auntsie_pants

Why I Love WENDYWOOWHO

2006-02-03T13:35:29Z

1. She is usually the first (and sometimes the only) person to respond to my LJ posts. Makes me feel so loved.

2. She didn't even get mad when I thought that she was givin sweet sweet lovin' to her dog.

3. Her birthday is my birthday, too! I do so love a good Pisces. And a March 10 Pisces . . . well, that's just whippy pink icing all over the place.

So in honor of Pisces everywhere . . .

Why do YOU love wendywoowho?

Huh. So am I just a hillbilly at heart?

2005-12-20T15:35:42Z

(No offense to hillbillies anywhere - even those in Beverly Hills.)

So today I arrived with work loaded down with bags of booty for certain of my coworkers (some got booty because I like them; others because, I'll admit, I'm brown-nosing - but I like those people, too). I put together seven little "Holiday Party for One" baskets (with art direction from skipmagic), and got here early enough to leave them on desks before anyone got here, for a little Tuesday surprise.

Only nobody is opening them.

They've opened the cards - and no fewer than three people have come to my desk to thank me for the card (one even hugged me for the card!). But each time, the person says, "Can't wait to see what's in the basket!" instead of . . . well, just opening it to see.

And please believe me when I say I'm not looking for thanks or kudos (despite the aforementioned brown-nosing) . . . I'm just thinking that if I were to have received such a gift, Honey, I'd have opened it right away (you know, assuming it wasn't addressed to me and skipmagic or something)! I wouldn't prance around with it, going, "Look what EYE got!" in front of people who may not have gotten one, but I would have at least peeked by now to see what was in it. However, since nobody else is doing it, I'm now wondering if I somehow missed the chapter in The Big Book of Etiquette that says when it is and isn't OK to open a gift (you know, aside from common sense situations: at a wedding, a funeral, someone else's birthday party, etc.).

Does anybody know if it would be bad form to open a wrapped holiday gift from a coworker at work?

Do-be-do-be-do, The Shopping Coup . . . Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

2005-12-13T19:06:29Z

OK, I only went to the fancy-schmancy department store to buy CHRISTMAS CARDS, I swear! But then they didn't have the ones I wanted, so I started looking around for a birthday present for my best friend.

Didn't find that either.

What I did find, however, was this:

http://www.lynns.com/productimages/l/Agate5pcCompleterSet.jpg

And I mean the whole set: serving dish, serving bowl, sugar, and creamer - FOR EIGHT DOLLARS.

Minus a 20% discount.

I am so tingly right now.

Dunno what the hell I'm gonna DO with the stuff, but I tingle nonetheless.

Uh-oh.

2005-12-13T04:03:30Z

Bwahaha! auntsie_pants forgot to log out of LJ, and now her evil, evil husband has control. Now, acting as auntsie_pants, what should I say? Oh, I know:

My husband, skipmagic is the niftyest, coolest guy I've ever met. He's the jelly in my jam-roll, my main Twinkie squeeze, my--

Oh, crap! She's coming! RUN, mutha-fugher, R-U-N!

Overheard in the Land of Cubicles . . .

2005-11-29T21:42:27Z

"I was groping myself."

I am no longer concerned about what tidbits people around here overhear of MY phone conversations.

I believe the children are our future . . .

2005-11-18T15:37:47Z

So I apparently lied a few weeks ago, when I complained that my autumn volunteer activities had gone down the crapper. Rather, it seems, some of them were just postponed. So on Wednesday, I get a message from the coordinator of the monthly "reading to kids" program in which I participate, wanting to know if I'll be able to make it on Thursday. Never mind that I haven't heard a peep from these people since mid-summer, when I got the "Still interested? Great! We'll be in touch!" call (and never mind that, despite my occasional reminders last year, they still never got around to doing a background check on me, so for all they know I could be Michael Jackson in disguise). They finally seem to be on the ball, so I say, "Sure!" and ask if I can have a class of first graders again (it's not that I have a strong preference - I just want to make sure I bring the appropriate reading material).

So I get to the school about 15 minutes early yesterday, sign in, and am escorted, per the program coordinator's instructions, by a polite young girl (maybe 3rd grade or so) to Ms. Whoozywhatsit's classroom. Since I'm early, I walk in quietly, wave and smile at the kids (who've all turned to see who's coming for dinner), wave and smile at the teacher (who waves back), and take a (very small) seat at the side of the classroom to wait until my 11:00 designated Show Time. Meanwhile, I watch with amusement as Ms. W. gives the kids a lesson on How To Make Sure Everyone Feels Included.

