Category Archives: observational humor

My Maiden Voyage in Girdle Top Pantyhose

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photo by Rob Thurman

photo by Rob Thurman

Must they be called that? Geez. I plucked a package from the display rack and quickly slid my thumb over the words Girdle Top, while hunching my shoulders around the cardboard package. The g-word made me cringe. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten myself in this position. It brought back a vision of my grandmother, a hardy, thick-waisted woman who expended considerable effort donning a girdle – the kind with dangling metal clips that attached to thigh-high nylons.

The fact of the matter was I needed a word like girdle. It was unapologetic and assertive. I had no time to waste on sugar-coated euphemisms. They’d just create doubt. I needed a guarantee.

I had three hours to lose twenty pounds. These pantyhose were my last hope.

I guessed on the size, made the purchase and ran to my car to get home. I had to dress fast and be back out the door in a hurry.

When I removed the pantyhose from the package, they cascaded to the floor. Then down the hall. They were at least 8 feet long−no exaggeration. The girdle part alone was 4 feet. A quick inspection of the package confirmed I’d bought the correct size and there was no sign of the word “irregular” anywhere. If I wasn’t late, and panicked that my dress wouldn’t fit, I’d have a real belly laugh over these. Clearly, they were designed for a bloated Yao Ming. Let me clarify, while they were extra-long, they were not wide−by any stretch. Even a good yank at the waistline had me perspiring with fear that I’d never get one leg in, let alone 2 legs (with thighs) and a stomach.

I sat down on the closed toilet seat and took a deep breath. This had to be done right the first time. Once these bad boys were on, I was pretty sure a pair of scissors would be the only way out.

Perplexed by the four foot-long girdle, I examined the back of the package which demonstrated a silhouette wearing them. The waistline was not at her waist at all; it stopped right beneath her breasts. Hmmm? Could that mean that all the unwanted rolls of flesh below my waistline would be pushed and squeezed up to my breasts? That’s freaking brilliant! I started to feel tingly with anticipation.

Of course, if that held true, these supernatural-nylons would need a new name, like tummy flattening-bust enhancing  hosiery? No, not zippy enough. I’d work on that later. Right now it was time to concentrate.

I won’t bore you with the details. There was a good deal of swearing, hopping, sweating, teetering and yanking. It was a blessed miracle that the girdle stretched enough to engulf my entire mid-section.

I thought I might like the new svelte me, but pain obscured any joy. I began to feel tingly again, now, lack of circulation. Even my breathing was hindered. Short breaths only.

No time to pity myself, I was on a tight clock. I’d even have to surrender to the sagging crotch−two inches below its intended position. Short strides for rest of the day.

I grabbed my dress off the bed and wiggled in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a spot on the back of my leg, in my knee pit. It was a small green splotch. Did I burst a blood vessel?!? No, it was a small boxwood leaf squashed against my leg. What the hell? No time for questions. I had to remove it. But not with a quick slip of the hand down the back, because there was no room! My hand, literally, could not weasel into the tight grip of the girdle! I had to lower the damn thing all the way to the knees to get that leaf out. This brought the crotch down even lower. Too bad. Had to go.

I arrived at the restaurant and eased my way out of the car.

Short steps, short breaths, flat stomach, full breasts.

I walked up the path to the door, and noticed the faint smell of newly cut grass. I pinched my nose to ward off what I feared was imminent. Too late. Robust sneezes came fast and furious. The waistband was no match for the third sneeze; it curled in submission. The laws of gravity and physics assisted the curling momentum until my ample tummy sprang from its constraints and rippled over the top. It was free.

I took my first deep breath in an hour. Nonplussed, I continued to inch my way to the door.

Short steps, deep breaths, fat stomach, flat breasts.

My Six Days on Broadway: Crossed by a Golightly Cat

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photo by psyberartist

photo by psyberartist

I really needed the work, otherwise, trust me, I wouldn’t have taken a job as a personal assistant to a cat. Not even if it’s starring in Breakfast at Tiffany’s on Broadway.

First of all, I’m deathly allergic−within twenty minutes of being around a cat, my eyelids will look like cheese doodles. I’m teary, puffy and itchy for the rest of the day. Secondly, I’ve never been a personal assistant to anyone, unless you count my kids. But I must say, when I got the call, I was elated. Yes! A job! A personal assistant for a Broadway star (sort of) how bad could it be? At least I wouldn’t hear whining, bossy, rude condescending remarks, from a cat! Right!?!

