I once gave a dude my underpants in a grocery store

Before I met the hubs, I was on my way to work early one morning, and stopped by the grocery store to grab some sushi for lunch.  I noticed a pretty good looking dude at the sushi counter and smiled just to be friendly.  He smiled back and said “hi.”

“So, I need to ask you a favor,” he said.

I was in a rush, but figured I could spare a few seconds to listen.  Besides, he was cute.

“God, this is so embarrassing.  Uh, so, it’s my best friends bachelor party today and well, we’re starting kind of early…” he stammered, suddenly unable to look me in the eye.

Bachelor party?  I thought.  It was 8 o’clock in the freaking morning.  Early indeed.  But I just laughed.

“Oh geez.  Ok, what do you need me to do?”

“Excuse me?!” he exclaimed.  Clearly surprised that I knew the drill.

“Look dude, all of my friends are guys.  I’ve been the wingman at more than one bachelor party, I know how the drill works.  As long as you don’t want my undies, I’m in.  Just spit it out, I need to get to work.”  With that, his face started flaming about fifteen shades of red.

Well shit.

“You need my under ware don’t you?”

He just nodded.  He couldn’t even bring himself to say the words.

“Yeah sorry, no way man.  Good luck,” I said, and turned to leave the store.

“Wait!  Please wait.  Look, if I don’t do this I have to go back to the car and take a Jaegerbomb.  It’s 8 o’clock in the morning.  I’ll be puking by noon.  I’ll never work up the balls to ask another girl to do this.  Please don’t make me be that guy.”

And to this day I will never EVER know why, but right there in the middle of the grocery store I whipped my underpants off under my skirt, handed them to him, and walked away.

I guess I too really, really hate Jaeger.

Nuclear containment on the weekends

I hate it when our drunk friends want to crash at our house on Friday nights.  Not because we don’t have the room, or because I hate drunk people or I’m nervous that I’m going to forget that they’re there and walk out the next morning to make the coffee naked.  No, it’s because by Friday night it looks like a nuclear bomb made up of shoes, underpants and Tupperware containers detonated my home.

You see, we’re not home much during the week and when we are it’s usually just to strip down, put on pjs, eat something and pass out.  We then wake up and do it all again the next day, and are not fabulous about you know, cleaning up after ourselves as we go.

As a result, Saturday is MY personal holy day, the holy day of Clorox.  Every Saturday morning husband wakes up, goes into the office for a few hours, and then proceeds to golf or work or go drinking or whatever to keep himself out of the house during nuclear containment.

Saturday is the day I clean.

If you think I sound crazy now, just you wait.  It gets better.  For one, I freaking enjoy it.

I love having the house to myself to survey, triage, and dive right in.  I’ve been doing this a long time kittens, and have a complete and total method to my madness.  Some weekends the place only needs an 6 effort on a scale to 10 to get it back to being livable.  But some weekends, when I’m down on my hands and knees with scrub brushes attached to various parts of my body stinking of bleach and sweat and god knows what I’m scrubbing off the ground, those weekends I give it a 10.

And then we have a picnic on the floor in the living room.  Because damn it, if the floors are clean enough to eat off of, we might as well.

Hubs has offered no less than 100 times to hire a “cleaning lady” so that I can relax and enjoy myself on the weekends.  The very thought makes my eye twitch.  When I contemplate that someone else might be responsible for using the “magic eraser” on my baseboards or fold my laundry, I break into a cold control freak sweat.

No, cleaning is my job.  It’s my ME time.

I’m not a neat freak at all.  Nor am I a germaphobe.  I guess I just get some sort of sick satisfaction from taking the hot mess that my house becomes by the end of every week and pulling the princess routine on it to get it shiny and new and more fabulous than it ever imagined it could be.

Because my house has an imagination after all.

Now I know what you’re thinking so before you ask, no, I do not want to come over and clean your filthbucket of a home.  My disgusting 5 day old Tupperware and my husband’s dirty socks I can handle.  Yours will likely make me vomit.

And I don’t clean up vomit.

So really, you’ll end up worse off than you started.

See, told ya it gets crazier.

My ADD strikes again

I just discovered a pair of my husband’s underpants in my gym bag.

I have no explanation for this.  His clothes and my clothes don’t even go in  the same dresser, and this particular pair of boxers don’t even resemble anything that I own that might cause me to think they’re mine and stuff them in my bag right out of the laundry.