She talks.

And talks.

And asks questions.

And assigns each table of kids a topic for discussion.

And appoints a spokesperson from each table to share the finer points of his/her table's discussion with the class.

Then she starts giving them an on-the-spot WRITING ASSIGNMENT.

(All of this, of course, is interspersed with interruptions; kids talking, kids getting snapped at, kids getting up, kids getting in trouble, etc.)

At this point, it's 11:15, so I stand up to go to her, thinking that perhaps she didn't know why I was there. At that moment, however, I think that perhaps an intervention on my part is about to take place, because when Ms. W. asks the kids if they have questions about the writing assignment, the first girl to raise her hand and get called upon points to me (after standing up from her chair and pushing it neatly into place under the table, as all of the kids are required to do when called upon to speak by the teacher) and asks, "Is that a Special Reader?"

The teacher is silent and blank-faced for a second, and then stutters, "It . . .doesn't matter," and calls on the next kid, who stands up to tell a story about recess yesterday. Teacher reiterates that they're only supposed to raise their hands if they have questions about the writing assignment, at which point all hands go down and kids start writing.

FINALLY I am able to get Ms. W.'s attention, and our conversation goes something like this:

Auntsie Pants: Were you not expecting a reader today?

Ms. Whoozywhatsit: Um . . . no, I'm not. You're supposed to read to them? I didn't know anything about it.

AP: Yeah, from 11:00 to 11:30.

MW: Oh, darn, wish I'd known - that would've been cool!

AP: Well, we come on the third Thursday of every month, usually . . .

MW: Ohhhhhh, they said something about that on the loudspeaker yesterday, but I missed it.

AP: OK, so I guess I'll just see you next month, since there's really not much time left . . . I'm Auntsie Pants, by the way . . .

MW: I'm Suzie Whoozywhatsit.

AP: OK, so um . . . bye.

MW: Bye! Thanks!

What I can't figure out is who she thought this lady was who walked in with a stack of children's books and sat down in her classroom! Do people she's never seen before normally come in and hang out in tiny, tiny chairs?

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire . . .

2005-11-17T20:33:33Z

. . . is apparently what we'll be having - and ALL we'll be having - for Thanksgiving dinner; my mom and I are headed to my sister's place for Thanksgiving, and she is lacking:

a) a working oven

b) two working burners on the stove (the two that do work are the small burners), and

c) a working microwave.

Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, here we come!

Do You Know When the Hen Broke Wind?

2005-11-09T20:03:13Z

This beautiful, sunny Sunday afternoon past I was outside fighting the rampant ivy threatening to overtake our back porch (and, indeed, our home) and I suddenly realized, apropos of nothing, that there are only two people left in the world (my mom and sister) who remember the funny and somewhat odd phrases my dad used to use to describe various things and/or states of being. They are, for example, the only two people who understand what it means:

a. to "look like Teedy before Toady died"

b. to have "the bluies"

c. when someone is "kin to the Lees"

d. to "feel like shit in the middle of a muddy road" or, similarly

e. to "feel like a Friday fart on a Saturday morning" (actually, my friend Mary knows that one, too - she was forbidden to come to my house and play for most of our formative years because she told her parents my dad had said it)

. . . the only two, I say, who know:

f. what "Rooster Poot" is

g. what "Flutie" is and, in a similar vein,

h. when the hen broke wind.

. . . or, at least the only two people I know with whom I can casually use such descriptors without getting funny looks.

A rather sad thought, really; nonetheless, there I was tangled in miles of ivy and thinking about the little things my dad used to say (on ground turkey: "The more you chew it, the bigger it gets!"), and then I couldn't stop laughing. Finally it got so bad that I had to go back into the house, for fear my neighbors would think I was going around the bend.

Then I told my mom and sister and they laughed, too. And we were a little sad, but also happy, to know that we got to know that cute, cute man (and that we can talk to each other about having the bluies without having to explain anything - except maybe how we got the bluies in the first place).

The Un-sale: An Update.

