Unconventional Undergarment Redux

Let’s say you are a teacher, and you’ve been at school all afternoon and now have a formal-ish dinner event to attend nearby, and you’ve brought a dress and shoes to change into for the formal-ish event, but then you realize that the dress is rather sheer and you’ve neglected to bring a slip along. And let’s say you make this realization five minutes before you’re supposed to arrive at the event in question. Do you:

A. Say “formal, schmormal” and go, wearing the red capris and pocket t-shirt you’ve been wearing all day.

B. Call your spouse and beg him to rush over with a slip, pronto.

C. Go in the see-through dress, hoping no one will notice the outline of your black underpants against your fishy white thighs.

D. None of the above.

If you are me (and given the fishy white thigh description, I’d say chances are good that you are), the correct answer is D. I am in my office, holding a black patterned vintage dress that is much more sheer than I realized. I put it on, just to check, and sure enough: the contrast of my black drawers with my white flesh is quite observable. I can handle a bra outline, but at an event where students will be present, the panty outline is unthinkable. My response? I'm sure I can find something in this office to craft a makeshift slip out of! I have five minutes. I can do this.

Three minutes into my search, I’m getting desperate. I have rejected an orange plastic bag, a cardigan sweater, and a ream of white paper as possible materials. I have even picked up a single sock and contemplated it for a split second. I am starting to think I might have to give up and actually call my Old Man to rush me a slip when I find an abandoned t-shirt languishing on the back of a dusty bottom shelf. Color: teal with yellow lettering celebrating a fundraising event of yore. Size: large. Status: never worn. I feel a rush of adrenaline. I know I can make this t-shirt work as a slip.

I rip open the neck to make it roughly waist-size, turn it inside out, cut off the tag, and stretch the thing up over my ass. When the dress falls over the t-shirt “slip,” no trace of teal is visible. It looks black. However, the t-shirt’s sleeves are creating a decided poofing effect on each of my hips. I hike the skirt back up and cut off the sleeves of the t-shirt. This solves the poofing problem, but creates a two little gaping spots that reveal white thigh flesh, destroying the whole slip effect. The skirt is again hiked, and I grab my handy Swingline stapler and staple the gaping closed. Skirt falls back down, and from above, all looks fine. Put on shoes, speed to the bathroom, check in the mirror. I definitely look legit.

I attend the event, receiving many compliments on my dress. No one seems to be staring at my hips or my hemline. I do believe that I have pulled this shit off. And wearing an inside-out teal fundraising t-shirt in lieu of a slip has somehow made attending the event much more fun. A supreme MacGyver moment.

***

(And yes, for the old school Oral Hygiene fans among you: this is a rerun from two years ago at this time. I attended this same annual event last night, wearing a complete complement of appropriate undergarments. Somehow it just wasn't quite as fun, even though I wore the knee-high boots I love but almost never wear due to the fact that the heels go beyond my skill level. That's just not the same as knowing you have a torn and stapled t-shirt where your slip should be...)

It's That Time Again

Laying in bed nursing Roo a few minutes ago, I noticed how strange it felt to be awake and not running around crazily doing something, either with or without a baby on my hip. These days, it seems like nursing is the only time I actually get to sit down without feverishly typing, grading, or prepping for class, or to lay down without thinking "OK, I've got 6 hours and 40 minutes in this bed, and I'm going to get woken up at least once in that time by a hungry baby. Time to sleep! One, two, three, sleep damnit!"

It's not uncommon for me to feel stressed and hectic at the end of the school year, but there's something special about adding the demands of mothering a baby to the mix. Of course, at this time last year I was unloading about how busy I was, and I was indeed busy. But even though I've divested myself of a number of responsibilities I had this time last year, I'm still feeling a bit berserk.

And yet, I'm giddily happy. Sometimes I feel like a love-crazed nineteen-year-old who, despite lacking sleep and burning her candle at both ends (the love end and the work end), is chipper and energetic due to all the endorphins and other miscellaneous love chemicals coursing through her system. I was that love-crazed nineteen-year-old once upon a time, and this feels very familiar. But instead of simply being in love with a boy (and with the new fact that orgasm could be a shared rather than a solitary experience), I'm rather complicatedly in love with my man, my little boy, and my baby girl all at once (and feeling happy despite the fact that orgasms, be they shared or solitary, are proving somewhat hard to fit in with all this parenting, working, and logistical whatnot going on).

In any case, I am so, SO looking forward to summer break. Which begins in approximately a week and a half. Have I ever mentioned that among the many things I love about teaching, I dearly love summer break?

Hopefully summer break will bring more extra-lactational relaxation. And more regular blog posts.

And more orgasms.

Neglected!

When my Old Man and I debated and debated whether to have another child, one thing that ate at me was the thought of neglecting my first child because of the demands of a baby. Or neglecting my baby because of the time and energy I needed to devote to my first child. Giving O. anything but my full attention as a mother seemed unthinkable. And, remembering how absorbed I was with O. when he was an infant, it seemed impossible to imagine caring for another baby when I had O's needs to consider, too.

Somehow, miraculously, this has all worked out. We're busy and crazy and chaotic, but somehow there is enough of every emotional resource to go around. Sure, I had to put up with having a gangly boy on my lap sometimes when I was nursing newborn Roo. (Luckily O. got over that phase, in all likelihood because I never forbade him from joining us.) And Roo has definitely spent way more time just sitting on the floor watching other people play board games than O. ever did. But she seems to dig it, and of course, she doesn't know any different.

Moreover, O. has Roo and Roo has O. They both find endless delight in the other and entertain each other on a daily basis. Sometimes too much, like when I'm trying to nurse Roo and she keeps popping up to check in on the progress of her brother's Lego city (while I sit by waiting, spraying breast milk all over the room).

No, the kids are not neglected. But, sad to say, someone in our home is neglected. Badly neglected.

The cats.



These are our cats. The black one in the back is Blue, fourteen-year-old hypergroomer and neurotic sweetie. The gray beauty is just-beyond-kittenhood Catface, O's present from Christmas 2006, as playful and affectionate as she is attractive.

Both of these beasts have forgotten what it's like to feel the touch of the human hand. With all of our time and attention absorbed in taking care of the kids or taking care of business, and any extra physical affection we have left over after cuddling and holding our two little ones reserved for each other, the cats are animales non gratae. Even O. seems to have forgotten about them in his enthusiasm for his baby sister. They get no pets, no scratches behind the ears, no play time with their various cat toys. Occasionally Roo reaches over and grabs a fistful of fur. Other than that, they get no action.

I feel guilty about this, especially since they've begun developing odd new habits. Catface bolts up the stairs every time she hears me sit down to pee, knowing that I'm seated with my hands unoccupied and that this is her best chance for a bit of human love. Pathetic, isn't it? And Blue has begun harassing me when I'm trying to squeeze in a couple of yoga poses at the end of the day, butting her head into me while I'm in viparita karani. It's not conducive to good yoga form, I tell you.

Luckily, they have each other, and despite the difference in age, they have become close friends, sleeping in proximity, chasing each other around, and wrestling affectionately. And we keep feeding them, and filling their water dish, and cleaning out their litter. So they're still getting a free ride, even if they get no love.