Thursday, February 24, 2011

Did you SEE that Half-Naked Woman in the Bakery Aisle?

My pants fell down in public this morning.  I just thought you should know that up front.

It was a “Perfect Storm” when it came to conditions of my “self-pantsing”: 

·         A banded-bottom sweatshirt exerting force down (and in)
·         “Day before laundry day” looser elastic underwear
·         Cargo pants with “wannabe” sweat pants waistband
·         My apparent feigning sensitivity related to air on my bare flesh

At this point I’d like to interject an apology to all plumbers, electricians and rappers, who I previously chided, behind their backs, for their density regarding the exposure of their backsides.  I would say, “How could they POSSIBLY NOT KNOW their butts were exposed?”  Even my husband, Fred, deserves an apology for the numerous times I’ve said (and meant), “Crack kills” when he was bent over.

I’m a humbler person now.

It all stated when I felt my underwear roll down one side off my hip while walking in a store.  When it became distractingly uncomfortable, and I couldn’t stand it another second, I said to my friend:

“I’m having an underwear emergency” and I left her puzzling with my cart and purse. 
5 paces toward the restroom, the final lip of underwear rolled off the other hip and hung low on both sides, supported only by my inseam--an incredibly awkward feeling.

10 paces later, I felt cold… colder than maybe I should have felt minus only a thin layer of cotton.  5 more paces, I reached down and realized that not only had my underwear rolled down…but they took my PANTS WITH THEM! 
I was bare-assed in the grocery store!  And I didn’t even know it.

It probably took just seconds to pull everything up again, but it happened in slow motion, just like in the movies.  The only other time (aside from that mooning incident in college) my butt has been viewed by strangers was in a delivery/examining room. At last in the store restroom, I comforted myself.  Probably no one saw, I thought, rocking myself in the fetal position.

It could have been worse.  I could have fallen.  Some Samaritan would say, “Do you need help?” then, “Holy Mother!  Why are you naked?”  Followed closely by an announcement, breaking up the England Dan and John Ford Coley medley over the loud-speaker: 
“Stock person report to Aisle 2 with a tarp.  And dark glasses.”

My friend cheered me up on the way home by giving me clever suggestions for potential Hallmark cards related to a “Pants Fell Down” category:

·         Sorry to hear you’re “Down in the Pants”
·         Got Caught with your Pants Down? (inside) It could happen to any 3 year old.
·         Happy Birthday …Suit
I explained the incident to Fred when I got home, and he said (and in the immortal words of Dave Barry…”I’m not making this up.”):

“Do you think there’s something wrong with you?”


Saturday, February 19, 2011

Here Senator, Senator!

I understand the difficulty we have finding Osama Bin Laden in Afghanistan, but how hard is it  to find 14 Wisconsin state Democratic senators hiding out somewhere in the mid-west?  Illinois, their rumored location, has traversable terrain and no mine fields.  Apparently those Senators are more elusive than Bugs Bunny was to Elmer Fudd.

They’re supposedly on the move.  Maybe we can put up a sign, “All Wisconsin Democratic Senators are Welcome” by some luxury Wisconsin-bordering hotel and see if they take the bait.  Many of the rebel Senators are older men and they’re not going to comfortable sleeping on “just any” old bed (I sleep like an old man myself--I should know).  They’re gonna need Hilton or Marriott mattresses.  Their spinal preferences should narrow the realm of hotel hide-outs down considerably.

Three of the renegades are female.  As a female, I know--sooner or later one of them will need chocolate.  If we leave a trail of Godiva truffles, we can lure them out of hiding.  They won’t even realize it until after the chocolate-buzz wears off.  A fake chocolate delivery service would work too.  When they give into their cravings and call…SHAZZAM!  Back to Wisconsin with you! 

They might be bold enough to come out of hiding for something remarkable.  How about we shine a light up in the sky like the “Bat-Signal,” only this time a silhouette of the Democratic donkey?  Offer them the chance to wear a cape and tights and they should run out, waving their hands enthusiastically and taking practice flying leaps.  A side note:  Offer anyone a cape and tights and they’ll be putty in your hands.

Tracking their electronic activity through their cell-phone and credit card use should be easy--unless, of course, they’re smart enough to use cash and pay-phones.  Getting all their pictures out there is also a good idea--they won't be easy to spot.  It's not like they're tattooed, 9-foot Big Foots with distinguishable scars and 6 fingers on their left hands (are they?).  I bet they're maddeningly ordinary looking. 

People do know where they are.  Good Morning America just conducted a live, face-to-face interview, on February 17th, with Democratic Senator Mark Miller, while agreeing to keep his location a secret.  Where are those slimy National Enquirer paparazzi when you need them?  If they can find Lindsay Lohan at a moments’ notice, why can’t one of them sniff out at least one of our missing elected officials? 

They'll have to come back soon.  No one who has ever had fresh cheese curds can stay away from Wisconsin too long!