2005-11-03T20:34:42Z

I couldn't help it. I had a lunch "date" today in the mall of yesterday, and since I was walking through the department store again, I had to check. And Skanky Ganker was nowhere in sight. So I grabbed the red $95 sweater from yesterday (which was back on the rack by now) and asked a nice saleslady whom I'd never seen to check the price.

Still $95.

I told THIS salesperson the story of the identical sweater I'd gotten for $47, and noted that this sweater looked as though a different price sticker had been on top of the $95 sticker, and then peeled off.

Well.

She told me that the sweater probably HAD been $47, when the store was having its BIG sale (a few weeks back - they put out flyers and everything). But then, when the BIG sale was over and the sweater went unsold, it then went BACK UP in price. Only not to its original $200-something price. So it's still on sale, but not on SUPER-sale.

Check back, she said. It has to come down again . . .

I am disgusted by the concept of a retract-o-sale.

. . . and lest my shopping woes don't make me sound ENOUGH like a Lady Who Lunches . . .

2005-11-02T19:46:49Z

Why, ah haven't a single voluntee-ah activiteh planned fuh this fawl!

I usually do a once-a-month reading gig at a local elementary school, but that doesn't seem to be going anywhere. I got the preliminary, "Are you interested for this year? Great! We'll be in touch!" call, but have heard nothing since (granted, this school ain't gonna be winnin' any trophies for organization . . . ). Then I got nominated to serve on the advisory board of a non-profit organization that helps families who have kids with special needs. BUT, it turns out that there are already two employees from my company on the board, and so they don't think it would be good to have a third ("it's a whole political thing," I was told). My sweet, cute husband has suggested that maybe he (who does not work for my company) could serve on the board instead (how cute is he?) . . .

. . . but that still leaves me with not a THANG to do! How EVVAH will I spend my spay-uh TAHM?

Is it too late to join the DAR?

Well. Thank God for the internet, or I'd be bored to tears. ;-)

OK, so my FIRST mistake . . .

2005-11-02T19:00:41Z

. . . was even walking through the damn department store in the first place. I was on my way to the pharmacy in the mall across the street from my job to fill a prescription, so the most direct route is through the department store, but it's a lovely day - I could have walked outside. I should have walked outside.

My second mistake was deciding to walk by the sale rack, "just to check it out"; skipmagic and I made a pact this morning (after HE spent weeks and tons of money buying a slew of Halloween decorations, and I spent an equal amount of time and money buying fall clothing, which I justified by saying to myself, "well, skipmagic just bought a FOG MACHINE . . . ") to go on a "spending diet", so no clothing purchases for me this month! Which of course means that there it was - THE sweater. (Long story short, I bought the exact same sweater in pink a few weeks ago, and I LOVE IT. It is amazingly comfy and soft (it's cashmere!) and was on sooper-dooper-pooper sale (80% off, which made it 47 bucks - for cashmere!) and I love it very much. (Yes. Sometimes I do want to marry it. So there.) So I went back a couple of days later to see if they still had it in other colors . . . . Nothing left. I wasn't surprised. But then TODAY, I found ONE, hidden amongst the racks of flotsam, in RED.)

Pact-schmact. I NEEDED THIS SWEATER. (I'd skip my morning mochas and take sack lunches for a week, to make up for it, I told myself - nevermind the fact that I really should be doing that, anyway . . .).

Of course I tried it on first - it was a size larger than the one I'd already bought, so I wanted to make sure it would be as delicious as the other one - and of course it was. Unfortunately, it also seemed to be $95 instead of the $47 I'd paid for the other sweater. But upon closer inspection I saw that the $95 price sticker seemed to have had another price sticker OVER it at one time, as if it once had a $47 sticker on it that had been peeled off. So I figured maybe I'd luck out after all, and it would indeed turn out to be a $47 sweater.

My third mistake was not running like the wind when, upon exiting the dressing room, I was accosted by a salesperson I don't like.