Following this discovery I dumped out my entire gym bag in my cube at work just to double check that the three different pairs of knee high socks that I can only seem to find one of didn’t end up in there as well.

They didn’t.

But I do have four sports bras, three pair of socks, a pair of my own underpants, my cycling kit a change of shirt for tonight and sneakers.  I like to be prepared because I frequently forget an item or two when packing at 5:30 a.m.  Like I apparently did today.

Notice anything missing?

Yup, pants.

So it’s possible I’m going to have my post-ride beer in my husband’s underpants.  Because I’m that awesome.

Is the “why” really important?

I carry extra underpants with me at all times just in case.

I told a male friend this today as part of a spare clothes conversation we were having, and he was dumbfounded.

“Just in case of WHAT?!” he asked.

I’m pretty sure every woman reading this blog knows exactly what I’m talking about.  You don’t ever want to have… ahem… unexpected issues with the lady business… and not have a change handy.

Maybe not everyone is as neurotic as me and carries them in their purse, but to each their own.

That said, I have to wonder, what purpose the spare panties would serve other than that in his mind?

And then I realized, he’s a dude.  And heck, with most thought processes, I am too.

I know exactly what he was thinking.

Pervert.

Also, I just dropped pulled pork down my dress into my bra, fished it out, and ate it.  All while at my desk.

Because you know, you needed that extra tid bit to realize that I actually am extraordinarily weird.  The spare underpants in my purse weren’t enough.

The pork was delicious, thanks for asking.

So THAT’s why he glows

I’m wearing Christmas underpants today.  Not because it’s laundry day.  Nor is it because they were on top of the panty drawer.

It’s because this particular pair of underpants have a giant Rudolph across the front of them, and every time I wear them I think about Rudolph muff diving.  It makes me giggle endlessly.

Not because I’m a sicko who is actually into bestiality mind you, but because I’m a sicko in general.

And let’s face it, when you feel like crap, you need all the giggles you can get.

My eyes, MY EYES!

I did something sobering this morning.  I took pictures of myself in my underwear.

I never really did the whole progress picture thing, so I don’t have any “before” photos to compare myself to at the moment.  Heck, I can say without hesitation, when I started Crossfit I would have rather burned out my eyeballs with a hot poker than looked at pictures of myself in my underpants.

So at least being willing to take them is an improvement.

Though I think it’s probably obvious to anyone reading that I’m not exactly thrilled with what I saw.

Now I admit, the past 6 weeks haven’t been my strongest.  I haven’t been to Crossfit much.  Between the back injury, strep throat, traveling and then getting even more sick I think I’ve been 10 days in the last 50.  Not excellent, but also just excuses.

I also have made no bones about the fact my diet has sucked.  I’ve made some concerted effort here this past week to rein in the need to eat every morsel of food in my refrigerator on a daily basis, but I’ve been far from saintly, and it shows.

My 1 year anniversary with Crossfit is approaching, and I want to be able to look at photos of myself (please God WITH my clothes on) and see how much progress I’ve made.  I know I’ve come a long way, but at the moment, it seems like I still have so much further left to go.

Which brings me to the reason I took pictures in my netherthings this morning.

I NEED accountability.  With other people, and with myself.  When I’m going to class it seems easy, the coaches are there daily holding me accountable and helping to motivate me to put in the work.  Going to Crossfit daily helps me to stay on track with nutrition as, quite frankly, I can’t eat crap and then get through a WOD without vomiting.  Problem solved!

Until I’m cleared to resume my regularly scheduled activities, I need to do a better job of holding myself accountable.  I loathe weighing myself, and want to avoid that at all costs.  I’m getting BETTER about loving my body, but I’m not quite to the point where hopping on the scale and seeing  a number I don’t especially like won’t ruin my whole day.

I keep reminding myself that I fit in smaller jeans, that I look better in my clothes, but it’s starting to feel like a long time since I’ve seen any of those incremental gains as well.

So I’m going to force myself to actually SEE them.

We’re all our own worst critics, right?  I see things on my body that I know, for a fact, my husband doesn’t notice.  So if every Monday morning before work I strap in the ladies and put on some tiny underpants and then take a picture, I’m bound to notice the tiny changes week to week that are improvements in my body.

Especially if I get my shit together.

And loyal readers, just you wait.  Eventually, I *will* post some progress photos.  I know that one day the “before” and “during” just won’t matter any more.  When that day comes, I’ll show you how far I’ve come.  Because all that matters then will be what IS!