Today's appointment


Happens every year. I know it does. Doesn't mean I have to like it. Or go willingly. Kicking and screaming and grabbing hold of door jams and holding on for dear life, I wandered to my yearly appointment. For the first time in I don't know how many years, I actually arrived on time to the appointment.

I was doing fine in the appointment, explaining that no, I was happy with not having kids, but, no, I wasn't going to start using birth control because, well, let's face it, if I'm not pregnant by now, I'm not getting pregnant without some serious divine intervention, and I'm pretty sure whatever deity there may be, She really doesn't care about about my fertility one minor iota. Or one micro iota. Really.

At the end of the appointment, after all the parts that I should have been embarrassed about, after the breast massage for lumps, after the scootch to the bottom of the table with my feet way up, the blinding lights warming up my nether regions, after the moments of having someone not my husband looking not only down there, but in there, too, after all of these should be, but really weren't, embarrassing moments, the doctor told me she was done and I could get dressed.

I hopped off the table, and started dressing, still talking to her when I noticed her eyes flick down and back up quickly. My eyes followed her quick look down, and I realized I was wearing perhaps my most rattiest, thread worn pair of underwear I owned. One of the very, very few which had escaped the wrath of doggie teeth.

And, at that moment, I was finally embarrassed.

Underwear, the continuing saga


Sometime last month, Kris came up to me and asked me, "Are those Heather's clothes in our room?"

I had just moved the basket of Heather's clothes from our room to her room, maybe an hour or so before, so answered, "No, I already moved them."

He was insistent, however, and asked me to look at the clothes. Fine, I'll go look at the clothes. I already put them away, why do I have to look at the clothes again? I stomped into our bedroom.

To find Heather's pajamas, and a pair of underwear all chewed up.


The underwear explained the bumping noises I heard earlier near her door: they were Bella rooting through her clothes basket.


So, I went over to Heather's door, and knocked on it. After she answered, I tried to explain through the door that, well, Bella really likes the taste of women's dirty underwear, and, well, could she please keep her bedroom door closed so that Kris' dog didn't eat all of her underwear?

She couldn't undertsand me through the door, and yelled, "What?"

At which point, Kris burst into laughter at the awkwardness of my delivery. Hi, my dog likes dirty underwear, but only girl underwear. How's that for an ice breaker at parks?

I opened the door and was barely able to explain everything; Kris' laughter making me laugh, too. Heather laughed, too, and, okay, dumb dog.

This weekend, we washed, dried and nearly folded every piece of laundry we own that wasn't already on our bodies. I did my "Count the underwear and see if you need to buy more" ritual when we had finished the laundry.

I then went online to buy more. On Kris' credit card.

In four days, I'll have 24 more pairs of underwear.

Which will probably last me a month.


Underwear, part 2

All of Kris's clothes, except the ones he has on, are now washed, dried, folded, and put away.

All of my clothes are now washed, dried, folded and put away. And I do mean all.

I am standing here naked, amazed how many clothes I have, given I wear only a few at a time, and have gotten rid of so many that I no longer wear.

How can someone who cares so little for clothes have so many? Boggles the mind.

What I don't have enough of, however, is underwear.

Bella has decided the the bestest treat in all the world is my underwear. As in, my dirty underwear.

As in, "Ew!"

At one point, reminiscent of my brother's underwear tale of woe I was down to 4 pairs of underwear, because Bella had chewed through all my other pairs. Four panties. That's one, two, three, four. Four.

I made Kris buy me new ones. Like forty pairs of new ones. Four. Tee.

I could go weeks without doing laundry. Didn't have to. Not only did I have clean underwear, but I had clean underwear to spare.

But not now.

Now I can't friggen find half of them because that dog, that dog, has somehow figured out how to retrieve underwear from the really tall hamper and she still continues to chomp on them.

So, now I'm standing here naked, counting my remaining underwear, and realizing it's time to go shopping again.

I'm down to eight.


Underwear: part 1


When I was in high school, we lived in a house with 2 bathrooms: one for my mom and her husband, the other for the three of us kids. Bathroom use worked out fairly well, as BJ's school started a 1/2 hour after Chris' and mine, and I liked to sleep in. ("Liked"? Who am I kidding? I still like to sleep in.)

Chris would take a shower first in the morning. Yep, we're a family of morning-showers. He had the unpleasant habit of leaving his dirty underwear in the bathroom when he was done showering. Even after we asked him not to, he'd leave them on the bathroom floor. Every morning BJ and I would stumble into the bathroom to get ready for school, Chris' underwear greeted us.

We tried many tactics to get Chris to pick up his underwear. We complained to Mom. We picked them up and left them on his bed. We played soccer with them as the ball, in front of him and his friends. We used them as weapons of mass destruction.

No luck.