(The tangential story on why I don't like the lady: I once found two adorable little kiddie Lacoste long-sleeved polo shirts there for $12 apiece (down from $70 apiece - and BTW who the hell spends $70 on a shirt for a child?), and she tried to gank them from me when I checked out! When I brought them to her register, she asked (in a tone tinged with both suspicion and envy) where I'd found them (once again amongst the flotsam on the womens' sale rack, go figure), and then asked whom they were for. When I told her I planned to send them to my sister's twins, she asked how old the twins were, and when I said, "Four," she informed me that these would not fit four-year old children. Before I could respond, she continued, "So I'll just go ahead and put these back for you," and began shoving them under the counter where she stood. I lunged for the red one and caught it by the sleeve just before it disappeared from my view, and said that I would buy them anyway - I have plenty of friends with small children, and besides - who could pass up such a bargain? She gave me a dirty look and rung them up. Plus she's just smarmy and mildly unfriendly and kinda skanky.)

I had seen her lurking around when I went into the dressing room, and had planned to seek out someone else to check me out, but there she was when I came out, and so I thought "What the hell, I'm in her 'section', and it's not like she insulted my mama or anything . . . " And besides, my favoritest, most darling salesperson of all (big shout-out to Mary Alice!) seemed to have the day off. So I told Skanky-Ganker that the sweater had "worked out" just fine, but I wanted to check the price.

"Isn't there a tag?" she asked, fishing around in the neck of the sweater and, finally, producing the $95 price sticker for my perusal.

My fourth mistake was explaining the situation to her - that I'd gotten the same sweater for $47, and that I was hoping that this one would be $47 as well, because if it were $95, I'd have to pass on it. She blipped it past the scanner at the register. "It's $95," she said curtly, with a smarmy little smirk. Only these registers don't have the little customer-facing window that tells you the salesperson isn't lying.

So my fifth mistake was taking her word and walking away, when in reality I don't trust her as far as I can throw her.

And of course, my sixth mistake is dedicating this much time and thought to something that, when it comes right down to it, came from a goat. But I had to get it off my chest. I feel better now.

My New Favorite Thing in the World.

2005-10-25T21:50:11Z

Besides SkipMagic, of course.

And maybe you've already seen it.

But every time I watch it I start laughing so hard that my coworkers think I'm being attacked by badgers.

(Oh, should probably mention that it has somewhat explicit language, for those of you at work . . . )

http://www.people.virginia.edu/~rof2p/InjuredBad.mov

Stuff You Think About on Allergy Medicine . . .

2005-10-24T15:58:33Z

1. In the movie Grease, when Sandy found out she wasn't going back to Australia, why didn't she just get in touch with Danny to let him know? I mean, if they were so in love ("Then we made . . . our true love vow . . . "), didn't they at least exchange addresses? Didn't she at least know what high school he went to, so she'd know to look for him?

2. If all songs were autobiographical, which singer/artist would have the most unfortunate love life? I vote for Gary Puckett.

3. Naptime is in like six hours.

I'm hungry.

2005-10-13T13:22:32Z

I'm fasting for a blood test this morning. 12 hours. Would have taken it at 8:00, but I didn't eat dinner until 8:00 last night. Would be taking it at 8:30, but I kept forgetting that I was fasting last night and consequently kept taking bites of SkipMagic's dessert. (My thought process went something like this: La la la la . . . this show sucks . . . ooooh, ice cream . . . mmmmyummm, ice cream . . . *swallow* . . . DAMMIT! OK, from now on I am fasting . . . la la la . . . ooooh, soda . . . *swallow* . . . DAMMIT! Rinse. Repeat.) Would be taking it at 9:00, but I just remembered I promised to cover for my boss in a 9:00 meeting. So now I gotta wait until 10:00, or - God forbid - LATER.

Yikes!

As it is, I'm so hungry I'm gnawing on the insides of my own mouth (which, I guess, would be better than gnawing on the insides of someone else's).

Feed me, Seymour. I'm starting to tingle.

I got dissed for "Lost".

2005-10-10T13:59:02Z

Several weeks ago, a coworker invited me to lunch for today. This morning I sent her an email this morning to confirm. She called shortly thereafter and asked if we could reschedule, because another "meeting" had been "put on [her] calendar". A meeting "with a client".

Turns out the "client" is Matthew Fox.

I mean, really - why bother to lie when one's calendar is available to anyone who cares to look (a fact which freaked me out and seemed a little invasive at first, but after awhile, ya get used to it)? Why not just say "I'm dissing you to view a taping of last week's episode of 'Lost' with a bunch of other people"?

I can handle the truth. Really I can.

Get Me Outta This Car!

