In the mornings, my two daughters take over my bathroom in a flurry of teeth brushing and hair fixing before school. Usually, the two of them argue over who gets to use which sink or the magnifying mirror or the electric toothbrush charger. Today I caught them in a rare moment of cooperation and conversation, so I sat quietly and tied my shoes on the edge of the tub while listening intently to them. I didn’t know if I should be proud or horrified.
E: I hope no one laughs at your leggings at school today.
S: I hope your skin doesn’t break out during PE.
E: I hope someone wants to talk to you.
S: I hope you have to make a poo at school.
Is it just me, or are these cleverly disguised insults the most polite form of sibling discourse ever? I especially like the horror of a bowel movement in public. Does anyone poop in a public restroom without fretting about it first? Just in case you didn’t realize it, that fear does start in childhood, and not just yours. I am sure there is a name for that phobia, but I couldn’t find it easily, and I knew if I spent any more time looking on Google I would find the names of things I didn’t know people actually feared. For example, apotemnophobia. Fear of people with amputations. Who knew?
I had a supervisor once who would go to the bathroom every morning with his newspaper tucked under his arm. He would stroll casually towards the men’s room without an ounce of embarrassment. As gross as he was, I loved that routine. We all had a good thirty minute break in his absence, which we generally used to talk about how gross he was.
E: I would never do that. I would hold it in until I got home. I don’t even like to pee at school.
She doesn’t. I have never met a human who could hold her urine the way my twelve year old can. I am both appalled and jealous of her. It’s not like I pee everywhere I go, but at the same token, I am queen of the UTIs. Holding it is not an option. I know one day this habit will catch up with her, but until then, I let her enjoy the freedom that goes along with her infrequent trips to the bathroom.
S: I do that too, but sometimes you have to go anyway.
E: Sometimes you can disguise it so no one knows what you’re doing.
S: How can you disguise poo?
Excellent question, I thought.
E: PS told me that if you float a square of paper on the water first, it won’t make a splash.
PS is MJ’s boyfriend. Remember my friend MJ? Of course she would be romantically involved with a man who offers my child fecal camouflaging techniques. I don’t know who exactly that speaks to the most, except to say that it’s wonderful they found each other, and that they are free to share their expert knowledge with my children, and that is it any wonder we are all friends?
S: By the time I get the paper on the seat and then an extra square on the water, I will be in there forever and everyone will already know what I have been doing.
Me: Did PS have any advice on how to hide the smell?
Both my daughters looked at me like they forgot I was in the room. Also like I had a work boot on my head.
E: You’re gross, Mom.
I employ the same listening technique while driving my kids around to and from their various after school activities. It’s best when they are together, and not overtired, and forgot that I was there. That’s how I find out who likes whom, and who got suspended for doing what, and any other school or child related news I might want to know without asking.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall? Hell, I am that fly.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Panty Raid
I don’t much like it when my kids dig around in my purse. It’s such a violation of my privacy. The other day my older daughter, E, hunted for some gum in my purse, which by the way does not go well with braces, when she pulled out a wad of cloth from the bottom and asked me, “Are those your panties? Gross!”
I looked in my purse and saw she was right, those were indeed my panties. The bright red pair with tiny clusters of stars, like constellations, all over them. “I’ve been wondering where those were. Thanks!” I said to her, shoving them back into the bottom of my bag.
“Why do you have panties in your purse, Mom?” she asked me, which reminded me of two things. First, never ask a question you don’t really want the answer to. And secondly, I am not obligated to answer every question my children ask.
“That is an excellent question,” I answered, thereby not answering at all.
My panties had been forgotten in the bottom of my purse for about two weeks, which was the last time my husband and I went out, sans children, on a date. We have been married a long time, and like a lot of couples, we tend to focus more on raising our children and less on our marriage. We had no parties or other social obligations, so we decided to get a babysitter and go to the movies.
When our babysitter arrived, we rushed out the door, eager to enjoy a little adult time. We got to the theater and before exiting the car, I hiked up my skirt and took my panties off. I showed them to my husband, then stuffed them in my purse.