Within my first six days on the job I was placed on probation four times. I was told three strikes and you’re out, but, lucky me. Someone from Stage Paws (the casting company that sent all the Holly Golightly-cat-wannabes) told me, none of Ms. DeBórah’s former personal assistants have ever lasted more than a day. Oh, I didn’t tell you her name. Ms. DeBórah. Do me a favor. Please, please, pronounce this cat’s name with three syllables, emphasis on the second. Do not, for the love of God, pronounce it with two syllables, the second of which being a woman’s undergarment. Probation #1: I allowed her to be called De-bra by a stage hand and didn’t have him corrected or put on probation.

As her personal assistant, one of my responsibilities was to stock her dressing room with her favorite foods, special treats, flattering photos of herself, an ipod filled with her meditative music, and the only kitty litter she’ll pee on, the one that smells like wet dog, (imported from France).

Probation #2: The gluten-free red snapper cat food, (the one thing her restricted diet allows) which was made by someone I found in Chinatown, was actually tilapia. Ms. DeBórah turned her pink cleft cat nose in the air, and refused to eat it. The next day her handler swatted me with the NY Times article that cited red snapper as the #1 intentionally mislabeled fish in the food industry. How stupid could I be? The poor Cat nearly starved Herself to death.

During rehearsals, Ms. DeBórah’s handler waited in the wings with a pouch of treats to reward her with after she properly executed her cues. I was told to fill a gold velvet pouch with her favorite treat, dog bones. Listen, I don’t question these things, nor should you. So I commissioned the preparation of the most exclusive, gluten-free Camembert dog bones I could find and gave them to the handler before the first rehearsal. Probation #3: Ms. DeBórah’s favorite treats are dog bones. Not the bones that dogs eat, the bones of dogs.

On the first day of previews I got Probation #4 and was fired. Ms. DeBórah’s call time was 6 o’clock. Giving her two hours for hair and makeup and meditation/visualization. But by 7:13 she was still nowhere to be found. The friendly stage manager pounded on the dressing room door every ten minutes. I called her handler several times. No pick up. Then finally my cell rang. Miss DeBórah was at the vet. She was diagnosed with an incapacitating urinary tract infection from “holding it in.” Probation #4: Ms. DeBórah does not pee in her litter box unless the box is hidden away from public view. Because it sat in the middle of her dressing room, when she “had to go” she crossed her legs and “held it in.”

Sadly, Ms. DeBórah was fired that day, too. The show went on with the understudy.  Unfortunately for Ms. DeBórah, no one told her there’s no room for modesty in the theater, no matter how fine your pedigree.

Fashion Designers Microbe-Manage NY Fashion Week

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photo by Swamibu

photo by Swamibu

It’s hard to believe, but the same folks who’ve instigated fashion induced bunions, sciatica, sprained ankles, deep vein thrombosis, acid reflux, yeast infections and constipation, have concocted ways to avert colds and flu during NY Fashion Week crunch time.

The fashion industry might’ve been in typical panic mode, but this year the 2013 Fall Collections were smack in the not-so-flat belly of the most serious flu epidemic in history. While designers oversaw the final stitches and selections, models were dropping like busty mannequins due to influenza. This prompted a handful of clever designers to nix the bug with their own personal brand of achoo-voodoo.

Side note: to protect my sources, names will not be disclosed.

If you saw Designer #1’s show, you’d swear you had lied your way into the Cirque Du Soliel tent by mistake. Don’t let the nymphes vertes fool you; it was actually the debut NY show of one notable European designer, who winked to his newcomer status by dipping his models in green from head to toe. While some think he procured tubs of Smash Box Fern, I’m here to report otherwise. This clever designer discovered (by way of his Alsatian great-grandmother) that Absinthe’s stiletto-high alcohol content kills cold and flu germs on contact. Mix a little Absinthe with the adhesive used for fly strips, paint this concoction on the limbs of models and voila! You’ve got yourself a human germ trap. Bravo Designer #1!

What if models are already sniffly? Ask Designer #2 and she’d say: voluminous sleeves. Where else they gonna tuck those tissues? (#obvi.) While traveling for inspiration for her upcoming line, in the Uttar Pradesh region of India, this designer went mad over the abundance of peppermint and menthol, specifically for its varied medicinal benefits. She couldn’t get her hands on enough menthol crystals to bring home to NY. (Unfortunately, since the airline allowed only one carry-on, her supply didn’t last long once metro-side.) Sadly, the folks at Duane Reade are unfamiliar with menthol crystals, so Vicks Vapor Rub will have to do. A bit fortuitous, as she resourcefully discovered when creating the makeup look for her runway models. Unable to locate a tube of M.A.C. Lipglass, she insisted the makeup artist try Vicks Vapor Rub swiped across lips. Not only did it create ice-like shine, it doubled as a super intense nasal decongestant! No cold’s gonna stop her show. #boom. Hey, all you sneezy ladies, Gesundheit!