2005-10-10T12:56:36Z

Ever have one of those mornings where you CAN'T STOP DRIVING LIKE A STEAMING HEAP OF IDIOCY?

I have. This morning, in fact. I was doing fine, really. Traffic was somewhat heavy for 6:30 in the morning, but I was moving and shaking with the big dogs. Then, for some reason, the two cars in front of me (in the far left lane) started braking.

"No problem," my inner ZenMaster (IZM) said. "They're far enough ahead that easing off the gas should do the trick, assuming that the braking stops within the next couple of seconds. And if it doesn't, you might want to consider a little gentle braking of your own, but nothing too extravagant. You are a beautiful human being."

My right foot, however, screamed, "BRAKE LIGHTS! BRAKE LIGHTS AHEAD! IT'S A BRAKIN' BONANZA! PEOPLE ARE PUMPING THE PEDALS OF DEATH! RED ALERT! SAVE YOURSELVES!" and acted accordingly, completely disregarding IZM and laying hard into my own brake pedal, and sending the car behind me swerving to the right to get around my crazy panic-braking ass.

I sheepishly allowed him to pass, refusing to make eye contact, and stayed behind him for the duration of the trip.

Then I exited the highway and as I made my way across sparsely populated city streets to my office, I managed, within a six-block trek, to:

a) cut off an SUV while making a left-lane-to-right-lane change,

b) cut off an oncoming pickup truck - while simultaneously running over a curb - while making a right on red,

c) drive an extra block out of my way because I was unable to get into the proper lane to make the left towards my office (hell knows I wasn't going to try to Bogart this morning), and then

d) turn into an oncoming-traffic lane at the next light, when I was finally able to make that left.

When I arrived (hallelujah!) at my parking garage, I thought it was all over . . .

BUT NO.

Once I arrived in the garage, I pissed off a lady (who, I swear, appeared out of nowhere) in a mini-van by making her stop short behind me as I backed into my parking space (my general rule is that I don't back in if someone's behind me, but like I said, she appeared out of nowhere, man).

So it's damn lucky I'm here and able to type right now.

Hey, can somebody give me a ride home this afternoon at about 4:00?

When the Skip's Away . . .

2005-10-06T01:24:48Z

Wheeeeee! Look at me. Pants at play. SkipMagic has some class thingy until 9:00 tonight (unless that's just a coverup for his illicit affair with theladycroom, whom he adores . . . but what the hell, so do I - do you think she goes for girls in cashmere pants?), and I'm left to my own devices.

So first I freed the dogs (oh, yeah, Baby, all three of 'em), who are currently scurrying about the house and making mayhem with used paper towels and other flotsam out of the garbage can.

Then I had ice cream (Haagen Dazs Coffee) for dinner.

And scrambled eggs with cream cheese for dessert.

Now I'm having champagne, leftover from the creation of last night's dinner:

http://pasta.allrecipes.com/az/ChmpgnShrimpndPst.asp

Now. One might question the quality of champagne that:

a) only cost five bucks,
b) came with a special resealable "cork", and
c) was un"corked" - and resealed - yesterday.

And one would be right to question said quality.

But none of that matters when you have orange juice to put in it.

So now one can only question the degree of gauche-osity it takes to be drinkin' mimosas at 8:28 p.m.

MMMMMMmmmmmm . . . butter is just so good.

2005-09-29T13:24:47Z

It's amazing how something so simple and yellow can make one so happy. This morning I eschewed my usual boiled egg/V-8 breakfast combo (which is kinda blecchy but, as usual, it's one of those "at what price beauty?" or, more specifically, "at what price keeping my ass in my really expensive jeans?" things with me) from my workplace cafeteria in favor of TWO boiled eggs (that's right, people, ya heard it here) and one precious lovely slice of sourdough toast . . . with BUTTAH. I actually saved it for "dessert" and savored it for as long as possible. I found myself lovingly licking the last little bite of crust before shoving it down and gobbling with relish.

Ahhhhh. Butter. Butterbutterbutterbutterbutter.

