I should probably rename my blog seeing how I never write about my kids, only about myself. Let's see...Sponge-Kimmy Crazy Pants.... Sponge-Kim Silly Pants....I've got it!..... Sponge-Chubby Size 16 Pants. Okay that last one made me laugh out loud. I am hilarious!
Speaking of being a size 16 *cough* since birth, when I was 20 I went on a tour with my college choir. We were supposed to go to New Zealand, but this was the year of the 9/11 attacks and the church rerouted all international tour groups. We got rerouted to.....wait for it....Texas. Yep, freakin' Texas for three freakin' weeks. Excuse the language, I'm not bitter, really. So we're all trying to make the best of the situation and have good attitudes about not leaving the country, but it proved to be more difficult than first expected.
This tour was...interesting. We had some conflicting opinions within the group and that made some things .....difficult. There was a big tour meeting with lots and lots of crying over....well, basically over which color of belt we were supposed to wear.
This was the same tour that during a daytime performance at a school I didn't get the memo about starting the show with a different song than our usual opener. The song we were starting with was a men's only entrance. So Brother Brower (our beloved director) gives the opening cue and I start loudly singing, "Hark I Hear the Harps Eternal" and the men started singing "Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho." Oops! I then start laughing which earned the death look from Brother Brower.
I wish I could say that was the only time I received the death look, but alas, it was not to be. During another performance of this cool little Spanish song called "Caballo Viejo" I was kind of groovin' along (nerd I know. I'm THAT girl, the weird one in the choir who moves when they sing. You know what I'm talking about, the one who REALLY feels the music. Ow, it hurts to admit that). Anyway, I'm dancing along, in the front row no less, and my nose was really itching so I just reached up and gave it a little scratch, like it was part of my dance. Brother Brower gave me a look that said, "Holy Crap, did you really just do that in a performance?!? Do you WANT to die?" Oops again.
So things hadn't been going too well. About halfway through the tour we finally got a day off. We got to stay in a hotel and see Les Miserable in Dallas. The hotel was DISGUSTING and the cast of Les Mis was TERRIBLE, but it was still fun. We were all pumped about going swimming when we arrived. I was prepared at one of our other stops I had purchased a wrap that matched my cute red swimsuit. As alluded to in previous posts, I'm a just a tiny bit self conscience about my thighs, so this wrap was key.
I got all ready and headed down to the pool with my girls. I got there and had a brief discussion with myself about whether or not to take the wrap off. It's a light material so I decided against taking it off although I'm sure it is not meant to be worn in water. This lets you know how nervous I'm feeling being in a swimsuit.
We started messing around and playing in the water and I soon forgot about being self conscience, and just started having a good time. We started this game that is so stupid it pains me to share this part of the story. We were going underwater and then as we came out of the water we flipped our hair back like the Little Mermaid. Go ahead, mock, laugh, yes we were in college at the time. Meanwhile, Brother Brower had wondered down to the pool to see what everyone was up to. I called to him, "Brother Brower, who am I?" and then proceeded to play the Little Mermaid game. In retrospect I probably deserved the answer, seeing how I was a 20 year old pretending to be the Little Mermaid.
Regardless, the conversation proceeded as such:
ME: "Brother Brower, who am I?"
BB: "I don't know......Shamu?"
ME: "Shamu?!?!? Shamu?!!?!? I AM IN A SWIMSUIT AND YOU ARE CALLING ME SHAMU?!?!!?!?"
Seeing his obvious folly, Brother Brower immediately started back tracking.
BB: "Kim, Shamu is sleek."
ME (yelling): "Shamu weighs 2,000 pounds!!"
BB: "Shamu is a powerful and stealthy predator. "
ME (still yelling): "Both great if you are a killer whale, not great if you are a 20 year old girl."
The conversation went on like this for a while. I got out of the pool soon after. For the record, my swimsuit was red, not black and white.
The next day on the bus, I took over the microphone during morning announcements and told the whole sad story, so everyone would know. Later that day we arrived in San Antonio. We went to the Riverwalk and the Alamo, and it was amazing....until.....we saw what was playing at the IMAX Theater in town. Yep, you guessed it. SeaWorld: featuring SHAMU. Great! Shamu is so big that he won't even fit on a regular movie screen it has to be at an IMAX!
It was a blow. I actually went on a diet that summer when I got home and lost 30 pounds so it wasn't all for naught, I suppose.
I have told this story as many times as humanly possible so that no one with ever forget that Brother Brower called me Shamu. I told it on the bus the next year when we were on tour....and the year after that. Brother Brower yelled from the back of the bus, "Will you please just let it go?"
NEVER. So Brother Brower....this one is for you! :)
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
You had to know it was coming
So I have an excuse, I really do. What have I been doing the last four months that made it so difficult to blog one funny story? Well, I had heart surgery, bought a house, fixed up a house, went to Florida with my family, fixed up a house, had Christmas, and ran my little business. I've been busy okay!
*DISCLAIMER* This entry talks extensively about *cough* using the facilities. If this sort of thing offends you, you should probably stop checking my blog, but you might want to stop reading now.
So I've shared stories of nakedness, smart-alec-ness, and ketchup-ness, so you had to know a story of pants peeing-ness was coming.
Let me begin by saying, in my youth I could hold my pee forever. My dad was a road warrior...by that I mean, the car didn't stop unless the gas tank was empty. Did I mention the van we had in my growing up years had two gas tanks? Yeah. So the absolute soonest you would pee would be four hours after the last stop. When I was young, seven or eight, I told my dad that I really needed to use the facilities. He did not listen, or we were in the middle of Wyoming, which is the middle of nowhere and he couldn't stop. I choose to remember it as he wouldn't stop. Anyway, I wrapped myself in a yellow blanket and peed. I remember thinking, "this will show him," like he was going to clean up the pee, right. I didn't have that kind of dad, he was old school--as in my mom took care of all things pee oriented.
