In which you learn too much about my nethers

When my underwear had no elastic, I knew it was gonna be a stupid day.

I was late, for a change. Freezing in our laundry room, which is basically a back porch with windows on it, I put on the first pair of underwear that I pulled from the Vesuvius pile on the dryer.

"Why isn't the right side, you know, hanging on?" I wondered. It was just kind of flapping at my side. In the breeze. For a brief, shining moment, I thought maybe I had lost weight. But really, the elastic had just frizzled out of that side, rendering it sort of helpless. It was kind of like my underwear had had a stroke.

I put them on anyway. It was 8:01 and I am supposed to BE at work at 8:00.

Dashing out the door, I flumped my coffee cup onto the space between the car seats. Do not ask me why I decided to pull the emergency brake once I parked at work. Do not ask me the expletives I came up with as the coffee cup shot up and spewed coffee all over the car.

Running and trying to subtly push my flippy undergarment to its rightful place, I did notice that we have a bird's nest in one of our trees at the church. Those of you who read my blog last year know how I get about bird nests. I am so pitching a tent, so to speak, under that tree. There was ONE bright spot today.

Once inside, it didn't take long before my elastic-free pants decided to revisit all the old familiar places, so crankily I headed to the bathroom to revamp myself.

The single toilet in the women's room was hissing and carrying on, so with my fine mechanical abilities, I took the lid off the tank and jiggled everything. You will be surprised to hear this did not result in, well, anything, so I called the repairman.

How long do you think it took me between realizing the one toilet was broken and feeling like I absolutely, with an intensity unbeknownst to me in this life, had to use the facilities? It took about seven seconds, that's how long.

Now, there is a men's toilet. And I do not know why I am Prissy Fusspants of Squeamytown, but I simply could not make myself go in there, no matter how miserable I had made myself at this point. I kept saying, "June, this is psychological. You do not really have to go. Soon the repairman will be here and you can piddle to your heart's content. Now, go to work."

Well. Ten minutes of alternating between pulling at my underpants and dancing around — it was less the macarena and more the Make-A-Rain-A — I left a huge sign on the church door: WENT HOME TO PEE. PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE. BE RIGHT BACK.

I can assure you that everybody in town read the sign and simultaneously envisioned me on the pot.

And what a sight I was when I got home, coat flapping behind me, spike heels clacking on my stone walk. It was like I was a racing greyhound, but there was a toilet in front of me instead of a bunny.

When I got back to work, I realized that I had run so fast that I have thrown out my back. I do not know how bad it is gonna get.

It is noon, folks. Noon. My back's broke, my bladder has exploded, and my underwear is addicted to crack.

This day has become a country song. It is a stupid day.

Food, glorious food

Happy Presidents Day! And no, officially there is no apostrophe in this day. We went through this last year, folks. It SHOULD have an apostrophe, but on official government and calendar websites, there is none. So I have to stick with the incorrectness of it. Oh, the humanity.

So, I gained 2.9 pounds. But who's counting? I am sure it had nothing to do with my father's visit and the friend chicken, the nachos, the lasagna I made (my one dish I serve guests), the Mexican food at the party Saturday and the pizza and seven thousand pistachios I ate last night.

Where did all the weight come from? Hmmm.

But I am not too discouraged. I did my 2.5-mile run yesterday, and it went fine. I watched Winston stalk a fluffy gray cat who looked a lot like my dead cat Mr. Horkheimer. Except for the part that had it been the real Mr. Horkheimer, Winston's riby arse would have ended up in a sling. He did not take to cats stalking him, nor any other indignities, really. THIS fluffy cat was perfectly benign, and there was no cat drama. At least it gave me something to do on the treadmill.

I know I said I was gonna run on the street, but I didn't get started till 5:00, as I worked all day, and I didn't want to run in the dark, in the mean streets of TinyTown.

So, I'm back on my Weight Watcher's horse, although tonight we have a dinner party to go to.  I will just try to be careful, is all.

Have a capitol day! Get it? Presidents Day? Watch The Jeffersons! Go to Washington! Visit Marilyn MONROE's grave. Do a lot of Lincoln to other sites. Don't go Nixon a lot of ideas.

Somebody stop me. Somebody stop me for four more years.

You’re once. Twice. Three times a lady finger dessert.

Well, that wasn't SO bad. I am, however, only on the first step. I made the dern thing. Now it has to chill overnight. Then I have to dump it upside-down on that serving platter we've heard so much about.

Here are the ingredients, minus the lady fingers, which were inexplicably on the piano in the living room. Maybe they were trying to play piano. Cause they're fingers. Get it? BAH!

This is just like I'm writing the Posy Gets Cozy blog, except for the part where she actually knows what she's doing, and all her pictures are really pretty, and there isn't chocolate splattered all over her stove top. Also, she probably doesn't use an electric, almond-colored stove from 1978. Nevertheless, won't you enjoy how I am making nonflavored gelatin and also melting chocolate in TWO saucepans? I own TWO saucepans now!

