Don't Sweat It

I have always been averse to people wearing sweatpants in public. I don’t care about the cute or stylish kind, just the kind with elastic at the ankles. You know, with the coordinating sweatshirt? I have no problem with sweatshirts, and the pants don’t have to be coupled with the shirt to trigger my aversion. Just those creepy, loose, thick, shapeless pants that reach a fever-pitch right there at the ankle. I shudder at the thought. I mean, what shoes could possibly look good against that background? And that’s how I knew I loved Frankie. I saw him wearing sweatpants, in public, and I still wanted to be his wife. That’s a pretty powerful spell he has over me, right? Of course, there are no sweatpants in our home NOW, for the record, but I even thought he looked cute in them then. Cute! Frankie aside, I have an insurmountable aversion to sweatpants in public, so don’t let me catch you promoting that faux pas.

What are your fashion (or crimes against fashion) pet peeves?

Today IS Special!

Does anyone recognize these guys? They were on the best show in the world. I watched it before I was in kindergarten, and I wish I could watch it still.

What were your favorite shows when you were small?

Under Where?

So, I once had to have a spinal tap. Nowadays, it is actually called a “lumbar puncture” so that it sounds less intimidating. It doesn’t. Anyway, Aramie and I compared our spinal tap experiences and hers was way worse; she’s a total badass. That said, there I was, waiting for 5 hours for my sweet ride to begin. I was finally called back, they took some blood samples that they already had, and I was ushered into a room with a gurney and a weird t.v. screen. The nurse handed me a hospital gown and told me to take off my pants and everything from the waist up. We all know that I say “chonie” instead of “underwear.” We all know that I sometimes like to class things up by shortening my spanglish word to “chones.” The nurse did not know this. I said, “So, I should take off everything but my chones?” She stared blankly at me for a long time. I couldn’t understand what she wasn’t understanding. It suddenly struck me and I hurriedly said, “I mean, take off everything but my…my…” and every other word for chonie left my mind. I stammered for an eternity and finally spat out “…my underwear.” While that wasn’t the worst part of the day, it wasn’t a great start.

How many words can you think of for chonie, and what is your preference?

Mr. Alligator?!

Bed-time is an hour of trials in my home. From somehow tricking Darby up the stairs to the absolute stillness required for her to fall asleep, it is a battle; full of peril. Usually, the only way to get her up the stairs is for Frankie to carry her and tell her that they are going to chase Mama into her room. What Frankie well knows, but you may not, is that I am terrified of being chased. I don’t have a clue where this phobia originated, but it is real and it presents itself every night that I am chased up those stairs. It starts out as play; I pretend scream and start fake-rushing up the first few steps. Darby starts laughing and it is a fun game. Suddenly, it changes. I start hearing the heavy footsteps behind me, right on my heels. My heart begins beating faster and faster. My palms get sweaty and my steps quicken. By the time I reach the top of the stairs, my heart is pounding in my throat, my screams are real, and I have tripped on the last step. It’s like every horror film you’ve ever seen. I look over my shoulder in terror as my would-be assailant brutally continues in my pursuit, barreling ever closer, closer and I am dragging my injured body through the doorway of her bedroom, fighting back the tears as I wait for the cold clutch of death to reach me…And then I remember that it is just my sweet husband and precious daughter and we are playing a really fun game. Yes, a fun game.

What is your secret fear? Oh, my other one is lizards.

What the...?

Sometimes I look behind my couch and feel compelled to ask, “Who put that cheese back there, and how long ago?”

What’s the most disturbing thing you’ve ever found in or around your furniture?

UR ine The Right Place!

