Scary Monsters Give Me the Super Creeps

I have a cold.  Or allergies.  It’s hard to be certain.  Not that you care.  Not that I am implying that you are heartless.  I just think my health is probably not your top priority at the moment.  Particularly since it’s not even my top priority.

My actual top priority is trying to think of something to write today.  Because I have been a complete wuss and babying myself with this blasted unplanned, unprioritized, uncertain illness, nothing of note has happened in my life.  Usually, when nothing of note occurs, I try to write about unnoted occurrences.  Or try to make something happen, like teach Wonderbutt a new trick that is doomed to fail.  But I don’t even have the energy to do that.  Plus, I’m a little disoriented, what with the medication and the movie I talked Dimples and myself into viewing.

I just watched Labyrinth with my 9 year old daughter, and I feel like I was on a two hour trip.  And I’m not talking the Gilligan’s Island kind of trip either.  Seriously, what kind of drugs were Frank Oz and Jim Henson on when they agreed to that script?  I understand David Bowie jumping wholeheartedly into that project, but the mutant muppets and plotless nightmare of a script made me seriously consider asking Dimples if she just wanted to watch The Sound of Music for the 15 and a halfeth time.

David Bowie, the Goblin King, Stuff of my Nyquilmares

A very young Jennifer Connelly is in Labyrinth, and I found myself wondering what it must be like to be so absolutely stunningly glamorous that even I, a 43-year-old heterosexual woman who is desperately trying to find the remote so she can switch off this horrendous dreck, can’t keep my eyes off of her.  Many years have passed since Jennifer Connelly played that role, but I bet she has not once ever worn her pajamas for 24 hours straight and sprawled out on a couch with a gaseous bulldog draped over her legs and a wide-eyed nine year old daughter snuggled into the crook of her arm questioning what the heck does David Bowie have packed into those tight pants? (I was wondering the latter, not my daughter – at least I hope not.)  I was also wondering if I had mistakenly taken my medication twice.  Or maybe I hadn’t taken it at all and had fallen into a coma.

The only appealing character in the story was Ludo (the one on the right) - who strangely reminded me of Wonderbutt.

So, anyway.  I have a cold.  Or allergies.  And I do not recommend the movie Labyrinth.

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Hmmm…Aren’t You Forgetting Something?

I bet she doesn't have to wear a bra!

I forgot to wear my bra.

Periodically, as I attempt different fashion combinations inside my closet early in the morning, I throw things on without the bra b/c the final topper will determine the foundation, as most women know.

Every once in awhile, I am so flustered and running late, that I head out for the day without that somewhat necessary piece of equipment.  I say “somewhat” because, unfortunately, some might look at that general area of my body and wonder why I even bother.  However, in certain outfits, and in certain types of weather (such as really cold),   trust me, it’s necessary.

The necessity can be compounded by the fact that I am a teacher, and spending an entire day in the classroom with certain pieces of clothing missing is generally frowned upon by anyone other than teenage boys.  I don’t teach teenage boys.

I keep a sweater at school for just such emergencies.  People tend to question you, however, when it is 107 outside, and you are wearing a sweater in a school whose antiquated air conditioning system can’t even come close to keeping up.  “I’m cold, ” does not seem to be a satisfactory answer when your co-workers are fanning themselves with everything from clipboards to old book covers.

Now, if you happen to be one of said co-workers reading this post, let me assure you that I often am cold.  I don’t really forget to don my bra that many days per year.

As you may have learned from my other posts, however, I have a tendency toward forgetfulness, which I blame on terrorists or the internet, and which sometimes manifests itself in my periodically incomplete or mismatched wardrobe.

So, I was sitting yesterday at my daughter’s synchronized swimming practice, when the horrible thought sent a chill down my spine.  I forgot to put on a bra.  That’s why that New Parent at the other end of the table eyed me so strangely!

I waited until I could surreptitiously and nonchalantly walk to the bathroom to try to create some sort of makeshift MacGyver bra.  When I closed the door and lifted up my shirt, however, lo and behold, I discovered I actually had remembered after all.

Of course, after the relief wore off, I had to deal with the discomfort of two more tantalizing questions – how could I not know I was wearing a bra?  And what else could have made New Parent look at me as though I had walked into the room with toilet paper hanging from the back of my shorts?

Oh, wait a second…