Anyway, with this history being known, you will understand my thinking this one day while shopping. I was probably seven months pregnant with Mia. I was shopping for dipping chocolate so I could make my father-in-law some cashew clusters for father's day. I had been all over town and was coming up empty. At the second to last store I felt the need to relieve myself. I should also mention at this point that I HATE public restrooms. I have been called a germ-a-phobe. I'm not, I just don't like the thought of sitting where someone else has sat. Ewww it gives me the gross-out-shivers as I write about it. So with this non-public-restroom preference, and my ability to hold my pee for hours on end, I decided to hold it.
By the time I entered Winco, my last store, I had to go pretty bad. I only needed a few things so I thought I would make it. I just had to keep moving, and when I stopped I crossed my legs and danced. I made my way through the store and got to the front, and realized I could not hold it any longer. So I decide to give up and use the bathroom *shiver* You know how as soon as you make up your mind to actually go instead of hold it, your pee holding muscles go on vacation and you suddenly have to go twenty times worse than you had to go five seconds previous. This theory is proved in children needing to go to the bathroom. Brandon will be fine and dandy and as soon as he announces he has to pee, it is a race. From outside the bathroom you can hear the stomping dance that accompanies the taking off of the pants--well that's how things were shaping up.
I parked my cart by the bathroom and lifted Brandon out of the basket. I was really dancing now. We rushed into the bathroom straight to the handicap stall so there is room for all three of us, Bran, me, and my giant belly. I got into the stall and things were getting desperate. I was trying to lock the stall, which was proving to be harder than advanced calculus, when my body simply gave up and I started to pee....a lot. And either my pee holding muscles gave up from all the years of abuse, or there was a six pound baby sitting on my bladder, but I could not stop it for anything. I finally got the stall locked and ran to the toilet. I made it. I did my thing and looked for a little toilet paper to assist me in my time of need. And as if things weren't bad enough, there was not a shred to be found. At that point I was sure that God was having a slow day and needed some entertainment. While contemplating how to deal with this situation, my apparently genius son unlocked the door that I couldn't lock with a college degree, and took off running. I had no choice but to shake off, pull up my wet pants and hope to air dry. I chased him out of the stall and get him to pause so I could wash hands. We finished our shopping, and dripped our way home. Oh, if only I had the pee holding muscles of my younger years.
*DISCLAIMER* This entry talks extensively about *cough* using the facilities. If this sort of thing offends you, you should probably stop checking my blog, but you might want to stop reading now.
So I've shared stories of nakedness, smart-alec-ness, and ketchup-ness, so you had to know a story of pants peeing-ness was coming.
Let me begin by saying, in my youth I could hold my pee forever. My dad was a road warrior...by that I mean, the car didn't stop unless the gas tank was empty. Did I mention the van we had in my growing up years had two gas tanks? Yeah. So the absolute soonest you would pee would be four hours after the last stop. When I was young, seven or eight, I told my dad that I really needed to use the facilities. He did not listen, or we were in the middle of Wyoming, which is the middle of nowhere and he couldn't stop. I choose to remember it as he wouldn't stop. Anyway, I wrapped myself in a yellow blanket and peed. I remember thinking, "this will show him," like he was going to clean up the pee, right. I didn't have that kind of dad, he was old school--as in my mom took care of all things pee oriented.
Anyway, with this history being known, you will understand my thinking this one day while shopping. I was probably seven months pregnant with Mia. I was shopping for dipping chocolate so I could make my father-in-law some cashew clusters for father's day. I had been all over town and was coming up empty. At the second to last store I felt the need to relieve myself. I should also mention at this point that I HATE public restrooms. I have been called a germ-a-phobe. I'm not, I just don't like the thought of sitting where someone else has sat. Ewww it gives me the gross-out-shivers as I write about it. So with this non-public-restroom preference, and my ability to hold my pee for hours on end, I decided to hold it.
By the time I entered Winco, my last store, I had to go pretty bad. I only needed a few things so I thought I would make it. I just had to keep moving, and when I stopped I crossed my legs and danced. I made my way through the store and got to the front, and realized I could not hold it any longer. So I decide to give up and use the bathroom *shiver* You know how as soon as you make up your mind to actually go instead of hold it, your pee holding muscles go on vacation and you suddenly have to go twenty times worse than you had to go five seconds previous. This theory is proved in children needing to go to the bathroom. Brandon will be fine and dandy and as soon as he announces he has to pee, it is a race. From outside the bathroom you can hear the stomping dance that accompanies the taking off of the pants--well that's how things were shaping up.
I parked my cart by the bathroom and lifted Brandon out of the basket. I was really dancing now. We rushed into the bathroom straight to the handicap stall so there is room for all three of us, Bran, me, and my giant belly. I got into the stall and things were getting desperate. I was trying to lock the stall, which was proving to be harder than advanced calculus, when my body simply gave up and I started to pee....a lot. And either my pee holding muscles gave up from all the years of abuse, or there was a six pound baby sitting on my bladder, but I could not stop it for anything. I finally got the stall locked and ran to the toilet. I made it. I did my thing and looked for a little toilet paper to assist me in my time of need. And as if things weren't bad enough, there was not a shred to be found. At that point I was sure that God was having a slow day and needed some entertainment. While contemplating how to deal with this situation, my apparently genius son unlocked the door that I couldn't lock with a college degree, and took off running. I had no choice but to shake off, pull up my wet pants and hope to air dry. I chased him out of the stall and get him to pause so I could wash hands. We finished our shopping, and dripped our way home. Oh, if only I had the pee holding muscles of my younger years.
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