Love’s a Gas, Part 2

I’d had major surgery 2 weeks before and there I sat on an airplane headed to Toronto.  Thanks to the advances of medical science I felt great, but I was as swollen as a kitchen sponge and had been pumped full of air that still made me hope someone would poke me with a stick pin for some relief.  Sitting on a plane for two hours didn’t help matters and I was grateful for the temporary wardrobe I’d purchased to get me thru the Jabba-The-Hut phase.  But man!  I missed my ankles!

We were on our way to Toronto to secure an apartment where we’d be living for the next 2-3 years.  My husband and I have always loved the adventure of a move.  We’d started in West Virginia as kids and bounced from there to Orlando, Boston, Baltimore and Atlanta at that point.  I was looking forward to waddling off of this plane, seeing my new home for the first time, and a nice dinner with a glass of wine or three.

We stayed at the Westin on the shores of Lake Ontario in downtown Toronto, the perfect hotel for couples who elect to have dogs in lieu of kids.  When we would return in 2 months with Petey and Tina Belle in hand, they’d have feather beds, ceramic bowls, food and treats awaiting their arrival and subsequent terrorism of the hotel for a solid week.  Little did they know, Petey and Tina Belle would be the least of their concerns.

We found a spectacular apartment just a block north of the Westin and then spent time exploring the city in the snow as best we could with Violet Beauregard in tow.  My feet looked like potatoes from all of the walking, and I’d spend the late evenings with my thankles propped up on pillows in preparation for the next day’s adventures.

All was going according to plan until we made the very bad decision to go for Indian food at a place called Dhaba on King Street.  The food was spectacular and we would return their frequently over the next two years.  But good Indian food is simply irresistible and one must be prepared for the storm that follows.

After dinner we stopped for a glass of wine at the hotel bar before heading upstairs for thankle therapy.  We made our way through the elegant lobby and when we were directly across from the busy lobby desk, something very, very bad happened.

At first neither of us were able to digest the event.  We heard a thunderous roar.  We looked at each other and I saw the horror on my husband’s face when he realized that the earth-shaking sound was coming from my backside.  At that moment, all of that surgical air that had been trapped inside of me for two weeks reared its ugly head forcing its way out and I simply farted like a horse.

My husband asked, haltingly and somewhat dreadfully, “Is…is that….Is that YOU?!?”  And it wasn’t until he’d said the words out loud that I realized that it was most definitely me!  I had just answered the call of the wild Samosa right in the middle of a crowded hotel lobby and I couldn’t keep baby in the corner!  I felt all of my extremities turn cold with fear and humiliation.  But the worst was yet to come.

Only seconds passed when another round of bottom thunder released….and released….and released!   It was a non-stop orchestral phenomenon that went on for a lifetime without taking a breath and I had no control of the players!  My face was frozen in sheer panic.  My husband, on the other hand, came unglued, launching into irrepressible laughter.  And even as terror-stricken as I was, I joined him!

We quickened our pace through the lobby hoping someone else would get the blame, but our conspicuous laughter guaranteed our guilt and my inability to discipline my butt yodeling as I continued to blow smoke while we ran out the front door into the cold night air.  We fell against a pillar, clinging to each other, nearly collapsing in the hilarity, and all the while my back side continued its rectal turbulence.

Some time later my flatulence receded and our madness subsided.  Until we realized that only 2 feet away on the other side of the pillar was the doorman who had continued to greet and hail taxis for guests throughout our assault.

It’s funny how we associate love and marriage with passion and infatuation, when the reality of the matter is that love is more about the freedom to be wholly yourself with another.  It’s about a husband who can still look at his bloated wife who can’t find her ankles and tell her she’s beautiful.  It’s about finding joy in spending your evenings doing something as mundane as watching movies together.  It’s about being content spending time together saying nothing.  And, yes, sometimes it’s even about giving each other a dutch oven and laughing like you’ve never laughed before.

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I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up to Reach the Brownies

This gallery contains 2 photos.

This is not a made-up story.  This is a cautionary tale. Recently I blocked out an hour of my day to meet with a contractor to go over some projects at the house.   We weren’t reinventing the wheel.  Just … Continue reading

Drawers on the Floor! Drawers on the Floor!

Originally posted March 25, 2011
 
 
 
