Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: amazon, clothing, fashion, jockey, Kohls, lingerie, Macys, Panties, shopping, Target, underwear, Victoria's Secret
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:
- You’re shopping for underwear at work;
- The underwear you’re shopping for is cotton granny panties; and
- 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.
Helpful Hints in Case This Happens to You:
- Don’t Google women’s underwear and think you’re going to not have creepy stuff come up on your screen
- Don’t get a dog that eats packages
- Don’t Google “missing underwear” – you’ll lose hours of your life reading weird articles
- Don’t click on random blog sites when Googling slang for underwear for your blog
- Don’t order your underwear at work (it’s frowned upon) – your IT guy might have something cheeky to say to you.
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, bra, clothing, Exercise, gym, health, humor, Middle-Age, sports, sports bras, sportswear, subourbonmom
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.
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.
Filed under: Middle Age, Spring Break | Tags: Atlantis Resort, Bahamas, clothing, Dancing, family, fashion, humor, Middle-Age, parenting, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel, Victoria's Secret
Ahhh…the human mating ritual, commonly known as Spring Break, has begun. For those high school seniors lucky enough to be able to flee the cold and go somewhere warm, bathing suits are agonized over, spray tans are purchased, and cheesy, I-think-this-is-what-grown-ups-wear-at-night-in-bars-clothing is packed.
I recently spent a week at the Atlantis Resort for my teenaged daughters’ Spring Break. While my kids are not even close to being eighteen and they weren’t eligible to drink, I saw many who were, and it made me realize one very, very important thing:
There is NO WAY my kids are going to a resort for Spring Break when they’re eighteen, at least not without my being there.
I also learned several other things:
- Spring Break at a beach resort is a Victoria’s Secret marketer’s Nirvana. Everywhere we looked during the day, there were bathing suits and cover-ups from the catalog, as well as the requisite Aviators and Ray Bans. At night, herds of 18-20 year-olds wandered through the casino wearing in-style shorty-shorts with super-high heeled wedges, looking like preschoolers playing dress-up. However, unlike the models in the catalogs, most of the teenage girls were not an emaciated 5’8”; they were pasty white (or white with red sunburn blotches), and lurched around like giraffes in those ridiculous shoes.
- I have no desire to wear anything from the Victoria’s Secret catalog ever again.
- I am proud of my ability to manage a buzz (after years of practice). In years past, I would have watched with perverse admiration as a guy upended a Grey Goose bottle and chugged away. This time, all I could think was, “Dude, you’re just gonna hurl on the next girl you dance with. Good luck with that.”
- I enjoy the fact that I can walk into a casino and out of it again without blowing a ton of money on the tables, or my dinner on the carpet.
- The amount of material that passes for a bikini these days could be purchased in the Band-Aid section of a pharmacy. Before we left, I spent some time outside the Target dressing rooms, waiting for my girls to find something we could agree on. I eventually buried my hypocrisy, realized there aren’t any bottoms that cover enough to make me happy, and choked back a “Hell no, you’re not going out like that!” I shouldn’t have worried. Compared to many of the girls I saw at the resort, my daughters and their friends looked like nuns.
- I have new appreciation for the tankini, especially when riding in a tube in the Lazy River. Those who are brave enough to wear a bikini top risk becoming the newest super hero: UnderBoob, as the top tends to ride up unexpectedly. There is also less risk of leaving a layer of sunburned skin on the tube when you’ve been in it for as while.
- Hip-hop music is addicting, no matter how old you are.
- Bourbon is a great lubricant for dancing–however, 40-year-old knees don’t bend as much as 20-year-old knees, and it IS possible to get stuck.
- I am not the cougar I thought I was. I used to say I wanted a guy with a 40-year-old brain in a 20-year-old body. But there’s a reason a 40-year-old brain is the way it is–we’ve learned all the things 20-year-olds are still toddling through, and it makes us more interesting. Ok, that was a load of crap. The truth is, any 40-year-old who has a 20-year-old’s body spends WAY too much time in the gym, and wouldn’t have any time left for me.
10. I don’t want to be eighteen again. Twenty-five? Now that I could do, at least for a weekend.
Filed under: Spring Break | Tags: Bahamas, clothing, family, humor, Middle-Age, mom, resorts, south, southern, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel
Spring Break at a resort in the Bahamas—what a great place to people-watch! And, like anywhere else, there are stereotypes galore. Here are a few I enjoyed watching as I sat by the pool, turning my skin into leather and racking up more dermatologist bills:
UnderBoob: The woman who wears her bikini top on the water rides, and unbeknownst to her, it rides up
Aqua-Velva Man: Sixty-year-old men who consistently try to pick up 20-year-olds in the casino
Flash More-Mom: Mom whose bathing suit is too small for her augmented breasts
SliderMan: The guy who slides his way in front of you at the bar and gets served first
Fatman & The Toy Wonder: The fat, Eurotrash guy who has a trophy wife/girlfriend on his arm; the toy is usually blond and significantly younger.
EnvironMan: The granola tree-hugger who walks around the resort in recycled flip-flops and a t-shirt that says “Save the (fill in the blank),” but drinks from a Styrofoam cup
Narrow: Named for the narrow strip of banana-hammock (man-thong) occasionally seen on European men, which only makes other men and women narrow their eyes to reduce the sight as much as possible, without looking openly grossed out.
Dumber Woman: Can be pretty or not, often has a high-pitched squeal of laughter, orders champagne because it’s the only drink she can remember, and wonders why other women avoid her like the plague
The Incredible Bulk: The fat, pasty-white guy/girl who sweats all over the lounge chairs by the pool, and leaves a film of sunscreen in the water
Octopus Prime: Club dancer whose hands roam so much it’s like there are eight of them
Selektra: The teenage girl who, like, must agonize over which, like, lounge chair to sit on, which, like sunscreen to use, and, like, which frozen drink to order;
Green Banter: The jealous men and women who viciously make comments about the others at the resort; when it’s not about you, it can be funny
Subourbon Mom 