“What are you doing?” he asked me.
“Taking off my panties,” I told him. “Dark movie theater, no children, endless possibilities.”
I don’t know why I like to think my life should read like a Penthouse Forum letter, but every once in a while, I prefer that option to the reality of grocery shopping, dinner cooking, laundry folding, and chauffeur driving that makes up the majority of my time. If all it takes to make a regular day feel like a vacation for two is losing the undies in a parking lot, well, then, seems kind of worth it, doesn’t it?
We rarely go see a movie that doesn’t involve animation, and the only movie I had heard of that was playing was a George Clooney film called “The Descendants.” I knew next to nothing about the movie other than George Clooney was in it and that is was set in Hawaii, and that seemed like reason enough to slip off my panties. We skipped the popcorn because A. we weren’t hungry and B. I didn’t want to smell like fake butter down there if anything untoward were to happen. (And for those of you who think/know I don’t have a filter, let the record show I didn’t take that particular image any farther. I made no comments about seafood and melted butter, or big greasy tubs or slippery fingers or anything.)
Spoiler Alert!! Have you seen that movie? Well, again, I didn’t know what it was about. Now I do. It’s about an emotionally distant man and his dying cheating wife and his shitty marriage and worthless children and oh my God, the last thing anyone should do during that movie is anything involving fingers and removed panties. Even my husband wiped a tear or two from his eye. After the movie ended and the audience composed itself, we all left in a solemn line towards the parking lot. The fact that I was going commando was totally forgotten in the emotional aftermath of that depressing fucking movie. We went home, paid the babysitter, and watched the news. I might as well have put on a flannel nightgown and mended some socks.
Yes, I forgot I wasn’t wearing panties that night, and for the next two weeks, until the tween discovered the evidence of my attempt at marital spice in the bottom of my handbag. My purse is not that different from my gym bag, or a black hole; whatever makes its way into any of them gets sucked in and forgotten, never to be seen again. Unless a nosy kid starts poking around, in which case I either have to fess up or deflect.
What I have learned is this: never, ever eat anything from the bottom of a purse. No old cough drops. No unwrapped mints. No stray Skittles. Nothing. In fact, don’t even carry edible things in your handbag, so that way no one will think of it as a pantry. And also, next time, I am shoving my panties in the cup holder of his car. Then he can answer the question of why are Mom’s panties in the car console. That is, if there is a next time.
I looked in my purse and saw she was right, those were indeed my panties. The bright red pair with tiny clusters of stars, like constellations, all over them. “I’ve been wondering where those were. Thanks!” I said to her, shoving them back into the bottom of my bag.
“Why do you have panties in your purse, Mom?” she asked me, which reminded me of two things. First, never ask a question you don’t really want the answer to. And secondly, I am not obligated to answer every question my children ask.
“That is an excellent question,” I answered, thereby not answering at all.
My panties had been forgotten in the bottom of my purse for about two weeks, which was the last time my husband and I went out, sans children, on a date. We have been married a long time, and like a lot of couples, we tend to focus more on raising our children and less on our marriage. We had no parties or other social obligations, so we decided to get a babysitter and go to the movies.
When our babysitter arrived, we rushed out the door, eager to enjoy a little adult time. We got to the theater and before exiting the car, I hiked up my skirt and took my panties off. I showed them to my husband, then stuffed them in my purse.
“What are you doing?” he asked me.
“Taking off my panties,” I told him. “Dark movie theater, no children, endless possibilities.”
I don’t know why I like to think my life should read like a Penthouse Forum letter, but every once in a while, I prefer that option to the reality of grocery shopping, dinner cooking, laundry folding, and chauffeur driving that makes up the majority of my time. If all it takes to make a regular day feel like a vacation for two is losing the undies in a parking lot, well, then, seems kind of worth it, doesn’t it?
