Are You Rich? A Free Quiz.

You and a friend are sharing your most embarrassing secrets. You:

a) laugh about when you got pantsed during recess
b) recount the time you snored in a meeting
c) reveal that your parents attended a state university

When purchasing a new home, your first consideration is:

a) can I afford the down payment?
b) will it require a lot of maintenance?
c) how will the Acura look in the driveway?

An acquaintance asks you if your jeans are "Seven." You respond:

a) Seven? No, they were $19.99! Did I miss that sale at Target?
b) I'm not telling you my pants size!
c) No, these are Marc Jacobs; I put my Seven jeans on our Halloween scarecrow last fall.

You own a Land Rover. You:

a) can't afford a Land Rover.
b) can't afford a Land Rover.
c) go 3 mph over speed bumps because you "don't want to damage the chassis."

Last Valentine's Day, you:

a) had a romantic dinner with your significant other
b) watched TV; Valentine's Day is a made-up holiday
c) broke up with your long-term boyfriend because he got you a cheap gift

Your greatest hope is for:

a) world peace
b) to get out of debt
c) an engagement ring from Tiffany

When you exercise, you:
a) go for a jog
b) lift weights
c) pay $150 an hour for a personal trainer to push the buttons on the treadmill for you

You are asked where you live. You respond:
a) down by the river
b) in Rockville
c) North Montgomery County. Okay, well, egg-shoo-ally, we live in Potomac, which is kind of embarrassing, you know, because of all the rich people. But the schools are great, and we only have a big house because we plan to have more children. And we really need that BMW convertible because Tom, you know, has to take out business clients. We're not rich or anything; we're. . .comfortable, and we just have certain lifestyle needs. But I think your neighborhood in South Arlington is absolutely *charming,* just charming, you know, with all the diversity from the ethnics.

When you drink a Miller Lite, you:
a) sigh with a feeling of refreshment
b) peel the label; it's such a weird habit and you don't know why you do it
c) laugh with your friends about "beverage slumming." If your wine class teacher knew you were doing this, she'd have an absolute fit!

You don't close your curtains because:
a) you can't afford curtains; you have plastic blinds from Wal-Mart
b) you feel open and free when you can see the starlight through your window
c) you want your neighbor to see that you have a SubZero fridge and LeCreuset cookware

A few years ago when they were popular, you wore a trucker hat because:
a) you were a trucker
b) you borrowed it from your dad, who is a trucker
c) as a Harvard grad without student loans, you enjoyed the irony

After you visited New Orleans in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, you remarked:
a) "I feel good that I provided food aid to the victims."
b) "Cleaning up the debris was a devastating yet spiritual experience for me."
c) "My daughter's sailing team's boat at Tulane was destroyed. Things are rough all over."

You were chagrined at your last "trailer park party" because:
a) you invited too many people and they wouldn't all fit in your trailer
b) you wouldn't host a "trailer park party;" that's so distasteful and mean
c) you discovered that one of the invitees actually grew up in a trailer park and you were annoyed that you were forced to confront your bigotry

If all of your answers were "a" or "b," you are a normal person. If all or most of your answers are "c," it means you are rich. Sadly, the "c" answers are drawn from real experiences, including the one about the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, inspired by a man who wrote to the Washington Post to complain about the travails of his daughter, who was unable to take part in sailing events and whose expensive private college was shuttered for a time due to the hurricane. His attitude was that the problems of the poor were getting too much attention. And, I mean, aren't they? When there are issues like not having a Whole Foods within walking distance?

Some may take issue with my assertion that some rich people are bigoted towards poor people, particularly trailer park dwellers, because this whole quiz may make me seem bigoted towards rich people. However, I cannot afford to live in a big fancy glass house, so my stone-throwing has not been prohibited by common maxims. Also, the balance of power has the scales tipping in favor of the rich, who are weighing them down with overstuffed Saks bags. Given that monitoring of those in power is a cornerstone of democracy, such protests by rich people towards the criticism of poor people make them seem rather like Marie Antoinette. "Let them eat that icky cake made from cheap Jiffy mix," they sniff unsympathetically and with a hankering for gourmet brownies.

