Subourbon Mom


Spongebob Nudiepants at the Gym
May 30, 2018, 6:00 pm
Filed under: Exercise, Misc. Humor, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Warning – this one is completely tasteless….read at your own risk…

I recently had a lengthy debate with some girlfriends over whether women should “vent the furnace” or wear underwear at night.

For those who said yes, that sleeping without underwear was their preference, the most common reason was because a long time ago, their mothers had said it was healthier.  My mom never said that, so I’m perfectly happy to be wrapped up like a Puritan every night.  Maybe the fact that I’m not going “nonederwear” explains why I have so many hot flashes at night – all that heat must have to go somewhere.

But apparently the idea that it is healthier to go without underwear is the same for whether or not people wear underwear with their exercise shorts that have the lining in them.  It seems that I am the only person in the universe that doesn’t go spongebob nudiepants at the gym.  But I have reasons:

  1. I’ve seen the sweat puddles in the exercise machine seats, and I don’t care how many wipes you use, once you see it you can’t get it out of your mind. I don’t want my stuff lathered up in someone else’s body butter.
  2. Men should double bag because no one wants to see the mouse get out of the house when it’s time to stretch. Women should do the same thing, because, let’s face it, sometimes a little landscaping might be amiss, and nobody wants that distraction either.
  3. And finally, I have a (completely unfounded) fear of Cooter Stank. I’m not the only one – have you seen the multitudes of products out there to prevent it?  And, weirdly, I’m not worried about it the rest of the time – I only freak out about it at the gym.  Even that doesn’t make sense because, let’s face it, morning workouts in the gym can be overwhelming to the olfactory senses.  Every day in the gym, no matter which gym you go to, it seems like there’s Man Who Ate Garlic Last Night, The Coffee Breather, and Please Use Deodorant As A Courtesy To The Rest Of Us Guy.

So, here’s an actual conversation in our house about wearing underwear under your shorts at the gym:

D1:  “Mom, you wear underwear to the gym?”
Me:  “Yep.”
D1:  “Why?”
Me:  “I’m afraid it will smell.”
D1:  “What will?”
Me:  “The Cooter.”
D1:  “Wait…what? Who calls it that?”
Me:  “Me.”
D1:  “I know somebody who has an ‘I Love Cooter’ magnet on their fridge.”
Me:  “You know that’s a political magnet, right?”
D1:  (Eye Roll) “Yes, I know, Mom.  I get the joke. But seriously, you know everybody in the gym smells bad, right?”
Me:  “I know, I just can’t help it.”
D1:  “You’re weird.”
Me:  (In my head – “You’re half me…” – secret smile)

I_Love_Heart_Cooter_Rectangle_Magnet_300x300



Hit On By A Woman

I’d rather be hit on by a woman than by a man.

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Let’s face it – a lot of women, when it comes to the fashion choices of their peers, are judgy sometimes downright bitchy.

Yep, I went there.

Maybe men are too – I just don’t know enough about that species, even after living with one for decades, to make that call. (I have my suspicions, but I figure this post will irritate enough people in one go.)

You can go ahead and get uncomfortable and deny that you and your friends are like that, and that it’s a sexist thing to say.  But I’ll bet you’re denying it while wearing some kind of socially acceptable clothing that isn’t made strictly for comfort. If you’re naked or wearing a onsie, I apologize for lumping you into this ridiculous generalization and salute you.

Now, if you’re out hunting in your local bar and your Cha Cha is hanging out there for all to see, then by all means, get those kudos from the guys – you probably don’t give a crap what other women are thinking anyway. Fist bump for setting a goal and going after it.

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But let’s be honest – most of you have been out with your friends at one time or another and some girl walked by looking slutty, overdressed, underdressed, dressed too young/too old or just too different.  Take your pick. And, someone in your group shook her head, pursed her lips, and said something mean about that girl behind her hand. If you’re in the South, she might even say something backhanded, like, “It must be nice to have enough confidence to go without a bra after nursing four kids.” So yeah, mean and bitchy. (I have no doubt there are men who do this too, and women who don’t – but if I talked about them, this wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.)

Don’t get me wrong, I like having men hit on me, too. It’s good to know that if all the rules in the world, my ethics and my love for Hubby were different, I could get a piece of that – it’s a powerful feeling. And having Hubby hit on me after 25 years of marriage is super-gratifying – I mean the man has seen me throwing up and giving birth to two kids.  There’s not a lot of glamour left.  Having a woman hit on me simply carries a different kind of weight – the same way someone telling you your dog is cute at the dog park might not be as satisfying as having an American Kennel Club judge tell you your dog could win the next championship. There’s a level of knowledge that makes the compliment mean more.