We rarely go see a movie that doesn’t involve animation, and the only movie I had heard of that was playing was a George Clooney film called “The Descendants.” I knew next to nothing about the movie other than George Clooney was in it and that is was set in Hawaii, and that seemed like reason enough to slip off my panties. We skipped the popcorn because A. we weren’t hungry and B. I didn’t want to smell like fake butter down there if anything untoward were to happen. (And for those of you who think/know I don’t have a filter, let the record show I didn’t take that particular image any farther. I made no comments about seafood and melted butter, or big greasy tubs or slippery fingers or anything.)
Spoiler Alert!! Have you seen that movie? Well, again, I didn’t know what it was about. Now I do. It’s about an emotionally distant man and his dying cheating wife and his shitty marriage and worthless children and oh my God, the last thing anyone should do during that movie is anything involving fingers and removed panties. Even my husband wiped a tear or two from his eye. After the movie ended and the audience composed itself, we all left in a solemn line towards the parking lot. The fact that I was going commando was totally forgotten in the emotional aftermath of that depressing fucking movie. We went home, paid the babysitter, and watched the news. I might as well have put on a flannel nightgown and mended some socks.
Yes, I forgot I wasn’t wearing panties that night, and for the next two weeks, until the tween discovered the evidence of my attempt at marital spice in the bottom of my handbag. My purse is not that different from my gym bag, or a black hole; whatever makes its way into any of them gets sucked in and forgotten, never to be seen again. Unless a nosy kid starts poking around, in which case I either have to fess up or deflect.
What I have learned is this: never, ever eat anything from the bottom of a purse. No old cough drops. No unwrapped mints. No stray Skittles. Nothing. In fact, don’t even carry edible things in your handbag, so that way no one will think of it as a pantry. And also, next time, I am shoving my panties in the cup holder of his car. Then he can answer the question of why are Mom’s panties in the car console. That is, if there is a next time.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
That's Hot!
(The name of the shorts has been changed to protect the innocent.)
I am not one who easily succumbs to get thin quick schemes, but I have to admit, I was intrigued by the HOT STUFF shorts, a recent daily deal offered by Groupon. They looked like a regular pair of exercise shorts, black and fitted, but they claimed they could help you lose ten pounds in two weeks just by wearing them. I didn’t believe that, but it was still a decent price for exercise shorts, so I perused their website. The shorts, at $26, were about fifty dollars off their regular price, which means they weren’t at all like regular exercise shorts, at least not my usual fifteen dollar ones. I went ahead and bought the shorts.
All I had to do was pay a little extra for shipping, and my HOT STUFF shorts would arrive, ready to send me on my way to slimness. I have to admit I was surprised to learn when I used my voucher that my HOT STUFF shorts were coming to me all the way from the United Kingdom. I expected to pay for shipping in dollars, not pounds. I hope those won’t be the only pounds I lose, I thought as I submitted my order.
When they arrived, I cut open the shipping bag and my HOT STUFF shorts slipped onto the floor. The strong smell of skunk and rubber also slipped out of the shipping bag. It was coming from the HOT STUFF shorts. They weren’t made out the latest engineered fabric. They were wet suit knickers. Thick, smelly neoprene. They had a wide waist band and a bright yellow printed logo on the lower left thigh. HOT STUFF, they said. I left them on the edge of my tub, which generally acts as a shelf for things that don’t have a permanent home.
“What’s that? A new computer case?” my daughter asked me that night.
“No, my new exercise shorts,” I answered.
“Why do they smell funny?” she asked.
After airing them out for a couple of days, I decided to try on my HOT STUFF shorts. I squeezed my thighs into them, then hopped the rest of the way into the legs until I could stretch the waist band reasonably close to where my waist is supposed to be. They were tight, but they approximated my size. And I was already sweating just putting them on. I could tell I had made a wise purchase. Then I walked.
You know that sound thighs make when rubbing together in corduroy? A sort of swshh-swwsshh sound? Well, the wales of the corduroy help absorb some of the volume of that friction. Neoprene, on the other hand, is not sound absorbing. It is sound amplifying. Especially when the sound it amplifies is coming from your inner thighs. There was no way I was going to wear my HOT STUFF shorts to the gym. Everyone was going to hear my thighs before I even entered a room.