 
It all started when I went out to have coffee at the Second Cup.  Typical winter day in Toronto; snow flurries, wind whip, bad attitude.  It seemed innocent enough. . . .
I waddled into the shop in my winter duds looking like I was wearing one of those Sumo Wrestler suits.   I couldn’t lower my arms below shoulder level, but the greater fear was a slip-and-fall on the ice.  If I hit the ground, it would be a soft landing but I’d have to lay there like a turtle on it’s back until a group of good Samaritans could hoist me up with a pulley.  
I made it safely to the counter and, having thought ahead, was carrying my money in my gloved fist.  I handed Eleanor $5 for my Grande Non-Fat No-Whip Mocha, reaching slightly forward and almost face planting in a plate of red velvet cupcake samples.  I swiped my sleeve thru the icing marveling at my good luck at having snagged a sugar treat for later.  
Shuffling toward the lair of the other parade balloons, I cautiously entered the den spotting a comfortable and unprotected resting place.  I declared squatter’s rites when I claimed the seat with no challenge from the other zeppelins and began peeling the onion.   Hat, ear muffs, gloves, scarf, coat, fleece.  By the time I had shed m outer shell, my coffee was ready and had even cooled enough to drink without blistering my tongue.   But nature called . . . and my coffee would have to cool a few minutes more while I saw a man about a dog.
Unprepared for what lay behind the washroom door, I flipped on the light, and then choked back a shriek that was somewhere between a laugh and a cry of horror.  There in the center of the room lay a discarded pair of lovely violet lace underwear!   I was a little bit scared of them but I had to go so there was no turning back.  I skirted around the perimeter of the washroom, staying as far away from the threatening undies as possible and trying not to look.  I had to peek every now and then while doing my business just to make sure they weren’t sneaking up on me, having noticed my vulnerable position.   Once finished, I retraced my footsteps around the room, back against the wall, to get to the sink and then stealthily slipped out the door unharmed.  
Back at my seat I contemplated what to do with the information.  What a creepy thing to have to tell the Barista while she’s preparing coffee and slicing pound cake for customers.  I practiced in my head.  “Oh, by the way, someone left her dirty undies on the floor of the bathroom.”   “Hey, no big deal really, but one of your customers walked right out of her panties.”  “Someone dropped her drawers on the floor.”  “We got a gal going commando in here somewhere.”   I gave up and decided to let someone else be the fall guy.  Voicing it would certainly take the thrill out of that pound cake for some unsuspecting customer.
I pulled out my computer but those underoos were weighing on my mind.  Normally I’m not afraid of panties.  I’ve been known to wear them on occasion, but when they aren’t on my person, I generally come in contact with them in my own lingerie drawer or brightly displayed at Bloomingdales in a burst of color like a Jelly Belly Tropical Fruit collection.  They are most certainly NOT laying out in the open in a public forum like an Island Punch jelly bean left to melt and squish underfoot.
I tried to focus on the tasks at hand but between creating purchase orders, scheduling a dog sitter via text message, balancing my personal finances,  checking emails, scheduling a doctor’s appointment, researching portable air conditioning units and writing a design blog, I couldn’t help but imagine the scenario that would end in panty neglect and abandonment.  Maybe they were just too big and fell off unannounced when she twirled her skirt and exited.  Doubtful.  Maybe she had come from the gym and was changing into her work clothes.  Not unreasonable.  Maybe she anticipated an afternoon love match with a tall drink water with six-pack abs and wanted to change into fresh packaging.  Definitely more believable.  And just maybe she had enjoyed her man toy that afternoon IN the private and uber-romantic setting of the Second Cup public bathroom.  
My giant brain was tired and my eyes drifted.  Pile of outerwear on the chair to  my right.  Computer on the table surrounded by invoices, Iphone in pocket and oversized back-breaking bag on the chair to my left.  And then it hit me.  Hell, she wasn’t  doing anything as gratifying as hooking up with a little Lady Candy in the bathroom!  She was a wife!   She worked, created the purchase orders, scheduled the dog sitter via text message, balanced her personal finances, checked emails, scheduled doctor’s appointments, researched portable air conditioning units and wrote a design blog all before 11:00 a.m. 
She had simply lumbered into the coffee shop like the rest of the parade balloon people for a cup o’ joe and a change of work environment.  Her mistake was in dashing to the washroom before peeling the onion.  Rushing to shed her outer layers and thinking about all she needed to accomplish that morning, she was probably butt naked and feeling the breeze of the forced air vent in places she hadn’t expected before it dawned on her that she’d removed a few too many layers.  In all the excitement, those Tropical Punch bloomers were forgotten like last year’s peasant blouse.
While it’s always fun to laugh at someone else’s faux pas, this was a little more sensitive.  I would venture a guess that a lot of women are blushing right now.  I’m not ashamed to admit that on occasion I have a pair to spare in my bag so that I can change before I go to a doctor appointment.  
And at least once I’ve arrived home that evening without the panties I wore to work that morning.   
But what really disturbs me about this misadventure is the horror of the unknown:  what caliber draaawws did I leave behind as my legacy?  I’m cool if it was from the A League.  Maybe a sexy Hanky Panky lace thong that screams “oh, you know you wanna meet me!”  If caught I might have proudly claimed ownership.
What if it was the B League?  Soft cotton stretch.  Designed for comfort  in adorable heart print fabric that looks like what I might have worn when I was 10?  That’s certainly not the worst that could happen as long as they weren’t Dora the Explorer or Sponge Bob Square Pants.  Besides I’m pretty sure I got rid of those. 
But what if?  What IF I dropped the C League bomb?!?   These unmentionables are like the CIA.  We all know they exist and they serve an important purpose but we never EVER talk about them!  They are not to be seen and should never go out in public without a disguise.  These are the ones we wear at home under our sweat pants while eating a pint of Cherries Garcia ice cream and watching Dancing With the Stars (two more things that we never EVER talk about in public).  Catching a gal in her C League skivvies is way worse than unmasking the Lone Ranger.   What kind of grown up thinks an eye mask is REALLY concealing his identity anyway?  
These days I have reading glasses, support hose, and practical shoes chasing me at break-neck speed and I’m sucking for air and nearly breaking my ankles in stilettos trying to stay far ahead of the pack.  So I guess even exposing a pair of C Leaguers isn’t the absolute worst that could happen to a girl.  But the day I drop a pair of Depends anywhere . . . . I’m pointing the finger at my mom!
What will YOUR legacy be?