Sooo… another woman is going to get what went in to making all this awesomeness happen:

  • the hair products to make your locks smooth/curly/shiny/smelling good and every color of the hair rainbow
  • the blow-drying/straightening/curling so it looks like you didn’t blow dry/straighten/curl it
  • the makeup that’s just the right amount so it hides your flaws but doesn’t make you look like a ’ho
  • the clothes that say you’re not on the pole, but that still show off all the good parts (which by the way, aren’t necessarily the same for men and women)
  • the lengths you go through to not show panty lines – which leads to:
    • no underwear at all, a la Britney Spears back in the day (Millennials, think Kim Kardashian);
    • an uncomfortable thong that shows off all the cellulite; or
    • Spanx, which pushes all the fat into one place and looks like your grandma’s undies

images-3My guess is most men don’t really want to know how we Goddesses of Love and Lycra got this way. I love bologna, but I don’t want to know what it’s made of or how it got into those perfect, round slices of deliciousness. That’s what dating is for – to get beyond the packaging and, if you’re in your 40’s and lucky, the ingredients will be better than what’s in bologna.

Sadly, women don’t often openly and positively comment on other women, especially ones they don’t know.  Shame on us.  And, more often than not, it seems to me that women dress for other women, not for men – and it’s because we’re scared.

So the next time you’re out, no matter who you’re with or whether you know the person or not, send a genuine compliment out there – we are most critical of ourselves, and you never know what kind of day or week someone has had. Putting on a clean shirt or a bra may have been the best they could do that day.  Saying “Hey, I like your shirt” or “Your hair looks good today,” or even better, “I think you’re funny/kind/smart,” may make someone’s day in a way you never expected.

 

 

 

 



Did You Find Your Underwear?

Ummm…yeah…that was a question somebody asked me at work.

Lately I’ve had a few cringe-worthy moments, but the worst was a couple of weeks ago in the cube farm as I tried in vain to figure out why the underwear I had ordered from Amazon was apparently in shipping’s no-man’s land.

Wait, you ask… You ordered your underwear from Amazon?

That’s right bitches, I had to order my undies from Amazon because my regular suppliers apparently don’t carry it anymore.  And no, I wasn’t trying to buy any Victoria’s Secret lacy, scratchy-but-so-sexy-he-likes-it-so-I-guess -I’ll-get floss. I just wanted to get my fave jockey string bikinis, a.k.a. my Granny Panties, and Target, Kohls and Macy’s failed me.  I’m now down to 4 pairs, and each one has bare elastic at the waistband (bad enough that it’s actually irritating my skin). Even Daughter #2 recently threw a pair away while I was at work and sent me this text:

So, I finally gave in and ordered them from Amazon.

At my desk.

At work.

Let me tell you, it’s pretty embarrassing when:

  1.  You’re shopping for underwear at work;
  2.  The underwear you’re shopping for is cotton granny panties; and
  3.  Your co-workers happily stop by to chat and gleefully discover what kind of underwear you wear before you can clear your screen.

But that was just the beginning.  After seeing what was on the screen, co-worker Stacie asked, “Do you think maybe they didn’t send it because you’re not an 80-year-old woman?”

After I finally finished trying to justify why I was ordering underwear at work and why I like my comfy cotton Granny Panties instead of something sexier, I placed the order.  Of course, it has to be delivered to the office because Holly, the most expensive “free” dog in the world, has now destroyed over $700 worth of merchandise delivered to our house, including two prom dresses (see previous blog).

The package was due to arrive at the end of June. By the middle of July, no underwear in sight.

Between UPS, Amazon and Jockey, no one seemed able to find it. I had to figure out how to stalk Jockey (the seller), which required asking my cube neighbor Lacy for help. Then Hubby walked up (he works in the same office – no judging, please), followed by another co-worker Stacie, all of whom were very interested in the status of my underwear order.  So, there we were, all staring at the Amazon page displaying my pink and white Granny Panties as we tried to figure out the best way to find the package and get free stuff from Amazon.

Hubby, God Bless that man, didn’t even bother trying to persuade anyone that I wear other underwear (I do on special occasions).

I finally got my panties in a wad (c’mon, you knew I had to go there) and called Jockey, who of course didn’t have any record of receiving the order from Amazon.  So, I called Amazon.  All I can say is thank God it was a girl who answered.  Humiliation is having to clarify what the order was for to someone who clearly had never worn Granny Panties in her whole 20-year-old life; and then have her exclaim, “Oh, well at least the vendor was Jockey and not some random dude.”   Yeah sweetie – that’s where I’d choose to order my underwear from – some “random dude” on the internet.

In the end, I re-ordered, and after 4 weeks, I finally got my undies delivered (right to my desk).  Note the appalled look on the screen saver guy.

Undies1

Helpful Hints in Case This Happens to You:

  1. Don’t Google women’s underwear and think you’re going to not have creepy stuff come up on your screen
  2. Don’t get a dog that eats packages
  3. Don’t Google “missing underwear” – you’ll lose hours of your life reading weird articles
  4. Don’t click on random blog sites when Googling slang for underwear for your blog
  5. Don’t order your underwear at work (it’s frowned upon) – your IT guy might have something cheeky to say to you.

 

 

 



Sport Bra Removal – The Struggle is Real

sports bra 2

As I continue my journey back to moderate fitness so I can flail around in an inner tube all summer with my cup of bourbon, I have come to the realization that my old school sports bras are holding me back – not up.

