The Power of the Feminine Wipe

Last year, my 15-year-old nephew almost went into cardiac arrest when I pulled out a feminine wipe from my purse so he could clean his hands at Tim Hortons.
“Oh my God! Put that away!!!”
“What?”
“That!” he shrieks pointing at my hand.
“You mean this wipe.”
“Shhhh.  God! Someone will see you.”
“You said you needed something for your hands.”
“Yea but not that!”
“It’s clean.”
“Get it away from me!”
Ending the torture, my sister and I wipe our hands and toss it in the garbage.

Surprise!
On a cold December afternoon, Ed and I, and several anxious little Yorkshire Terriers took a road trip in my friend’s van to their new home an hour and a half away.  We’re not five minutes into the trip and a familiar but unpleasant odour permeates the car.  Looking down, we see that two nervous little Yorkies have had an unfortunate accident in their crate.
“Oh My God.  Get rid of it!” snaps my husband.
“And just how am I supposed to do that?”
“Stick your hand in.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
“I can’t stand it!” he croaks through drive heaves. 
“You’re such a drama queen.”
“Open the window!”
“It’s minus ten.”
“Do something!” 
So I did.

“Here, put this under your nose.”
“What is it?”
“A feminine wipe.”
“Oh My God!!!”
“Well that’s it or nothing.”
“Why don’t you have perfume?”
“Just take it.”
Shuddering, he snatches the wipe from my hands and covers his nose.
“Better?”
“Yesssss.”  His hiss is slightly muffled by the dangling wipe.

Ladies, never under estimate the power of the feminine wipe.