When we drove home from Utah after our Fourth of July family vacation we, as always, had a very long drive through the very empty state of Nevada. The Nevada desert is dotted with small, rustic towns that are spaced out just far enough to not leave you on the side of the road out of gas and baking under the hot sun. They are, however, spaced far enough apart to frequently leave persons with average to small sized bladders squatting behind tumbleweeds. These persons are all hoping that because Highway 50 is known as “The Loneliest Road in America” it will mean that no one will drive by as they are trying to take their moment pioneer style.

As we made this trip we stopped at the first few stops, fueling up and buying snacks. We enjoyed the drive: I with my book, Chris with his music, the children coloring peacefully in the backseat. It was going very well. We stopped in Ely, took a breather and grabbed some refreshment at a fast food establishment. I, like a fool, got a free refill.

Now, it should be known from the start that I have an abnormally small bladder. No MRI will prove it, as it appears deceptively average, but in a situation where my ability to go long periods of time between potty breaks arises, the truth comes out. It’s about the size of a thimble. When you add to this the fact that I have born three beautiful children, and things are just not what they used to be, most people agree that it is wise and reasonable to just let me go have my moment when I need to have my moment.

As we were driving along I became uncomfortable but knowing we were within a half an hour of Eureka, I decide I could hold it. I let Chris know that we would definitely need to stop in Eureka for a potty break. He said that was alright and continued driving along. Meanwhile, my eyeballs began to float.

Finally, we were at Eureka. We entered the city limits, and before I knew it, my husband drove right on through without even slowing down. I was in pain at this point, but trying to remain calm. I gave him the hairy eyeball, which he didn’t notice, but I didn’t say anything. I saw a settlement about ten miles on the horizon, and I assumed that because my husband had traveled this route so many, many times in his childhood he knew of a good restroom in this outcropping of buildings, perhaps a tidy gas station or a quaint diner. Something. Anything.

I mentioned this to my husband, and he got very quiet. Then he began to apologize and to hope that maybe my toilet fantasy was true. We quickly learned that this outcropping of buildings was nothing more than a barn and some storage sheds.

Now, Austin is the next stepping stone of civilization on the map, but Austin is roughly two hours away. After holding a full bladder for forty-five minutes, there was just no way. And on a drive with three small children, there was also no way I was adding forty minutes onto my trip by turning around.

I am a reasonable woman, a tough, camping sort of woman who can take her moment without the benefit of modern plumbing if she needs to, so after a few minutes of total agony, I told my husband to pull us over so I could take care of things.

At this point, I was in pain and struggling to not have an accident. I threw my shoes on, leaped out of the vehicle and bounded into the desert. I was heading for a rather large sagebrush I saw about 50 yards away from the road; it was just slightly up and over a tiny ridge in the landscape, and just far enough that I figured my bare fanny wouldn’t be highly visible to passers-by. As I hopped awkwardly around cacti and sage I kept a wary eye out for rattlesnakes. I really should have been thinking about smaller problems.

Once I felt I was at a fairly modest distance from the road I started contemplating exactly how this was going to happen. As most of you know, taking your moment pioneer style in a pair of jeans isn’t the easiest thing to accomplish. Judging my lack of dexterity and balance against the distance from the highway, I opted to just remove it all and let loose. After all, I didn’t need to tinkle. I needed to open a flood gate.

I whipped my bottoms off and tossed them on a nearby sagebrush, and then finally, blessedly, found relief.

It was right about now that I noticed that there was a fire ant inches away from my right foot. I hopped to the left, only to discover two more coming from that direction. I hopped back and stepped directly on some very sharp plants. There were more fire ants coming. Inconveniently, I was still having my moment. I knew this was going to be a long moment, so I decided that if I just had my moment on the fire ants, I would be ok. Me against about six feisty little biters. I could do this.

Now, I am not a naturally graceful person to begin with, so you can imagine that hopping barefoot all over cacti and prickly sage trying to both avoid and drown a little brigade of fire ants at the same time (and don’t forget, unclothed from the waist down!) is quite a sight. My husband and children are staring at me. I see therapy bills in my children’s future.

I also see at least fifteen more fire ants moving in rapidly.

Additionally, there is a car slowing down on the highway. They honk at me, and I imagine, they laugh.

I was still having my moment. This is no longer the free refill in action, this isn’t even the orange juice with breakfast. This has got to be the chamomile tea I had at bedtime two nights before finally exiting my body because I have been going for that long.

It is at this point that two things happen. My in-laws, who were driving ahead of us turned around and arrived back at the spot where we were stopped. And I got bit by a blasted ant!

I was now committing an act of indecent exposure in front of my husband’s family and my impressionable children, hopping around in the middle of a wasteland desert, in pain and STILL having my moment. Looking at the silver lining, I was now surrounded by enough fire ants to both carry me off and effectively dispose of my humiliated corpse.

I finally finish, and grab my jeans and my unmentionables from off the sagebrush, shaking them wildly hoping, praying, that there won’t be any ants in my pants. I wriggle into them, and hobble my way back to my ride. When I arrive at my door I stop in absolute shock.

Directly before my passenger seat door is the biggest anthill I have ever seen in. my. life. Easily two by three feet wide and at least a foot tall, this is a mountain of fire ants. I ran directly through this mountain in my haste to get out of the car. There aren’t any other ant hills near us, and my husband and in-laws both say they’ve never seen fire ants on this trip before. Somehow, I managed to have Chris pull over in front of the one and only fire ant volcano on Highway 50. Figures.

Even though I picked at least twenty cacti and sage slivers out of my feet and only had about three fire ant bites, my feet were so swollen I couldn’t walk the next day.

And through all of this- I laughed my head off. Painful, embarrassing, a little dangerous. . .but all the while- I mentally blogged and knew, someday this was going to be one funny post.