Saturday, September 29, 2012

At Least I Wasn't Commando

Well, I really outdid myself today.

If you're from Poland, Ohio, you can stop reading now.  You either saw my misfortune, or you already have heard the folklore that surrounds my misfortune.

Anyway, you know that tie at the waistband of sweatpants?  Admittedly, I'm not a sweatpants kinda girl, so I always thought the tie was merely decorative.

WRONG.

It turns out that the tie is a necessity that holds up your pants.  Who knew?

I saw that the tie was missing when I decided to wear the sweatpants to Emerson's soccer game, but I didn't care because my shirt was just long enough to cover the waistband, so the missing ornamentation of the tie would be undetectable.

Oh, how we live and learn!

I drove to the soccer game still in my state of blissful ignorance. 

Then we had to get out of the car and walk down the LOOOONG, one-way road to the soccer fields.  The lightbulb started flickering in my head.

I noticed the extra fabric in my crotch area at about the same time I felt the wind on my lower back. 

I had my Diet Pepsi in one hand, so that left only one hand to deal with the impending indecent exposure.  I grabbed the pants at one hip with my free hand, but I was walking, so that movement caused the pants to fall down around the other hip.

I was limping like I was just getting used to a new leg prosthesis, which is what must have caught Emerson's attention.  She looked at me and screamed,  "Mom, everyone in all the cars behind us can see your underwear!"

I turned to look at the horror, and there were, indeed, cars behind us as far as the eye could see.  Of course.

Finally, with Emerson crying from embarrassment, we made it to her field and she started her game.  I put down my Diet Pepsi and stood there, like a crazy lady, holding up my pants.

I did a pretty good job for awhile, but damn my kid for being good at soccer!  She was on offense and the ball was right in front of her.  She was kicking it like a madwoman down the field, and I started screaming.

And then it happened.

I cheered and let go of my pants.

I stood there in horror as everyone at an eight year-old's soccer game watched my pants fall to my knees.  Literally.

Thank God my underwear was from Victoria's Secret. 

Unfortunately, they were thongs.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Greek Life

So, when last we spoke nearly a year ago, I had died.

Allow me to catch you up on my life since then:  I accepted a new job, blah, blah, blah, I resigned from said new job.  Trust me, there is sooooo much contained in the "blah, blah, blah," that I could--and would--tell you about, but Danny would kill me. 

That means I'm a stay-at-home-mom again, and I totally suck at it, just like I knew I would.  Add sahm-ing to my list of non-talents.  There's no glitter-glue around here, not one piece of macaroni has been glued on anything, and the number of nature walks/picnics we've enjoyed?  Zero.

Somehow, I've managed to keep everyone alive, though.  Delaney is easy because she's at college; Emerson learned how to work the microwave; and Danny has become quite familiar with the Burger King drive-thru. 

My mother is still living at the nursing home, and every once in awhile I get a phone call informing me that she's making out with another Resident.  She's on the clock, though.  There is absolutely nothing physically wrong with her, so her demise is nowhere in sight.  Normally, that would be a good thing.  However, my father is getting out of prison in 4-1/2 years, and I'm not living with both of them again.  I tried that once, and it resulted in my marrying at 18 to get away from them.

Unfortunately, if I have to live with both of them again, someone's getting a pillow over the face.  I've actually thought this out:  My father, even at 81, could, I'm sure, overpower me; so, it looks like my mother will have to be the one to go.  Sorry, Mom, but you kind of deserve it for making me wear shoes with alligators on them on the first day of fourth grade.

So, what, you may ask, do I do all day? 

Nothing.  Abso-freakin-lutely nothing.  Except Facebook.  I need rehab for that one.

In fact, when Danny left this morning, he looked at me sitting on the couch and holding the computer, and said,  "What are you going to do today?"

I eyed up the couch and the computer and said,  "You're pretty much looking at it."

He then informed me, in his best supportive husband voice,  "Well, just so you know, this place is starting to look like a frat house."

That's encouraging to me:  better a frat house than a crack house anyday.