You can stash your pie crust in there!

I survived another Thanksgiving!

I wonder how I always lose food in between my boobs.

Just had to have another nibble of pie crust, but I managed to miss my mouth (yes, I had beer first.  But, this is still a problem for me.  I’m not a graceful beast).

I excused myself from the table and went to the bathroom (right next to the dining table) where I locked the door, reached into my bra and attempted to remove the sugary bits (by now, somewhat glued to my skin) into the toilet. Much to my delight, in walked my daughter, demonstrating the apparently non-functioning door lock. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t taking a post turkey dump; unfortunately for me, I am pretty sure the position I was in was equally disturbing for any passerby, bent over at the waist, head over the toilet bowl.

No, I don’t have an eating disorder. Yes, I do have boobs. And they catch food from time to time…more the older I get. I’m not sure if this is my body’s way of storing calories in case of emergency or simply an effect of too much skin. Either way, I kind of like storing pie crust in my bra. Other than the inevitable itching factor. Pie crust smells nice.

 

I guess if the 2012 prophecy is true, you might want to be my friend. When apocalyptic survivors are busy hunting for food, I’ll simply be reaching into my own bra. It’s like a food-storing camel-back, on your front. You should get one.

I could take on Jihad Jane (a.k.a. “Bring it, Bitch”)

I don’t do well with vacations.  I LOVE the idea of vacation, but I always always ALWAYS get sick when I go somewhere.  It’s probably because of the usual reasons: I work so hard to be able to take time off work that I deplete all my energy and set my immune system up for a downfall.  In the good old days, the days when someone else paid for my vacations, I somehow still managed to get ill. Most of it was stomach related… due to too many take-off’s and landings, drinking too many carbonated beverages, eating too much airline food.  It happens.  And, it isn’t pretty.

My sister and I traveled back from the middle east together once in college.  We flew into SeaTac, where I was quickly whisked aside and intensely questioned. You may think that racial profiling is about judging the darker skinned of us (especially in Seattle), but let me tell you – I am the epitome of racial profiling. They are looking at us blonde-blue eyed hayseed types as the typical drug smuggler/terrorist.  We are not publicized in the media, but the government is on to us.

Watch out.  We’re armed with potatoes, sourdough bread, and People magazines.

Blonde Power (we shout this while flipping our hair)!

(don’t be too frightened.  we tend to be easily distracted.  what’s that?  Glee’s on? Did I just see Lady Gaga?)

I am the ONE person who is always pulled out of a line to be checked over for gunpowder residue, dog sniffed for drugs, and questioned like the criminal I could never be.   These people don’t seem to understand that I have a guilt complex.  I have a strong inability to lie.  Even about the mundane.  I just can’t do it.  I sweat.  My butt.  Off.  My butt is my tell.  If it’s sweaty, I’m trying to lie (or I’m working out really hard).

So, you can see why my stomach would get upset.

After the airport grilling and my truth-telling that began to feel like lying because my butt was sweating because my stomach hurt and I needed to hit the toilet soon and I shouldn’t have eaten that chicken cordon blewwwwwww….. I ran to the bathroom, my sister bravely by my side.  Ugh.  There was someone in there.  She was dressed in red.  I mean, all in red.  Red dress, red headband, red heels, red fish net stockings, red lips, in my mind she even had red hair, but that’s probably an exaggeration.  What could I do?  She couldn’t be saved.  She was busy applying more red lipstick.  Her innocent make-up application would surely be her demise.

The chemical warfare began.  When the first bomb erupted my sister started maniacally giggling.  Probably laughing at the unfortunate hooker’s very unfortunate choice in airport bathrooms.  The laughter was contagious.

When you laugh, sometimes it causes you to bear down.  Especially when seated on a toilet.

The next explosion was louder.  The bathroom was ground zero.  The whole airport shook.

The giggles stopped –

Replaced by full on guffaws.  If I hadn’t been glued to the potty, I would surely have fallen on the nasty bathroom floor, snorting and tearing and spasming from the hilarity of it all.   The hooker retreated, obviously offended by witnessing such human suffering, but not before losing her senses of smell and hearing.  Such a tragedy.  Fortunately, that did not render her incapable of performing her job.

After surviving my own suicide bombing of the baggage claim bathroom at SeaTac airport that day, I realized that I should never be around humans after traveling. In college I had a boyfriend offer to pick me up.

“Hell no! My sister will get me (knowing she has no sense of smell remaining, most of it replaced by a sense of compassion for her troubled intestinal sibling). I’ll see you two days after I get back!”  I think he thought I was mad at him.  I just knew that he would not be impressed with my alter ego:

Blondie, the  Suicide Bomber.

If he discovered my blonde terrorist ties he would have broken up with me on the spot.  Instead, I recovered for two days, attacking my own sister and her husband’s townhouse with a violence never before seen in a suburban location.

I may be an airhead, but at least I care enough to reserve my warfare for family and hookers.  I’m not going to hurt innocent bystanders.  I won’t blow up children.

Unless they’re stupid enough to enter the bathroom.

Survival of the fittest.