Every morning for a week, I looked at my HOT STUFF shorts sitting on the edge of the tub but decided against them. Not today, I thought before selecting normal active wear made out of spandex and cotton. And every evening, my daughter asked me if I wore my new HOT STUFF shorts yet while she put her dirty clothes in the hamper in my bathroom.
“Not today,” I answered her.
“Then why did you buy them?” she asked me.
Last Thursday, I looked at the shorts again. They looked back at me. I thought about how loud the music is in the fitness classes. No one is going to hear me, I thought. Besides, people fart and grunt all the time at the gym; how could my swsshing be any worse? So I squeezed into them. I selected an appropriate shirt to hide the resulting muffin top and shushed my way downstairs to make breakfast.
“What’s that noise?” my daughter asked me.
“Me. Now eat your waffles,” I answered her.
I had already worked up a light sweat by the time I brushed my teeth and drove my daughters to school. I walked into the gym and quickly set up my equipment in the group fitness room for the weight class.
“Is that you? I keep hearing a squeaking sound. Are your shoes wet?” a lady on the other side of the room asked me.
“No, it’s my inner thighs,” I answered her.
Other people came in and set up their equipment, and the weight class began. The class moves from one muscle group to another, fatiguing one area before starting the next. We began with squats. Squats were good because my thighs were not in direct contact with each other. Next we reclined on our step benches for the chest track. As I did my chest presses, sweat began flowing up from between my breasts, puddling around my neck. Occasionally I will have a little rivulet of sweat travel this reverse path up my neck. This was no rivulet; this was a river cresting, near flash flood stage. Luckily we stood up for most of the rest of class. I wiped my forehead a few extra times with a towel, but nothing unusual. By the time we cooled down, though, my face, chest, arms, and legs were bright red.
I stayed and did a dance class, which I love, after the weight class. I feel slightly sexy and coordinated when I do that class, even though I probably look like I’m having a seizure. By this point, my HOT STUFF shorts were no longer making noise. They were so wet from my sweat that they had suctioned onto my thighs like sausage casings. But even casings can hold so much before they burst, or at the very least, leak, which is what happened to my HOT STUFF shorts. They had reached maximum sweat capacity, and sweat was now pouring out of the leg holes down the fronts and backs of my thighs. Pouring, like I had a hose in my shorts. At first I thought I might have peed myself, but it was way colder than urine.
As we danced, I flung sweat in a circle around my body like a sprinkler. I got scared I might slip in my own puddle and scaled back my enthusiastic twitching. Not only was I sweating from my torso and legs, but sweat was now pouring out of places I didn’t know had sweat glands. Like the inner corners of my eyebrows. Who knew the inner corners of my eyebrows could sweat like that?
Remember that part about my HOT STUFF shorts compacting me like sausage casing? Well, you can only compress your lower abdominal region for so long before it stimulates another weight loss technique. About the same time the class ended, I was pretty sure I was going to crap myself. I used a gym rag to mop up my sweat circle on the floor before bidding a hasty retreat to my car. Once safely inside, I felt a little less intestinally unstable. I left the parking lot and got on the highway, mopping sweat off my forehead so I could see the road. Since I was all alone, I thought I would attempt to pass gas to alleviate the tremendous pressure building up inside my body. The problem was, with all that compression, there was nowhere for the gas to pass. I farted. The fart traveled up the front of my nether regions and channeled across the top of one thigh before finally expelling out the edge of my HOT STUFF shorts. How do I know this? Because I could see the gas as it attempted its escape like a mole tunneling under the grass.
When I got home and out of the car, I left a puddle of sweat in my car seat that could have been measured with a rain gauge. I took off my shirt and sopped it up, then headed inside and straight to my bathroom. I removed my wet sneakers and my drenched socks before rolling down my HOT STUFF shorts; think trying to put a condom on a watermelon. I held the shorts over the tub and wrung the sweat out of them. I don’t even want to tell you what my panties were like. My entire body was clammy and red, and I really wanted a donut or some IV fluids. I can only imagine what my blood pressure was.
