers in various sizes. And a jar of garlic salt.

I, however, prefer to spend our money on more substantial things, such as a weekend drinking with my girlfriends at the coast. I'm sure those memories will be worth a fortune as soon as they come back to me.

So yesterday, I was headed into the guest room and almost tripped over two brand new red plastic gas cans. I knew they were recent purchases because unlike the FOUR OTHER GAS CANS we have in the back yard, these had a green lever on the spout.

"Hey honey?" I called. "Where did these come from?"

My loving husband stepped into the room. "I bought 'em yesterday. They were on sale," he said proudly.

"But...we already have FOUR OTHER GAS CANS," I sweetly pointed out.

"Why do you always do that?" he said.

"Do what?" I asked carefully. Apparently, I'd just stepped into a minefield cleverly disguised as a mundane domestic conversation.

"THAT," he spat. "Always question everything I do!"

"I don't question everything you do, hon, but since we already have several serviceable gas cans outside, I think it's reasonable for me to ask why you bought more," I said with a smile. I thought that maybe by treading lightly I could avoid the twenty-minute countdown of my greatest marital hits faults. Guys reading this are laughing about now--they know it was already too late.

"Because it made me happy, that's why!" He yelled, storming out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, I was still sitting on the bed with my mouth open, trying to draw a figurative line between the purchase of gas cans and personal happiness and wishing there were some doughnuts in the house. Lucky for me, my husband is the peacemaker, and came back to explain. "You always spill gas on the mower and the edger when you're filling it," he said. "These gas cans have a lever that lets you cut the flow so you don't spill. See?" He picked one up to demonstrate.

"So why didn't you say that in the first place?" I asked.

"Because just once, I'd like it if you trusted my decisions about stuff without questioning them all the time," he said. "I didn't ask why you spent $200 in booze and chicken fingers in Lincoln City last weekend, and these were only $4.99."

And it's a good thing he didn't, because I don't remember why -- but I do know it made me happy.

Just a warning: This isn't going to be a rant about what's right; it's going to be about what's REAL. And it's a long rant, so you might want to go pee or get a cup of coffee before you start.

OK, settled in? Good.

It would be a beautiful thing if we lived in a world where appearance didn't matter. Where we were all hired, chosen, and esteemed based on merit and character alone. It's certainly something to strive for - but we ain't there yet.

Just a note: I'm going to be using the terms "conventional" and "traditional" beauty repeatedly. This is shorthand for the typically thin, athletic, silky-haired, youthful definition of attractiveness to which most modern western cultures ascribe. It is not at all to suggest that beauty cannot exist outside those limited parameters; I personally think Kevin James, Zac Brown, and Robin Williams are breathtakingly sexy, but I drink a lot, so I'm unreliable that way.

Last week, the less than conventionally attractive Howard Stern made some reprehensible comments about "Precious" star Gabourey Sidibe. Along with those opinions about her "enormous" body that "is the size of a planet" he also made some accurate assessments about the likely health consequences (especially as she gets older) and a very reasonable assertion about her future career--basically, that she wouldn't have one.

I say "reasonable" because you have only to look at 99% of the product coming out of Hollywood and New York (and the rest of the western world) to know that Gabby, as talented and lovely as she is, doesn't fit the typical standards of beauty. That those standards are somewhat warped is a given; but part of what we humans find attractive (proportion, wide-set eyes, athletic, etc.) is scientifically proven to be at least partly biological. Conventionally attractive people will almost always get more breaks based on nothing more than how sweet it is to look at them; studies have repeatedly shown that they are treated better from the classroom to the boardroom. We unconventional-looking people get the message early on that we will not be able to depend on looks to help us achieve our goals, so we develop other skills and assets--like money, humor, or talent. (Which can also exist in a skinny person, but we don't like her much).

In my mind, the biggest slap in the face to Gabby Sidibe wasn't Howard Stern's cry for attention (don't be fooled: he's been feasting royally on the media attention that's been served up since this incident occurred, which is the motivation for everything he says). The most telling indicator of just how tall a mountain Gabby has to climb is in the recent cover of Vanity Fair that featured a coven of Hollywood's hottest new actresses, all of whom were waifish, white, and without an Oscar nomination. Why? VF can claim innocence or time constraints or whatever they want, but I believe that, despite what may be a genuine abhorrence of prejudice, they think they will sell less magazines if Gabby is on the cover. Even if we give the magazine the benefit of the doubt and say it was an unintentional oversight, the fact is that none of those editors even remotely resemble someone like Gabby, so it's likely she never came to mind as a possible cover girl. As I said before, bias against non-traditionally attractive people --especially females-- runs deep, may be partially biological, and therefore might not change significantly in our lifetime.

All of that brings me to the point that Hollywood and Madison Avenue use physical attractiveness to sell everything because we, the public, have told them with our purchases that it WORKS. Movie studios are in the business of selling movies. Evidence from ticket sales shows that blockbuster action flicks, animated kids' movies and high profile romantic comedies with conventionally attractive stars make the most money. So unless someone writes a hot comic book about an overweight, black female superhero, or she wants to do off-camera voice-overs, all that's left for the wonderful Ms. Sidibe is getting the dubious honor of playing Jennifer Aniston's funny best friend--an opportunity that's slowing dwindling away because of Jennifer's bad script choices.