As for my portrait drawing yesterday, it went well and was chock full of little surprises:

a. Not everybody draws - some people whipped out oil paints, water colors, etc.
b. Not everybody finished in the allotted hour, so some people whipped out cameras and took my picture.
c. Who knew it would be SO HARD for me (the person who can't even sleep if Skip is in the same room reading a book) to stay awake when sitting frozen before a blinding light in a hot room full of strangers?
d. Who knew that said struggle to stay awake would result in a bunch of portraits that made me look really angry . . .
e. . . . and, interestingly, rather manly? (For the record, I was not wearing the pointy shoes.)
f. I was encouraged to choose a focal point in order to avoid moving my head, and ended up choosing a branch on the pine tree outside the window that looked almost exactly like Don King.

Oh, and I was right about my coworker - he confessed that he'd really been looking forward to drawing my hair. In the end, he was not as happy with his work as I was, and wants another shot at it, so who knows . . . ? I might end up doing this again in the next few months. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to getting more copies of Auntsie Pants portraits! I have the one from my coworker, but am expecting a couple more; the rule is that they don't have to give you a copy, but most people do unless they're just wildly unhappy with their work - or, I suppose, with you . . .

Hey, Buddy, YOU try blowdrying eight miles of hair!

2005-09-27T14:17:35Z

So I just now trotted off in my new girly pointy-toed shoes to the coffee machine. En route I encountered a coworker, who's been away on vacation for the last couple of weeks. I greeted him and asked him about his time away. We chatted amiably for awhile, and then I limped away (pretending that I was a ballerina wearing toe shoes, and that through this pain would be born beauty and grace and a pink tutu that would be mine to keep). From behind me, my coworker exclaimed, "WOW - you cut your hair!"

"Why yes," I batted and preened. "Thank you for noticing! Not many people . . ."

Then I looked at him and saw a look on his face akin to that of a second grader who's just been told in graphic detail where babies come from.

"You cut . . . a LOT," he stammered, then continued, "I mean, how could anyone not notice? Your hair was one of your signature features . . . "

And OK, he wasn't RUDE or anything (or wasn't trying to be, at any rate), but from his reaction you'd have thought I went all Natalie Portman on his ass! In reality, I went from Lady Godiva-length* to shoulder-length (finally having realized that to fulfill my dream of being Cher - not Cher NOW, but rather Cher ca. 1974, with the big nose, crooked teeth, Bob Mackie wardrobe and long long hair - was not worth the time it took to blow-dry), so my "new look" is hardly sufficient for me to, say, go on the lam from the law. I still look very much like me.

"Signature Feature"? Nah. I like to think that my signature feature is my sparkling wit and charm (which landed me the giant hunk of arm candy I married ;-)), and my stellar skillz at Charades.

On a side note, this guy is part of a weekly drawing group that's going to draw my portrait tomorrow. I'm really excited about it, because the people in this group (especially this guy) do (what I-Who-Cannot-Draw consider) amazing work!

It'll be interesting to see if he draws me bald.

* Boob-concealing length, also known as Mermaid-length

Friends . . . how many of us have them?

2005-09-27T13:31:12Z

Ahhhh, Whodini . . . what ever happened to those guys? Anyway, finally getting around to noticing that I have been "friended" (who knew it would be so painless?) by more people than I have "friended" in return (what can I say? I'm a taker like that). So let me offer a belated "Hi, Babe!" to: cajun_man, drmatrix, haardvark, loH, sassy, scotticher, theladycroom, tigermelp, and withak92! I feel so loved.

It's the cashmere pants, isn't it?

Well, today I'd like to run home and dive into those bad boys, because lemme tell ya, my resolution to be a girl this fall was, I think, woefully misguided. I don't like the pointy shoes they make you wear.

OK, so I lied.

2005-09-15T13:53:51Z

Someone does need cashmere sweat pants. I do.

And I got 'em!

I had forgotten about them, really, and set my sights on the more practical acquisition of a lovely, versatile cashmere sweater for fall. But then I saw them. Again Juicy Couture, again a size Large, but Honey, RED. Deep, lovely, licky RED. With cream-colored racing stripes. So I did it. I bid on 'em. And I won!

They arrived yesterday. I put them on and stood in the mirror for a full three minutes, uttering nothing but "Oh. Oh my. Oh my God. Oh my God YES."

Repeat as necessary.

I was planning to wear them to the Chicago spa where I have booked a massage this coming Saturday. Luckily, I came to my senses and remembered the oil! So then I figured I would wear them on the plane en route to Chicago, but Skip reminded me how dirty and oogy airports and planes can be . . .