I don’t know if HOT STUFF shorts will really make you lose ten pounds in two weeks. They have to be hand washed and air dried in the shade, so unless you own multiple pairs, and why would you, you can’t really test that theory unless you wear them still damp from the previous day’s workout. As for me, I haven’t worked up the nerve to squeeze back into them for a second test run. I’m just glad I didn’t have a stroke in my HOT STUFF shorts. Maybe they should come with a medic-alert bracelet or a DNR order. I wouldn’t recommend them for summertime use or in humid climates unless you are feeling suicidal. I can see the medical examiner’s report now: Cause of death: HOT STUFF short dehydration and asphyxiation. And dysentery.
I lost a half a pound, which I promptly gained back after I drank a gallon of water.
I am not one who easily succumbs to get thin quick schemes, but I have to admit, I was intrigued by the HOT STUFF shorts, a recent daily deal offered by Groupon. They looked like a regular pair of exercise shorts, black and fitted, but they claimed they could help you lose ten pounds in two weeks just by wearing them. I didn’t believe that, but it was still a decent price for exercise shorts, so I perused their website. The shorts, at $26, were about fifty dollars off their regular price, which means they weren’t at all like regular exercise shorts, at least not my usual fifteen dollar ones. I went ahead and bought the shorts.
All I had to do was pay a little extra for shipping, and my HOT STUFF shorts would arrive, ready to send me on my way to slimness. I have to admit I was surprised to learn when I used my voucher that my HOT STUFF shorts were coming to me all the way from the United Kingdom. I expected to pay for shipping in dollars, not pounds. I hope those won’t be the only pounds I lose, I thought as I submitted my order.
When they arrived, I cut open the shipping bag and my HOT STUFF shorts slipped onto the floor. The strong smell of skunk and rubber also slipped out of the shipping bag. It was coming from the HOT STUFF shorts. They weren’t made out the latest engineered fabric. They were wet suit knickers. Thick, smelly neoprene. They had a wide waist band and a bright yellow printed logo on the lower left thigh. HOT STUFF, they said. I left them on the edge of my tub, which generally acts as a shelf for things that don’t have a permanent home.
“What’s that? A new computer case?” my daughter asked me that night.
“No, my new exercise shorts,” I answered.
“Why do they smell funny?” she asked.
After airing them out for a couple of days, I decided to try on my HOT STUFF shorts. I squeezed my thighs into them, then hopped the rest of the way into the legs until I could stretch the waist band reasonably close to where my waist is supposed to be. They were tight, but they approximated my size. And I was already sweating just putting them on. I could tell I had made a wise purchase. Then I walked.
You know that sound thighs make when rubbing together in corduroy? A sort of swshh-swwsshh sound? Well, the wales of the corduroy help absorb some of the volume of that friction. Neoprene, on the other hand, is not sound absorbing. It is sound amplifying. Especially when the sound it amplifies is coming from your inner thighs. There was no way I was going to wear my HOT STUFF shorts to the gym. Everyone was going to hear my thighs before I even entered a room.
Every morning for a week, I looked at my HOT STUFF shorts sitting on the edge of the tub but decided against them. Not today, I thought before selecting normal active wear made out of spandex and cotton. And every evening, my daughter asked me if I wore my new HOT STUFF shorts yet while she put her dirty clothes in the hamper in my bathroom.
“Not today,” I answered her.
“Then why did you buy them?” she asked me.
Last Thursday, I looked at the shorts again. They looked back at me. I thought about how loud the music is in the fitness classes. No one is going to hear me, I thought. Besides, people fart and grunt all the time at the gym; how could my swsshing be any worse? So I squeezed into them. I selected an appropriate shirt to hide the resulting muffin top and shushed my way downstairs to make breakfast.
“What’s that noise?” my daughter asked me.