A final query:

You answered "c" to several of the above items. Are you rich?

a) Yes
b) No

If you answered yes, congratulations! You are rich. If you answered no, I'm terribly sorry. You are rich. If there is occasion to deny that you are rich, you are rich.

Department of Bladder Adjudication

Urination is a topic not normally discussed in polite society. However, I have serious doubts that those of you who read The Harmonica Chronicle comprise any part of polite society. And anyway, birds do it, bees do it, let's all do it, let's talk about pee.

The reason that this topic is so frequent and urgent, and sometimes burning and painful, is that, as a woman, I experience urinary emergencies on nearly a daily basis. No matter my fluid intake; I can consume a bottle cap's worth of Fresca on a road trip and, an hour later, will be squirming in the car begging the driver to find the nearest Sheetz, at which point I will dash from the car into the store, not even stopping to admire the lovely and full-stocked displays of Doritos and other roadside snacks. I save that for after going, when I very sensibly purchase a Diet Coke or a bottle of water to accompany me until we reach our destination two hours away. Naturally, the cycle begins anew, but, like after giving birth, the experience of urination after a near breakdown in the urethral seal releases a feel-good hormone that makes you forget the whole anxiety-provoking, whimpering, and crotch-holding experience ever occurred. It almost makes you want to have to desperately pee again. It's like Bladder Heroin, Horse for the soul.

This is probably why, on a two-and-a-half hour trip to Philadelphia to negotiate several parking and towing tickets, I chased the dragon and consumed at least a thimbleful of soda, not thinking about the likely consequences. Somewhere in space and time, a urinary Cassandra shook her head in prescient fear and bewilderment.

The Department of Parking Adjudication is a dirty and non-descript room with plastic chairs and a series of tiny, dingy offices. As I sat there in the main room, I could feel that telltale pinch and tingle in the general vicinity of my bladder, telling me that I would soon have to urinate. Given that my appointment was at 11:00, and the Department of Parking Adjudication notice very strictly admonished that one must make one's appointment on time or have it cancelled until further notice, I very reasonably assumed that the Department would keep up its end of the bargain and honor its appointment time with me (one of my foibles is thinking the best of both people and large bureaucracies). I decided I could wait until after my appointment to pee.

However, as the clock neared 11:30, I realized that the situation was now urgent. I got up from my seat and asked one of the "workers" if I could use their restroom. "No," the employee said very sternly. "We have no public restroom." I decided to reason with her. "But I really have to go to the bathroom," I said. "If I go somewhere else, there is a chance that I will miss my appointment." "That's too bad," she said, her sternness morphing into a certain degree of schadenfreudous glee. "We have NO PUBLIC RESTROOM." My reason turned to utter desperation in the blink of an eye. "Pleeeeassse," I whined. "I REALLY HAVE TO GO." "This," I declared, "IS AN EMERGENCY!" "NO!" she nearly shouted. "Okay, then," I pouted, "I'll just soil myself right over there on that chair." The evil woman shrugged. "That's your choice."

Another employee, who seemed to possess an amount of sympathy equivalent to that which one could float in a contact lens, reported to me flatly that I could use the restroom at the mall next door. "But," she warned, "If you're not back in time for your appointment, we'll have to reschedule." I had made my appointment in June, after the "system" hanging up on me several times after 10 minutes on hold and a series of certified letters. It was now the middle of September, and we had taken a two-and-a-half hour trip up from DC for me to reduce my (in my opinion, fraudulent) fees from over $200 to a more reasonable sum (I *honestly* did not get those tickets. Really). However, I had to pee so bad that I decided to chance it. My gait encumbered because I had to keep my legs close together in order not to burst, I hobbled over to the security guard to ask him where the mall restroom could be located. "It's just through that door," he pointed, "But I 'm about to lock the doors for lunch, and once the doors are locked, you can't get back in until 1:00." "Not let me back in until 1:00!" I practically shouted. "But I have to PEE! This is a HUMAN FUNCTION, and you're telling me that even though you will be standing in this very spot when I return, you will refuse to let me back in, as though I committed a voluntary default on my appointment." "Yep," he confirmed. This was getting surreal. I momentarily forgot my bladder as I briefly considered that perhaps I was getting Punk'd. I looked for cameras, but the only ones that were spying on me were the standard issue security cameras mounted on the wall in the Lair of Evil, or as they called it, the Check-In Desk. "You can't get back in," he repeated stubbornly.