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Beware of "Little Green-Sash the Cookie Pusher"

(No sheep were harmed for the purposes of this blog)

I’m thinking of marking my front porch with lamb’s blood, so the Girl Scout Cookie Sale will pass over me next year.  Or maybe I could run a pair of my fat pants up the flag pole to deliver a less scary, less biblically themed message that I should not be sold any more food.

But that’s for next year
Are they still out there, canvassing neighborhoods, popping up at football parties and “sick-ing” their mothers on me to get me to buy their cookies?  I can only hide so long.  I just survived a sweet-free Valentine’s Day because my candy-pimping husband finally listened to my “No chocolate!” pleas.  I’m well on my way to a svelte spring body and I don’t need the temptation of those delicious cookies.

My problem, besides overindulgence, is it’s practically impossible for me to refuse a child pedaling anything on my porch.  I had to sell fruitcakes door-to-door as a kid and I still shudder recalling the rejection of a fruitcake hating public.  
A few weeks ago, as I was flipping through my daughter’s cookie sales material, I saw a Facebook message from a friend announcing her daughter is ready to take my cookie order.  Within hours of the Facebook message, our quiet neighborhood streets were populated with the cardboard-chart holding uniformed midgets.  The mad cookie pusher/cookie consumer “Cat and Mouse” game, starring me as the Mouse, had begun.

As soon as I kindly-but-firmly sent one away, another appeared, with a “harder-sell” approach.  They were sending increasingly confident girls…with sales pitches… and dimples!  My resolve…and my doorbell…were being tried.

 “I’m sorry but my daughter is a Girl Scout and we’re buying cookies from her,” I lied, “but thank you.”

“But they’re delicious,” said Little Green Sash.   I repeated my statement, smiled and gently closed the door.  “They have zero-trans fat!” she added. 
Then they sent in the big guns—Pig-tails.

“Sorry sweetie, but if I buy one more box of cookies I’ll blow up,” I joked. Pig-tails got a blank look on her face, then turned back and ran screaming to her mother in the driveway.

Oh MY God, what had I done?  I meant I would blow-up from eating too many cookies. I walked out and shrugged my shoulders and waved.  Pig-tails came back and said, through sobs, “Th-th-th-thank you, anyway.”

“Wait—I’ll buy some of your cookies!”  I consoled.  5 boxes later she danced back to her car.  I hadn’t actually seen any tears.

I read that a good way to control your consumption of the cookies is to freeze them (the cookies, not the Girl Scouts). 
Yeah, like that will stop me from biting one.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Every Time I Turn a Bratwurst, an Angel Gets His Wings

I’m trying not to let my husband, Fred’s, exuberance over tonight’s pending Super Bowl irritate me.  The bare truth is that in the 18 years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him happier about anything.  Christmas, babies being born and our wedding dim in comparison to the glorification of “The Men in the Tight Yellow Pants.”
I like football.  I just don’t love it.  Here in Green Bay, I am Dorothy in a foreign land, in the midst of the thousands of green and yellow outfitted munchkins and they’re all “a little muttled” by my lack of enthusiasm.

“Were you just singing in the shower? I asked yesterday, brushing my words with bitter butter, “You’re starting to get on my nerves.” 

“It’s a holiday weekend!”  Fred sang, merrily.  He’s taking post-game Monday off.
I then spoke the unspeakable-- “It’s just a game.”

Fred’s face went white.  His lower lip started quivering.  Somewhere an angel fell dead.  The “Packer Enthusiasm Committee” which likely governs this football-crazed city, is probably on patrol and when they sense negativity with respect to “The Pack” will drop a net on me, drag me to a tail-gate and make me do beer bongs until I paint my face and put on beads.

I have become Super Bowl Fun-Smasher #1.  Remorseful, I said, “But, I’ll be making all the football food you like, though” and his lip stopped quivering.

There is a way to be part of the excitement and not actually watch the whole game--Football Food.  Being a part of the “Feed-the-fans on Weekends” committee earns me three important, non-football related things:

1.  Redemption in Heaven.  Every time I turn over a bratwurst, and angel gets his wings.
2.  A great seat bellied up to the buffet table.  While everyone else is bent over and tense with expectation, I’ve got a plate of taco dip all to myself.
3.  Positive Energy.  Each time I offer someone a beer, they look at me like I’m Miss America.  I *get* that it’s an “alcohol induced” appreciation, but I’ll take it.

Fred took our daughter, Krista, shopping yesterday for more Packer fan gear.  She came home wearing a $70 glamorous jersey that has a gold, bedazzled neckline and sparkles.  He has been working hard to make her a Green Bay fan because she prefers football teams that are represented by animals she likes.  Colts for instance, are baby horses; lions—big fluffy cats. 

She has it on again this morning.

I see I’m outnumbered.  Alright, for the Super Bowl title…Go PACK GO!