“Me. Now eat your waffles,” I answered her.
I had already worked up a light sweat by the time I brushed my teeth and drove my daughters to school. I walked into the gym and quickly set up my equipment in the group fitness room for the weight class.
“Is that you? I keep hearing a squeaking sound. Are your shoes wet?” a lady on the other side of the room asked me.
“No, it’s my inner thighs,” I answered her.
Other people came in and set up their equipment, and the weight class began. The class moves from one muscle group to another, fatiguing one area before starting the next. We began with squats. Squats were good because my thighs were not in direct contact with each other. Next we reclined on our step benches for the chest track. As I did my chest presses, sweat began flowing up from between my breasts, puddling around my neck. Occasionally I will have a little rivulet of sweat travel this reverse path up my neck. This was no rivulet; this was a river cresting, near flash flood stage. Luckily we stood up for most of the rest of class. I wiped my forehead a few extra times with a towel, but nothing unusual. By the time we cooled down, though, my face, chest, arms, and legs were bright red.
I stayed and did a dance class, which I love, after the weight class. I feel slightly sexy and coordinated when I do that class, even though I probably look like I’m having a seizure. By this point, my HOT STUFF shorts were no longer making noise. They were so wet from my sweat that they had suctioned onto my thighs like sausage casings. But even casings can hold so much before they burst, or at the very least, leak, which is what happened to my HOT STUFF shorts. They had reached maximum sweat capacity, and sweat was now pouring out of the leg holes down the fronts and backs of my thighs. Pouring, like I had a hose in my shorts. At first I thought I might have peed myself, but it was way colder than urine.
As we danced, I flung sweat in a circle around my body like a sprinkler. I got scared I might slip in my own puddle and scaled back my enthusiastic twitching. Not only was I sweating from my torso and legs, but sweat was now pouring out of places I didn’t know had sweat glands. Like the inner corners of my eyebrows. Who knew the inner corners of my eyebrows could sweat like that?
Remember that part about my HOT STUFF shorts compacting me like sausage casing? Well, you can only compress your lower abdominal region for so long before it stimulates another weight loss technique. About the same time the class ended, I was pretty sure I was going to crap myself. I used a gym rag to mop up my sweat circle on the floor before bidding a hasty retreat to my car. Once safely inside, I felt a little less intestinally unstable. I left the parking lot and got on the highway, mopping sweat off my forehead so I could see the road. Since I was all alone, I thought I would attempt to pass gas to alleviate the tremendous pressure building up inside my body. The problem was, with all that compression, there was nowhere for the gas to pass. I farted. The fart traveled up the front of my nether regions and channeled across the top of one thigh before finally expelling out the edge of my HOT STUFF shorts. How do I know this? Because I could see the gas as it attempted its escape like a mole tunneling under the grass.
When I got home and out of the car, I left a puddle of sweat in my car seat that could have been measured with a rain gauge. I took off my shirt and sopped it up, then headed inside and straight to my bathroom. I removed my wet sneakers and my drenched socks before rolling down my HOT STUFF shorts; think trying to put a condom on a watermelon. I held the shorts over the tub and wrung the sweat out of them. I don’t even want to tell you what my panties were like. My entire body was clammy and red, and I really wanted a donut or some IV fluids. I can only imagine what my blood pressure was.
I don’t know if HOT STUFF shorts will really make you lose ten pounds in two weeks. They have to be hand washed and air dried in the shade, so unless you own multiple pairs, and why would you, you can’t really test that theory unless you wear them still damp from the previous day’s workout. As for me, I haven’t worked up the nerve to squeeze back into them for a second test run. I’m just glad I didn’t have a stroke in my HOT STUFF shorts. Maybe they should come with a medic-alert bracelet or a DNR order. I wouldn’t recommend them for summertime use or in humid climates unless you are feeling suicidal. I can see the medical examiner’s report now: Cause of death: HOT STUFF short dehydration and asphyxiation. And dysentery.
I lost a half a pound, which I promptly gained back after I drank a gallon of water.
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