First the good news: not only am I still cancer free, two and half years later (WOOT!) I also had a magnificent dream last night where by future BFF Neil Patrick Harris and his partner lived in a bus next to my window and we played ukuleles together all night long in a desert while sipping Arnold Palmers. Clearly I should eat cake while watching Dr. Horrible right before bed every night.
Oh see, having started this post off with “first the good news,” now it seems like I should insert some bad news. I don’t really have bad news. But I feel like if I don’t put something here something bad WILL happen to fulfill the bad news prophecy. So…um…the bad news is my pedicure is flaking already. And I discovered yesterday that I can no longer put my foot on top of my head. I blame the parasite. And global warming.
Now on to the actual post, eh?
Why is it that when something horribly embarrassing is happening, we make loud noises to attract attention to ourselves? I mean, while still unlikely, it’s possible that I could have limited the number of people on Lexington Ave that saw my hot pink granny panties yesterday if I had managed to avoid screaming when I stepped on a sidewalk grate and my skirt blew straight up about my face and completely obscured my vision.
It’s also possible that Rocco could have saved me some embarrassment if he hadn’t been so enthralled by watching another chick wrestle with her skirt instead of turning to warn me. He turned when I screamed. Which? Was a solid ten seconds too late.
Thank goodness I decided to buy some new underwear in honor of my hot date with Aloysius. Lately I’ve been wearing my ancient, super stretched out (and occasionally elastic-cut) bloomers because…well…parasite.
In other news, it turns out they have a little alarm system in the computers at Sloan that goes off if a patient gains or loses more than ten pounds since their last visit. I mean, it totally makes sense in that environment, but who knew?! Learn something new every day I suppose. Like, for example, approximately sixty people learned yesterday that I own a pair of hot pink granny panties. And that I sound like a chihuahua with a bullhorn when my bits are practically on display.
Oh and I Sprocketed. Seems you can get Gastric Mind Band surgery these days. Like I need to pay MORE people to fuck with my mind.
Wasn’t “Gastric Mind Band” one of those hippie bands that played at Woodstock?
I think I know what you mean. It’s like the moment before you fall on the ice where you make a sound that might be spelled out “yeeaaaahoh!”, or “whoashi!” both followed by a bruised bum and chuckling onlookers.
My favorite embarrassing example happened at my office last year. I was relaxing in my chair, leaned back, when the pin that holds the back at a good posture slipped, dropping me backward. In that moment I made a squeak of a yell, “passed gas” (farted) from the surprise (not normal. swearsies) kicked the underside of my desk, forcefully, from surprise, and then blurted out childish laughter immediately following. It was like an explosion of stupid.
Amazingly, nobody said a word. Hmmm…
Oh my gosh, that is my number one fear of living in NYC. Not terrorist attacks, not sewer alligators, not muggings, but my skirt/dress flying up while I’m walking. I probably look like a total spaz on a windy day because I walk sort of hunched to the side so I can keep a firm hand on my skirt bunched to one side.
my most embarrassing event involves video tape and me assuming the position with a loaded M16 being pointed at my back.
Not as fun as new pink panties, but there was more adrenalin involved.
So, what was Aloysius testing that caused you to find out your foot would no longer touch the top of your head?
i once left the ladies room at work and walked through the entire office only to realize when i sat down that my skirt was caught up in my pantyhose and that i had just mooned everyone in path. the experience left me muttering to myself for days.
Oooh oooh oooh! That happened to my Spanish teacher in high school. And it was AWESOME. Because she was a whack job. And that experience has caused me to vigorously check that my skirt is laying in the correct position when I leave the bathroom at work. Because I don’t wear pantyhose.
I mean, if you’re gonna have a pair of granny panties, they might as well be hot pink.
So true! If I could keep myself from shrieking from embarrassment, then maybe nobody would even notice that I ran over my own foot and then a 4 ft Filipino woman with my Costco cart. She only HAD 2 feet, like me. Not 4.
Be thankful they were clean, too. *in a hushed voice* no skid marks!
I knew there was more going on in manhattan than Hoboken these days, but I didn’t know it was pregnant women flashing the parasite EXIT. Eeeek.
Just the mention of Rocco now has me picturing him Younicorn style all glowy with a horn traipsing down Lex checking out girls in skirts on grates.
Btw, suck it cancer, there’s a new sheriff in town. A boob sucking, poop exploding, parasitic sheriff.
Dancing up and down in my mind over the good news! Must do in my mind only because I’m in the office and wearing a sort of flouncy skirt which will expose my own panties and get all the 60 year old realtors almost as excited as making a sale and would be a violation of the sexual harrassment workshop (“What is Sexual Harrassment?”)we were all required to attend which was sort of funny because there should have been a workshop that preceeded it called “What is Sex?.”
WhooHoo! I’ve been doing my best to send positive energy and thoughts your way.
And Hahaha! I didn’t know that actually happened with the grates. You’d think someone could invent some anti/inverted suspenders for that. Hmm.. care for a business partner? 🙂
You are the buffalo I am the mammoth.
Anyway, never underestimate the versatility of granny panties. My Hanes Her Way super coverage undergarments once doubled as a makeshift sail on a yacht that had been demasted in an Atlantic storm!!
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