Saturday, January 22, 2011

The Torture I Withstood

There is a loose hair in my bra. It has grown from being mildly annoying to a major nuisance.

I’m sitting in the front row of the mezzanine at the symphony. That makes it sound like I attend the symphony often, but this is the first time in, oh, 14 years that I’ve been, so don’t picture me with blue hair yet. I’m just moving that direction.

Anyway, front row of the mezzanine. The lights are not dim. I think that’s to keep us awake, as are the straight-back, non-theater chairs we’re sitting on.

We’re listening to New World Symphony, which apparently is the pre-Disney version of Hiawatha. Who knew? I’m enjoying the concert but this loose hair is making me want to throw myself over the safety railing.

If you’re a non-bra-wearing man and have never had a loose hair trapped, then you’re thinking, “So what?” But that hair has a mind of its own. It moves around. It goes up and down. Even if you hold as still as possible, it plays “feather” and tickles you like a bad boyfriend.

And when you’re sitting in the front row of the mezzanine at the not-dimly-lit symphony, there is absolutely no way to reach between your boobs and pull it out. You can’t even itch. If you were at the Monster Truck rally, sure, go ahead and dig all you want, but at the symphony, you just have to go Marine and bear it.

I did. I’m proud to say that, in spite of my upbringing, I did not pull my top off and scream. I sat politely, listened attentively, and as soon as we got to the car, I dove into my bra and scratched and scratched and scratched.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Rock On

I just taught my son to throw rocks. I didn’t mean to. We were outside, thinking it’s nice to have Florida weather in winter, when he came to me, eating a fist-sized rock.

“That’s a rock. Don’t eat it.”

He continued to eat it.

“Yuck! Out of your mouth.”

He continued to scrape his teeth along the rock. This makes a very spine-chilling sound. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I took the rock, said, “Ick!” once more, and tossed it out of his reach.

Oops.

He picked up another fist sized rock. “Ball!” he said.

Big oops.

“No, not a ball. Rock. Rock. It’s a rock,” I panicked.

“Ball!” he insisted, scraping his teeth along it.

“No. Rock. A rock. Just a rock.”

“Ball,” he exclaimed, and to help his dolt of a mother understand, he threw it.

He has a good arm for a 1 year old. Heck, he has a good arm for a 38 year old mother. Luckily, we were far away from any windows. And children. And little old ladies.

Oh, I hope it snows soon.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Boob Job

We’re at a friend’s house for dinner. I’m taking off my jacket and being introduced to a man and woman I’ve never met. I’m wearing a sassy purple swing top, with a snap closure in front. As I grab my jacket to pull it off, I accidentally grab the top with it and when I pull off the jacket, my blouse unsnaps and shows everyone my girls. Well, at least, it shows everyone that I’m wearing a bra. The girls, gratefully, stay covered. Then, because I’m baring-all, I turn my back to the couple with a “just a second, please” and snap myself back in the now-detested sassy swing top.

I think I recovered pretty well. I handled it the way I thought Jackie O. might handle it, if she were stupid enough to get herself in that situation, which she never would have been, so any conjecture about what she would have done is rather ridiculous. As soon as I had snapped my shirt, I turned around, smiled at the wife and shook her hand, smiled at the husband while looking slightly over his shoulder to the left, so it looked like I wasn’t opposed to making eye contact but there was no way I was going to actually make eye contact. Ever. I also shook his hand, while cleverly avoiding eye contact and smiling.

But that’s not all, folks.

Once, in a huge meeting with some men sitting in front of me, I decided I needed to nurse the baby. Hal wanted me to stay in the meeting, rather than seclude myself a la 1950’s, so I stayed. After nursing, I removed the hooter hider, or the nursing blanket, depending on how Puritan you are, and listened to the meeting. About 20 minutes later, I discovered that I had failed to pull my shirt all the way over my girls. Yup, there I was, in a very non-nursing sort of meeting, showing everyone all my business, which is actually very little business, but still all that I’ve got.

Call me Janet, Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty.

I would also like to state, just in case my children ever read this, that I didn’t plan any of these peep shows, nor did I receive monetary reimbursement.

Unlike the time I flashed a friend in the middle of the library. She gave me a Tootsie Pop for that. I’d do a lot for a Tootsie Pop.