A hole in the hoo ha…

First, thank you so much, ladies. Your comments and emails regarding my last post were very meaningful to me. Because it isn’t something I share much or talk about, I truly appreciate not being made to feel weird for sharing it. I must have made myself sound way neater than I actually am based on how kind you were.

Getting to the hole in the hoo ha (vajinga, vajajay, bits and pieces…). So I have a wedding to go to on Saturday. I’m very, very excited b/c I LOOOVVEEE weddings. As I’ve mentioned, I gained three seven or eight pounds in DC due to the fact that I treated the entire month we were there like a vacation when it came to eating. We eat out far too often when we are  “in town,” but I’m generally more careful with my food choices and quantities. Well, in DC, I pretended I was on a trip for the entire month and ordered whatever the hell I wanted and ate it all, at least twice a day. A burger (no bun) and a big plate of fries? Sure, sounds delicious! An entire plate of fired rice? Absolutely. Then I went to the vending machine for a candy bar almost nightly.  Save for ONE night, I also did not work out while we were there, so I lost an incredible amount of muscle. The only reason *most* of my clothes still fit is b/c my muscle bulk disappeared and a nice amount of, well, chub, sprung up in its place. There’s a point to this…I promise.

So I’ve found myself a bit, um, lumpy. I’m very bad about buying a dress for a wedding,  nice dinner, etc., having it tailored, then only wearing it once. In the interest of putting an end to that habit, I planned to just pick a dress out of my closet to wear to Saturday’s wedding. Today, I went on a closet hunt. Ohhhh my. I tried on at least five dresses appropriate for a semi-formal wedding. While they fit, it was. not. pretty. It. Was. Lumpy.  Really, that’s the only word I can think of. Lumpy.

 Don’t worry. I’m not just complaining. I’m a problem solver. So I dug through one of my drawers. See, I had bought a pair of Sp*anx while we were in DC, before Prom, just in case. I didn’t end up needing them back then, but you know, things are a little different now.   I’ve never seen Sp*anx outside of the package before today.

 So I pulled ‘em out of the package and looked at them. Ummm, first of all, I apparently bought the ones that go from a few inches above your knees to just under the boobs. Okay, so a big body cond*om. Cool. I was still on board. Anything to eliminate the lumps. But then I went to unfold them. Except that I had apparently already unfolded them. Now I ask you how I’m supposed to stretch over my ass something that may or may not stretch over the ass of a small child. So I double checked the size on the front of the package, flipped the box over, and yeah, I fell on the left end of the “B” range.  Thinking that someone must have messed up and put the wrong pair in the correct package, I stuck my hand into the ten inch opening that is the waistband, located the tag, and verified the size. Well, hell. It matched up.  Typo? Wishful thinking. I sat down on the bed and went to town.

FIFTEEN minutes later, I was panting like a dog. I had broken out in a cold sweat. I thought I might loose consciousness for a brief moment. I took a drink of water. All that work and the damn things were wriggled up to knee level. They had rolled all up at this point, so my knees were bound together by this horrifying black S&M torture device called Sp*anx. What kind of crazy bitch thought she was doing women a favor here?

But I was determined.

I rested for a moment, then stood back up and went at it. A few minutes later, those bad boys were just below the butt. Now, they were still all rolled at the top, so they were stretched smoothly from the knees up to just below the butt, where the rest of the fabric was rolled into what looked like a rubber band that was about to snap. Now we’re talking a crap load of booty *FLOWING* over the top of these things. At that moment, I heard Ed and Mattix coming down the hall. And all I was thinking was, “Oh, crap, don’t let Ed walk in here.” I have no shame – I’m more than willing to show him my second and third glow-in-the-dark stretchmark covered, cellulite dimpled ass, but I knew that I would never hear the end of this one. That fully motivated me to go for one final heave ho, wherein I yanked those bitches up.

 So now they were on all the way. Black Sp*anx from just under the boobs to just above the knees. Holy moly – I looked like I was shoved into a sausage casing. I could barely breath. By this point, I was more than committed to going to the wedding all lumpy because there was no way in HELL that I was going to wear those things. It occurred to me that it would certainly would be difficult to go to the bathroom after a few cocktails. But the real horror would be pulling them back up.

So despite my decision that the Sp*anx would not be attending the wedding with me, I figured I might as well see if they do their job. I was gonna try a dress on, damn it. I needed one last adjustment b/c there was a good three inch gap between the Sp*anx crotch and well, my crotch. So I reached down for one final pull and WHOOPS. I ran into  hoo ha. Not hoo ha through the Sp*anx. Oh no, just plain hoo ha. I was mortified that I had managed to rip a HUGE hole in the crotch, big enough for my entire hand to slip through, during my now 25 minute ordeal. So I walked my sausage-encased, Sp*anx-clad body to the full length mirror, did my best to hike a leg up, and took a look.

And you know what I found? An INTENTIONAL hole in my Sp*anx. A full on split in the cotton crotch. Given the way I think, I immediately assumed that the manufacturers of Sp*anx somehow erroneously believe that: (1) one is capable of engaging in the sort of activity that crotchless Sp*anx would allow when they cannot breath and are all wrapped up like a Little Smokie; (2) one’s partner would actually find them even remotely appealing so that they would actually have an interest in engaging in the sort of activity that crotchless Sp*anx would allow when one is all wrapped up like a Little Smokie; and (3) one would have so little shame that they themselves would want to engage in said activity while wrapped up like a Little Smokie.

So I went and got the box for a second time. What I found upset me even more than my original thought. Turns out the “hole” is actually what I like to call a breakaway crotch so that you can PEE through it. Oh.My.Shit. Yeah, ’cause that’s a good idea. I’m going to hike my semi-formal dress up, squat over the toilet in my heels, and PEE through the Sp*anx crotch hole.

So my little morning dressup foray ended with me getting a pair of scissors, the ones I used to trim Mattix’s hair on Easter, and cutting off my Sp*anx. Good use of $48, no?

And I bought a new dress – one that doesn’t highlight the lumps - and took it to the tailor.

We’ve had the busiest week around here. I’ve had a few really wonderful birthday dinners with friends and family, and because the bride who is getting married on Saturday is a childhood friend and the daughter of my mom’s very best friend of twenty years, we’ve been very involved in all of the pre-wedding stuff – showers, BBQ’s, luncheons, etc. So, I’m still working on a post about Mattix with some of the funniest photos ever. Hopefully I’ll have it up by Sunday night. He now says  “dog” all of the time – every time he sees a dog. Fitting, as I had expected him to be freaked out by the dogs when we came home. Instead he LOVED them immediately. He and Gidget are the best of buddies. They share his bottles and his string cheese every day and they tongue kiss regularly. Kid’s going to have one hell of an immune system.  He’s also super, super clingy to me. Good, because it’s what we’ve worked for since coming home, but hard to get anything done – like shower, dress, go to the bathroom, pick up the house, um, everything.  (I now understand how hard it was for the moms whose babies were this way immediately – Alison, you keep popping into my head!)

Happy Friday!