Ugly Undies, A Wasp-Hag, and a Three Hour Nap

Brace yourself. This post isn’t for the faint of heart (or for those who aren’t interested in what Myndi’s undies look like).

So, like every normal woman on the planet, I own a GodAwfulUgly pair of undies that I absolutely love. Mine are brown with giant white polka dots. They’re truly hideous – we’re talking cornea-melting-you-can-never-unsee-that hideous. But they’re soooo comfy and they’re soooo old which means they’re soooo soft (all virtues the Hubster considers invalid. KILL THEM! he says. KILL THEM WITH FIRE!).

A few weeks ago it seemed like a good day for my favorite uggo undies. I had tons of work to get done before I could start packing for our family vacay, which meant my ass was going to be planted in a chair most of the day (UGH). But that blog schedule wasn’t going to fill itself up, and being the Capricorn that I am, I had decided to dig in my heels and get it all done. In one day.

This was a job for (enter cheesy announcer voice here) GIANT BROWN AND WHITE POLKA DOT UGGO UNDIES!

The Hubster groaned when he saw what I was wearing, and knowing his wife and her Capri-compulsive tendencies, muttered, “This can’t end well. It never ends well when you wear those.” He was so right, but for all the wrong reasons.

Everything started off with a bang. I pulled my most comfy yoga pants on over my polka-dotted-comfort-grammies. I threw on a sports bra (because when you’re embarking on a writing marathon you need chesticular support, duh) and a tank. I fed the kids a fabulously nutritious breakfast (FRUIT LOOPS, ANYBODY?), and downed a protein shake giant cup of coffee (twice). Then I sent the offspring outside and headed to my writing cave where I started a load of laundry (the smell of detergent gets my creative juices flowing), and BAM! BAM! BAM!

I cranked out three blog posts. CAPRI-KICK-ASS-CORN MYNDI, Y’ALL!

Myndi deserved a coffee break. (Yes, more coffee. Always, more coffee. I tried to love tea, but it turns out tea is just hot water lying about being as awesome as coffee. Tea, you lying bastard.) So, more coffee.

I poured myself a cup and headed outside to enjoy a little fresh air and sunshine (because, let’s face it. Sometimes us writers can get a little pasty and vampirish only without the hot bods and irresistible mysteriousness. Mostly I’m pale like the undead, with dirty hair and a thirst for COFFEEEEEEE…and sometimes rum). The kids squealed in delight (terror?) at the sight of their mother (holy crap she’s actually outdoors!), and I headed over to what shall now be called The Rocking Chair of Doom.

The Rocking Chair of Doom is a teakwood rocking chair that’s older than the hills. It desperately needs a coat of sealant (or to be thrown in the trash – we’ve patched and repaired a thousand times to keep it together). I hate the damn thing, but the Hubster loves it, so we keep it. I don’t know what on earth possessed me to sit there, but out of all the chairs on our patio, it’s where my butt landed. The Hubster believes it was the Evil Undies (his words, not mine. I still love my polkies). He believes they saw an opportunity to bypass my caffeine-addled brain and take over my whole body. Whatever. It doesn’t matter how it happened, it just did. My butt planted on the cracked teakwood seat of the Chair o’ Doom and

HOLY FREAKING MOTHER OF PEARL I JUST GOT THE WORLD’S WORST SPLINTER IN MY-

wait a second

oh crap

oh crap

oh crap

that’s not a splinter

THAT’S NOT A SPLINTER

THAT’S NOT A SPLINTER!!!

By now I’d begun screaming and hopping all over the place, trying to make my way to the back door while simultaneously yanking off my yoga pants in an act of desperation. Because there was no splinter in my ass. No, I’d been stung, by some evil hag of a wasp.

STUNG BY A WASP-HAG IN MY POLK-DOT CLAD KEISTER.

Now my yoga pants were down around my ankles and I stumbled into the kitchen praying our neighbors weren’t home to see my polka-dotted derriere tripping around the back yard. Ithurtsithurtsithurtssobad!! See Myndi turning circles like a dog chasing her tail trying to see the sting. See Myndi get dizzy and tumble into the kitchen table like a drunk striptease gone horribly wrong. See Myndi trying to bend in ways only seasoned contortionists can bend in an effort to see if the stinger was out because HOLY CRAPBALLS HER ASS WAS ON FIRE. See the alarmed expression on her oldest sons face when he finds his mother pirouetting like a Weeble and screaming like a toddler having a tantrum (because even for me this is strange behavior).

“Stung,” I panted. “I got stung. On my butt. Can you see if the stinger is out?”

He looked at me. He looked at my undies (my hideous, hideous undies) and quickly looked away. “Um,” my twelve-year old hero said. “Um…let me go get you a mirror instead.” He bolted like the seven watchmen of Hell are after him.

I’d been abandoned by my child, the first little human I brought into the world. Trying not to dwell on this secondary emotional sting, I tried to remember what I always do for the kids when they get stung, but my brain had turned to utter mush. When Liam returned with a mirror I was on the verge of mixing bleach and ammonia and chanting in a foreign tongue.

“No, mom,” he said, handing me the mirror and putting the chemicals away. “You need milk. And baking soda.” He heaved a heavy sigh, as if he just realized there was no one to save him from his fate of having to doctor his own mother’s bum. “Hang on.”

While he opened the fridge I summoned the courage to look at my fiery polka-dot clad ass. The world began to spin. Just below my cheeky flesh was a red and angry welt that was swelling like a hot-air balloon with ‘roid rage. No sign of a stinger, thank Heaven. I stumbled to the medicine cabinet and fumbled through that chaos (our medicine cabinet resembles a tiny war zone) until I found our very last Benadryl. Finally! Some luck!

“Here you go,” Liam says as I dry swallowed the little pink pill of goodness and a couple Advil. He had a small bowl of baking soda paste and a washcloth drenched in milk. Before I could ask him to help, he ran – and I mean ran – back outside. Guess he wasn’t willing to accept his fate. Grumbling and trying not to tip over, I applied it myself, grabbed an ice pack, and headed back downstairs. The pain was starting to abate and I could feel my Capricornarian self returning. I saw no reason why I couldn’t hit my word count on my WIP, and fold a load of laundry, and do a little ironing…

Three hours later I woke up on the floor, drool crusted on my face, an ice-pack on my brown-and-white polka dotted bum, and Took coloring on my arm with a permanent marker. Thank you, Benadryl.

The Hubster asked if I was going to throw the undies away after the bad luck they brought. I told him that if the wasp-sting really was their fault, then they were the best undies ever, and that I’d never throw them away – even if the elastic in the waist goes out and the crotch gets holes.

IT WAS A THREE HOUR NAP, people.

THREE HOURS.

 

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