Everyone moans and groans about the hardships of exercising – the exhaustion, frustration, injuries and limited food choices, but women don’t usually address one of the most difficult post-exercise struggles that many of us face:

Removing that sweaty sports bra.

Let me begin by explaining that I’ve had my four sports bras for at least 5 years, which is longer than I’ve stuck with most t.v. shows and celebrity crushes. And I’m told it’s probably not a good thing – they are designed to keep The Girls contained, and to prevent the pain of all the independent jumping about they like to do. I’m pretty sure at this point those old sports bras are not doing much more for me than keeping everyone from realizing it takes me at least 15 minutes to warm up when the gym thermostat is set to “arctic.”

Oh they’re comfortable enough, like my fave pair of sweat pants – soft and stretchy. But they also have that irritating habit of turning into a boa constrictor-like leviathan I can’t remove once I’m done punishing myself for eating that entire pan of Rice Krispie treats.

And if you’re changing in a gym locker room, it’s even worse – there are witnesses to the absurdity that happens after every workout.

After every session I try to let myself cool down as much as possible before turning myself into a pretzel in order to get that stretchy monkey off my back. It never works, but I do have a system:

Step 1: Try in vain to pull the sports bra over my head by grasping the sides, like you would a t-shirt.

Step 2: Succeed in twisting the bra into a tourniquet, where it becomes stuck, wrapped around my upper chest like my own hand-made mammogram.

Sports bra removal1

Step 3:  Proceed to thank God for my inhaler that allows me to breathe during this most difficult part of my workout.

Step 4: Bend over at the waist and scrabble at the back of the sports bra with two hands to try and pull the damn thing off.

Step 5:  Curse my stiff shoulders and vow to do more stretching.

Step 6: Get one arm out, accidentally getting a whiff of my armpit and the nasty, sweaty bra at the same time.

Step 7:  Gag.

Step 8: Pull bra over my head while exhaling and fling it across the room in victory.

Step 9: Swear (again) that I will splurge and actually buy a quality, zip-shut sports bra.

I can’t even imagine what it must be like for my friends who are more…buxom, and have to “double bag” The Girls every time they work out. Taking off two of these Lycra straightjackets would be enough to make me give up on the whole exercise thing together.

In case these struggles are preventing you from exercising, don’t worry – they make snap- and zip-front sports bras, an sexy ones, too.  Apparently this is not a new phenomenon – others had these struggles as well, and shopped for sports bras more recently than 2005. But until I can get to the store, I’ll push (or pull) on, trusting that I’m building triceps every time I get undressed after a workout.

Front close sports bra



Air Travel: Ear Rape and Flip Flops
April 11, 2013, 11:40 am
Filed under: Misc. Humor | Tags: , , , , , , ,

This past weekend I took a trip to Chicago to see an old friend.  On the way, I spent a bit of time in airports, and decided that I will never completely leave the southern, small-town girl behind. No matter what airport I’m in, I always expect to see someone I know, even though that would have the same odds as me liking Skinny Girl drinks—ain’t gonna happen. It’s all I can do to not wave to people and say “Hi y’all!” when I get to my gate.

As I was waiting for a flight, I found an empty seat between two women, one of whom was a Soccer Mom talking into her earpiece. (Really? An ear piece? We know you’re not on business because you’re in your Mom Jeans and have a backpack. You’re not fooling anyone.) I soon discovered why there was an empty seat—for half an hour I listened to Soccer Mom recycle the same conversation to six different people. I know more about her new, red marble countertops and the creepy stain in the pod she rented then anyone should. I also know that she didn’t want to move but her husband said they had too, and she didn’t know how she was going to survive—after all the house was just “a horror!”

Please.

It was secondary ear rape (my apologies to anyone who has been actually ear raped—it should never be joked about). Like secondary smoke, I got all the pollution but none of the buzz.

So, I put in my own headphones and turned up the tunes and started people-watching. I miss people dressing up when they travel. High school girls schlepped around in flip flops, cut-off Daisy Dukes and sweatshirts, looking hung over. Everyone else wore dark jeans or pants, black jackets or navy t-shirts—not a bright color in sight. I also didn’t realize that most men seem to have stopped shaving every day—even business travelers. I’m guessing they’re trying to achieve that scruffy, laid-back lumberjack look, but I hate to tell you guys, it doesn’t work if you don’t trim it around your jaw. When you just let it grow, you look homeless.  There were even women waddling down the aisles in huge t-shirts and leggings.

C’mon, people, it’s not Wal-mart. Put in a little effort.

But the best thing I realized was that taking off in a plane is my favorite part of flying. Soaring into the air, watching the lights get smaller and the cars turn into fireflies in the distance–it makes you realize life’s everyday worries and fears are equally small, at least for the duration of your flight.

So the next time you fly, tune out the noise, put away the Xanax, and look out the window—and just maybe, you might decide to give in to that southern urge and say “Bye, y’all,” when you exit the plane.




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