Have you ever peed outside? Now this question is mostly for the ladies because probably every male in history has peed outside for some reason, or maybe just because he could. Now, for us women it is a considerable feat. The thigh muscles required to squat deep enough to miss your chonies coupled with the tenacity of holding up your shirt/skirt for the duration means that you must be made of cast-iron! When I was working as an archaeologist, my coworkers would steal off into a wooded area and I was always in awe of their ability to pee outside, the audacity to do so, and the lack of class required. Luckily, I can hold it like a camel holds water, so it was never an issue. That stems from my germ OCD, but we’ll cover that another time. So, when I found myself in the campo in Ecuador needing to go as bad as anyone ever has, I was left with no other choice. My comp was off peeing in the distance and I very uncomfortably searched for something behind which I could hide. No luck. So, I squatted over my ill-chosen, ill-fated Doc Martens and did what a missionary had to do. No sooner had I overcome my peeing-in-the-open stage fright than I heard some voices approaching. My head shot to the right and through the shrubbery I saw a group of women. “Oh no!” I thought to myself. “They’ve formed a mob to lynch me for being a North American and disrespecting their homeland!” It was a reasonable fear; we had been called “whores” in the street on the way up. As the mob grew closer (and if I recall correctly, they were carrying torches and chanting something like “kill the pig, slit her throat, bash her in!”) I tried to finish peeing, pull up my chones and drop my skirt, all at once. The Docs did not fare well during the debacle, but at least I looked respectable as the mob walked past me, having dropped their torches, quit their chanting, and seemed to ignore me. It even appeared as though they were not a mob at all; just 2 or 3 women walking with some cows. But I knew better. After my first experience (and seeing citizens, male and female, doing everything in the street---even a woman pooping over a sewer grate in the middle of the city in the middle of the day), peeing in a deserted field became much easier. So easy, actually, that upon my return, I was able to pee in the woods with the best of archaeologists. And not a few weeks ago, Darby and I were swimming in the pool out back and, well, it seemed a shame to drag her out of the water and trek all through the house just to use the bathroom. “Hey, Frankie,” I said, with a slight grin. “Don’t mow in that corner.” His eyes widened as I floated away on my pink flower noodle.

Have you ever peed outside? When, where, and why?

Dirty Little Secret

Last night, my husband’s work group was taken to dinner by the Vice President of the company. Employee families were not invited and though I feel slightly jilted, I understand that we are in a recession. After making him change his shirt and pumping him full of encouragement, none of which was necessary or solicited, I sent my husband on his way. I put our toddler to bed and was surprisingly excited when I realized that no dinner plan was expected of me that night. I combed the cupboards, trying to remember the last time I actually set foot in a grocery store. By the looks of the inventory, it seemed it had been quite a while. As I kept looking in the same cupboards over and over again, hoping something forgotten and delicious was hiding behind the dried minced onion and cream of mushroom soup, my eyes focused in on a can of Rosarita’s refried beans. My brow crinkled and I hesitated. Do I dare? I most certainly do! But, with what? Tortillas are not frequent guests in my home. They become lost under the bread or in the back of the fridge and when my excited eyes find them again; my heart is quickly disappointed by the brittle, cracking, dryness of each sad circle. This resulted in my decision to avoid the heartache and leave them at the store, where they belong. So, there I was, with some refried beans, a piqued interest, and the resolve to find something with which to pair my Mexican treat. I’ll spare you the suspense. I ate refried beans and fried eggs for dinner. It was a dirty, shameful experience. When Frankie returned from his fancy elbow-rubbing dining adventure, I asked him what he had for dinner. “It was sort of a sausage, shrimp, and fettuccini jambalaya. It was really good.” He handed me a doggy bag containing a soggy brownie covered with what appeared to be ice-cream residue. I picked at the mush for a moment, secretly resenting him. “What did you eat?” he asked. My silence was deafening and he repeated the question. My eyes shifted to the plate beside me, hoping he didn’t recognize the brownish paste smeared across its surface.

What’s the most shameful thing you’ve ever eaten (and enjoyed)?

The New Arrival

No, dear readers. Not a baby. Just me as a blogger. I could no longer stave off my raging case of blog-envy, so here I am. Bring it on.