But (and this is an interjection the size of the one I'm sitting on, which is considerable) things are slowly changing. It could come to pass that Gabby proves to Hollywood that the public will regularly buy tickets to see a large black woman do something other than make us laugh, or provide a foil for the latest tabloid blonde. It may also be that Gabby will decide that she wants to make better movies than Megan Fox does, and she'll go indie or dramatic--which she can because, unlike Ms. Fox, she has the skills to do so. There's always the occasional Tyler Perry flick as well, but even that self-sufficient filmmaker knows his leads need to be conventionally attractive--unless they're outrageously funny, and in that case, he'll play them himself. I don't believe Howard Stern is right when he says Gabby will never work again; in fact, the actress already has her next two jobs lined up. But I do believe he voiced an unfortunate reality that her career has a greater than average chance of stalling because of her size. Yes, there's the more forgiving television arena, but even Oprah wanted to be a movie star.

The reality is that Ms. Sidibe needs to consistently make a boatload of cash at the box office if she's going to break down the barriers that would normally prevent her from getting regular work and having a conventionally successful Hollywood career (and the money that goes with it). Should that happen, trust me, Hollywood will bend over backwards creating roles so that she can be in as many movies as possible. Queen Latifah did it for a short while, but have you seen her in any blockbusters lately? The market will dictate her success, and the market is US.

So the question is: Can we,the movie-loving public,evolve enough to ignore the siren song of the traditionally gorgeous and regularly spend our disposable dollar on a larger-than-life female who might actually entertain us with her wit and talent? I think the chances are small, but they're certainly greater than Howard Stern would have you believe.

My Drink of Choice (DOC) is Captain & Coke. If my friend Adella orders them for me, it's a Captain & Diet Coke (which she calls a "Skinny Pirate" and I call "Captain & Blech!") This is beside the point, however; what I take exception to is the idea that all drinks are created equal when it comes to weight control. My own personal research has resulted in a far different conclusion: One drink a day only works if you're single and that drink is wine. How do I know this? Because I drink quite a bit and nobody would accuse me of getting any skinnier-but every unattached woman I know who drinks wine is able to zip her jeans without lying down on the bed.

Take for example a recent night out with several of my girlfriends. Girlfriend A (GFA) is a beautiful platinum blonde DJ with an ass to die for (it's Savannah Jones, so you can stop guessing). Girlfriend B (GFB) is another gorgeous blonde whose body is sheer perfection (Robin, this is you.) Needless to say, I secretly detest both GFA and GFB and avoid them whenever possible because by comparison, I am a sweaty female version of Shrek. Also in the party are Girlfriend C (GFC), a zaftig redhead with the face of a angel (love ya, Heather) and Adella (who defies description and a three-letter acronym).

Both GFA and GFB drink wine, almost exclusively. Me, GFC and Adella drink everything else. Of course, GFA and GFB are also both single...while the rest of us are married. Which proves my other point: Having a husband makes it necessary to drink something stronger than wine, and definitely more than one shot. In fact, my research has determined that for every hour you spend in the company of your spouse, a minimum of two shots is required to maintain something resembling sanity.

I say "minimum" because there are occasions when only full-on intoxication will keep you from ending up on the evening news for accidentally putting a pillow over his head in his sleep.("I don't know what happened, officer. I just wanted him to stop snoring.") Some of those occasions include: Dismembering a deer on your formal dining room table; being completely ignored when you've gone to the trouble of shaving your legs, applying make-up and wearing a push-up bra; and when your life partner spends a whole Saturday in his bathrobe playing Mafia Wars (that's right, I'm talking about YOU, Bryon.)

So here's the bottom line: If you want your bottom line to stay thin, drink wine everywhere you can...except at your wedding.

Someone responded to my post by saying that when you ask most people what kind of music they like, they say "anything but country." Really? Who are you asking? I don't want to get into a culture war here, but my guess is that the writer of that comment (who says he likes country, but only the "traditional" stuff) is under 30 and lives in the city, as do most of the "people he asks." And don't talk to me about your appreciation for Cash and Waylon and Hank; hipsters have adopted those gritty traditionalists as some sort of badge of authenticity. It's a development that would have made Jennings laugh and Johnny spit some Beech Nut in their general di-rection.

At the risk of not being funny, I gotta tell ya, the bias against country music - and its listeners - really kinda ticks me off. Some time ago, when I was working at a country station in Seattle, one of the sales people made the comment that we couldn't do a web-based promotion because "country listeners are too stupid to work the internet."

She was serious. And I was furious.

I explained to her that while it was true that country listeners have not been early and widespread adapters to the online world, that it has nothing to do with relative intelligence. Country listeners are, by and large, the worker bees of the world. Getting a computer takes a back seat to getting the job done. They're the families who put their time and money where their mouth is by contributing beyond their fair share to their communities, churches, schools, and charities. More than that, they own their emotions--being cool isn't nearly as important as being real.

Are there rednecks, Jesus-loving snake handlers and trailer trash? You bet. But you'll find that in any group of rock geeks, hip-hop fans, and pop groupies--not just country listeners. The difference is that country listeners claim it and don't give a good goddamn what you think about it.

Oh, and that salesperson in Seattle? She still has a job, and I don't.
Go figure.