I had to put lady fingers all around my NEW souffle dish, because I did not know such a thing as souffle dishes existed yesterday at this time, but first I had to line the dish with plastic wrap. All I had was violet-colored plastic wrap, and I am desperately hoping it doesn't dye my ladies pink overnight.

Turns out? I actually own a sifter. Marvin's grandmother sent it to me. She probably thought I was over here daily, whipping up delightful meals for her only grandson. I am glad she lived thousands of miles away and never found out what a scandalous wife I am.

Anyway, I was excited to use the sifter, but I discovered ancient walnuts stuck in the bottom. I think I was trying to grind walnuts once. I mean, I hope that's why they're down there. I took the powdered sugar and shook it through a strainer. THAT took forever.

But you know what really took forever? Taking the whipping cream and waiting for peaks to form. I was piqued, but I was seeing no peaks.

After whipping and swearing and mewling and cursing and calling my mother at work, the stupid stuff looked fairly peak-y, so I said screw it and added the chocolate.

(Until I put these pictures up, I never noticed how much that wall and clock need to be washed.)

Now this mixture is covered and in my fridge for the night. Please, God, please let it turn out okay tomorrow.

Now, this is why non-pet people do not want to eat at pet people's houses. Oh, relax. My cats do not like dairy. I knew they wouldn't really lick the beater. I just did that to freak you out.

They won't eat the leftover lady fingers, either. Maybe Marvin will.

Who cracks herself up?

Lady Fingers

I had lived here two months when I was asked to be a member of the Garden Club. It was the first real invitation I had gotten here that was non-teacher-related, and of course any teacher-related invites were more for Marvin Gardensalad — I was just the trophy wife.

(Whoo! What a trophy. What'd you do, win Most Improved Paper Clip Unfurler? [That was the least exciting thing I could think of. I am exhausted; sue me. You'll see why in a minute.])

The Garden Club was established in my town in 1939. Every month, the members meet and create something foliage-y for the community. One time we planted flowers all around the city — in front of the library, the  historical museum, the court house. One other time, we made Christmas arrangements for people in hospice.

It quickly became evident that I was nowhere near good enough of a human being to be in Garden Club. In the first place, these are true Southern women — genteel, polite, beautiful, well-groomed. I am from the Midwest and I use the "F" word 748 times a day. I have not one, but two tattoos. I can stick my entire fist in my mouth. I doubt any of these women have even tried to see if they could.

Plus, these are actual women. Women who cook, create, plant, and probably even clean. I do none of these things. You need someone who can stick their fist in their mouth? I'm your gal. You want something lovely and womanly? Try Janet Reno. She is WAY more girly than I am.

So, this month, we are having a luncheon with another Garden Club. I do not know if we will rumble for our turf. I am kind of doubting it.

At any rate, one of my fellow members asked if I'd make a dessert for said affair. The dessert was already picked out, it involved lady fingers, and it was "easy." That is what my fellow Garden Club member told me. "Easy." That was the word she used.

"Well, okay, " I said, wanting to be liked at Garden Club. "I don't really know how to, you know, cook, though."

"No, no, you'll have no problem," said the genteel Garden Club member, who as I recall made a stunning hospice arrangement in December. Who made to-die-for truffles at her last party. Whose house looks like a page from Better Southern Homes Than You'll Ever Have & Also Gardens That Are Perfect magazine.

You guys. Yesterday she brought me the lady fingers, and also the recipe. The recipe is this:

I am NOT exaggerating for dramatic effect. THIS IS THE DESSERT I AM SUPPOSED TO WHIP UP! The "EASY" DESSERT!

I have never even made instant pudding for dessert! And I am supposed to create this beribboned thing?!?!

I am beginning to think this is some sort of hazing ritual, and when I come in with sunken lady fingers, crying, they will all say, "Ahhh-hahhh! Fooled you! Welcome to Garden Club!"

Oh, I hope so.

I went to evil Wal-Mart just now to get the ingredients. Did you know there is a milk product called "whipping cream"? It is not Cool Whip. It is like some kind of cream. Also? There is something called unflavored gelatin. Why would you want Jello that has no flavor? Do I know?

Oh! Oh! And get this! I have to SIFT powdered sugar. I didn't even know they still MADE powdered sugar, and why do you have to sift it? What do I sift it with? An hourglass?

Also, I had to purchase a souffle bowl, because the recipe just assumes you have one lying around.

And the final hurrah, the thing that sent Marvin and me into hysterics, was that you serve it on a "serving platter." A SERVING PLATTER. I said, "What does THAT mean?" Marvin said, "A platter that you serve food on, maybe?" We really don't know. We bought some flat silver thing and we are hoping for the best.

This thing has to be made tomorrow night. And I can't even EAT any of it, because it has 75 billion Weight Watcher's points!

I am so, SO getting kicked out of Garden Club.