I seriously, honestly, very nearly started crying. My eyes filled with tears as I considered the trials of trying to get this appointment in the first place and how we made this trip specifically to come here. I limped back to my seat and tried not to sob, my legs crossed and my hands as politely located as they could be near my crotch, given the circumstances. The Evil Bitch (and I do not use that term often or lightly) behind the counter nudged her co-"worker" and seriously, I am not making this up, pointed at me and laughed. If there hadn't been a complicated series of locks on the door leading to the office niches, I would have gone back there and peed right on her Payless shoe.

I had planned a cogent, almost lawyer-like argument to make with the Parking Adjudicator (aka Satan's Minion) that I thought would reduce my fines to zero; however, I knew that I now would be reduced to a shaking and stammering puddle of (oh! don't say that word puddle! Anything having to do with water will make me pee!), okay, a blob of (oh! a blob is a liquid! A viscous liquid, but a liquid nonetheless!), alright then, a tree stump of defeat and anxiety. When I was finally called for my appointment at noon, I followed "Rafael" (I doubted they used their real names for fear of retribution) with my papers to his dank office-like hole and fairly whimpered through my now pathetic explanation. "Okay, then," Rafael opined, "We'll reduce your fine to $60; you can pay in the next office." I didn't want to delay my escape any further and agreed to the punishment.

The fee-paying portion of this hellish journey occurred, thankfully, rather quickly, and, with receipt in hand, I made a beeline for the restroom in the mall across the street, veering through oncoming traffic in a Frogger-like manner. However, the security guard had, I am sure purposely, misguided me about where the bathroom was, and I tore through the place looking for a department store that would have a restroom. In Strawbridge's, I found my rapture, but I first had to make my way through a labyrinthine series of swimwear and petite separates. I found the restroom. I peed, and it was good.

This is not the first time that I had a remarkable urinary emergency. One Independence Day, we, as a group of utter imbeciles, decided that it would be a good idea to take in the fireworks on the National Mall. I had laughed heartily at my roommate because she had taken a backpack, in which she had stuffed emergency provisions, including a towel and toilet paper. "Toilet paper!" I guffawed. "What, are we going to TP the Washington Monument?" "You'll see," she snapped, "and you'll thank me for it." After the fireworks, I of course realized that it had been a mistake to smuggle a vodka tonic to the festivities in my opaque Brita bottle. Struggling through the massive crowd, I needed to find a restroom immediately. However, all of the businesses on the routes that fireworks-attendees would be likely to take had signs in their windows warning that there was no public restroom. Figuring that I could just purchase something at Starbucks and win access to the toilet, I decided (again, very sensibly) to get a beverage. When we got there, I discovered that everyone had the same idea, and the line snaked down the sidewalk. I suddenly understood what the towel was for as I dashed into an alley, dropped trou, and squatted behind a dumpster. As my flow reached the point of no return, I was startled by the skittering and screeching of rats running between my legs and over my shoes. I screamed. This, of course, attracted my male roommate, who came running around the corner to see if I was okay. He viewed me there, vulnerable and exposed, squatting with vermin congregating in my midst and nearly up my keister.

We never spoke of it again.

Of course, there are other stories too, like the time I was 13 and an emergency propelled me and my parents to seek a toilet in Times Square when it was still full of porn. I urinated in a toilet that was sunk into the floor, surrounded by posters of naked women in compromising poses and substances of unknown provenance on the floor. And then there was the scary time I begged to be let into the back room of a 7-11, with my emergence from the restroom prompting an employee to block my exit from the back and leer at me menacingly. As short as I am, I can be forceful, and I got him to move out of my way; however, I learned that my small bladder could get me raped or killed.

I am at home now, safe and sound, with a bathroom paces away and a water-filled Nalgene bottle at my side. It is one of the most comforting feelings in the world, to take in a beverage and know that you will be safe from the vicissitudes of restroom policies and generally mean people. As you can probably guess, you'll have to excuse me now. I gotta pee.