So now I'm thinking of investing in a plastic bubble, just so I can wear the pants sometimes.

Does anybody really NEED cashmere sweat pants?

2005-08-22T20:44:15Z

No.

But does that ease the pain in my heart?

No.

I found them on Friday. Ebay. Juicy Couture. Gray. Size Large. In other words, perfect in so many ways. But I was too proud (or more like too stingy) to use the Buy It Now option. The auction was ending in a day, and nobody had bid on them yet - probably nobody would. I mean, Juicy Couture is way past its prime, right? It's been at least a year or two since every other page in Us Weekly featured a Juicy-clad celebrity booty.

Nobody was buyin' them suckers, especially not for the Buy It Now price.

Well, I was right about the last part.

Unfortunately, I forgot to check in on the auction on Saturday until it was too late! I remembered later in the weekend, and thought, "Oh, well, looks like I'll have to wait for the seller to re-list them, and then wait even longer until the auction ends, but hopefully I'll have them on my ass in a month or so . . . "

Well.

Who knew that not one, but TWO motherf*ckers were going to bid on those suckers?

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Now they're gone.

And there are no more. (Well, there are more, you know, out there in the world, but they're either a really bad color or too expensive.)

But I'm trying to look on the bright side:

Will Skip be both delighted and relieved to know that (a) I will not be adding the 817th pair of sweatpants to my collection, (b) I will not be upping our dry-cleaning bill with sweatpants, and (c) I saved myself for marriage?

Yes.

Um, except one of those things isn't true.

As promised . . .

2005-08-15T16:38:54Z

The Walk. The Pants. The Glory.

http://www.skipmagic.net/funimages/cure/auntiepinkpants.jpg

Mad props to SkipMagic, photographer extraordinaire (and fellow walky walker)!

Walking for healthy boobies.

2005-08-03T13:41:27Z

I think that's an effort we can all get behind, don't you?

I know I've been absent for awhile (work is totally nutsy right now, and it's all I can do to stay awake long enough to eat dinner afterwards), but maybe it's Providence. After all, my last post was about my own boobies, so it's only fitting that this post be about boobs in the community. More specifically, the Walk/Race For The Cure. I'm participating on Sunday, August 14, because my dear friend and colleague Linda is a breast cancer survivor, and because it's about time I got off my duff and did something to honor her, because she was so positive and upbeat throughout the entire ordeal that it was easy to forget that she was having one.

(I am NEVER one of those people, even if the "ordeal" is something lame, like a mosquito bite. But I digress.)

Anyway, if anyone would like to sponsor me, here's my donation site:

http://www.active.com/donations/fundraise_public.cfm?key=CBlackw1

I will be most appreciative for any support I can get (whether it's a hearty "You Go, Girl!" or a coupla bucks), and maybe I can get Skip to teach me how to post a Walk Day photo of me in my pink pants and sneakers.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Oh, so it's not because I look like a Baywatch Babe?

2005-07-19T18:56:46Z

So on my way to the restroom a few minutes ago, I came upon a woman. She was a stranger to me, but because my employer promotes a friendly work environment, I made eye contact and said hello. She smiled and nodded in reply . . .

. . . and then her eyes zoomed straight to my boobies.

And in case you've never met me before, I don't really have any of those to speak of. I mean, nobody's going to mistake me for a dude from the neck down or anything, but really, my bazoongas do not usually attract much attention from strangers, and I'm not likely to win a job at Hooters anytime soon. So when I saw that woman's eyes zip to chest level, I had to do a quick mental check:

Did I remember to wear a shirt today? Check.
Am I still wearing the shirt? Check.
Is the shirt free of ink stains, coffee spills, and glittery iron-ons that say, "Eat me, I'm a Danish"? Check.

So what, I wondered, was up with the hootie-check?

Then I got to the restroom, and all of my questions were answered. You see, today I chose to wear my cute new silky-lacy-polka-dotty camisole under my shirt. However, it turns out that what looks cute-silky-lacy-polka-dotty by itself looks lumpy-bumpy-humpy under other clothing.

So, in short, there are so many little lumps and bumps and seams going on under my (somewhat thin) white shirt that it looks like I've got rougly six nipples on each boob.

Yay.

But hey, now I know what it's like to have a stranger look at my boobs.

It's kind of creepy. Makes you paranoid.