You may have read about the fashionistas’ current obsession with hand sanitizer (as pedestrian as that might sound). One accessories designer, #3, inspired by her #sociallyacceptableaddiction, commissioned a master Murano glassblower to create vibrant-chic amulets filled with this bacterium-buster, strung on satin cord making it exceedingly wearable. I’m told that when these mesmerizing trinkets caught the light of the cameras’ flash on the runway they became dangerously hypnotic. (#oops.)

To ward off flu juju, Designer #4, the Woody Allen of the fashion cosmos, doled out a daily dose of schmaltz to his staff and models. It’s not exactly clear who makes the huge vats of this thick gelatinous rendered poultry fat and bottles it for the office, but swirling rumors point to his mother. The secret to “her” schmaltz is the minced cloves of raw garlic that go into every shot glass (served with a spoon). The fact that so many models scramble to work for Designer #4, even in the midst of cold season, is a testament to their love and respect for this fashion genius (#mamasboy). Anyway, some of the girls say it’s not too bad after a couple Gailoises. (How ‘bout a shot of Schnapps? I’m just saying.)

Designer #5, of all things haute couture, has always preferred the bold, pull no punches approach and chose to send her models down the runway wearing white paper surgical masks. À la Michael Jackson. Her supporters say it was fashionably irreverent and shouted “I like me!” Others say it was infinitely more modern than last season when her models walked with their head’s stuck out of toilet seats.

There you have it! NY Fashion Week in all its chafed-nose gloriousness! If you found yourself getting caught up in the fever, shivering with excitement and aching for more, call your doctor, you sound terrible. (#purellanyone.)

 

Got Multiples? Baby Names for a Brood

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red baby names 007

Practically every time I turn on the computer, I see this headline: “Hottest Baby Names for 2013.” I could’ve used that fourteen years ago when I was pregnant with my first. I knew for nine whole months that a baby would be coming at the end of it, sufficient enough time to figure out a potential girl name and a potential boy name. I blew it. I was on my way to the hospital for a scheduled c-section and I had nothin’.  Well, that’s not entirely true. I had three baby name books packed in my hospital overnight bag. The c-section gave me two extra nights and two extra days in the hospital to pour over the books. Still nothin’. As it turns out, you’re not permitted to leave the hospital with an un-named newborn. Found out the hard way. They wheeled us back from the elevator.

This would seem odd for a person who writes fiction. Many characters in many of my stories have needed names. And none of them have gone nameless. So why the trouble with my own kids? George Foreman also buckled under the pressure and ended up calling 5 of his 10 kids the same exact thing: George Edward Foreman.

I started thinking. What family had the most kids? What did they do? We’re all familiar with Kate’s 8, Octomom’s 14, and the Duggar’s 19. But when I dug a little deeper I discovered the most kids born to one family was 69! I nearly stopped breathing. 69 kids? From one womb? Are you pulling my fallopian tubes? From a total of 27 pregnancies, this woman gave birth to 16 sets of twins, 7 sets of triplets, 4 sets of quadruplets. She lived the better part of her life in a hormonal cloud with no waistline.

Let’s put aside the cooking, cleaning, diapers, terrible two’s, (x 69 = 138?) teething, nursing, sleepless nights, whining that “he won’t give me the remote!” Oh, actually, I should point out that this family lived in the 18th century, so that thing about the remote probably didn’t happen. It was more like, “He won’t let me play with the stick!” Regardless, how the heck did she name 69 kids?!?

I have a theory. After she had ten or so kids, she decided to just number them. Genius, right? “Hey, 14, you give 27-32 a bath tonight.” Like that. Not to say that was easy. Please, I couldn’t even remember my high school locker combination. And that was only 3 numbers! (Still causes nightmares.) I’m sure there were days when she mixed up 34 with 43. (Especially since both were redheads.)

Legend has it she provided the world with more than just a mass of descendants able to fill Yankee Stadium. One day, 57 came home from school and sat on the floor to untie his shoe laces. His mother said, “57, why are you taking your shoes off? You get to keep them until tomorrow morning, when you give them to 45 so she can walk to school.”

57 said, “Mama, I have to do my math homework and I need my toes.”

“Toes? Why do you think I had all you kids? Use your brothers and sisters to count for 8’s sake!” And hence the human abacus was born, an elaborate counting system using all 69 kids lined up in the back yard. Ten rows of six kids and one row of nine. This classic counting apparatus was later fabricated out of pebbles and wood. Many years later it was sold to Texas Instruments for a boatload of money. Unfortunately she didn’t live to see that happen.

What was her name, you ask? That’s the irony of the story. All of the history books refer to this Russian woman as the wife of Feodor Vassilyev. She had no name of her own. I’m sure that’s because in her husband’s eyes, she was always #1.