Underpanted Should Totally Be A Word

Canetto wears a very specific kind of underpants. Mr. High Maintenance's brand of choice is nearly impossible to find in stores, and only after an exhaustive Internet search was I able to locate a site to buy them -- called -- get this -- FreshPair.com.

Because he just recently cleaned out his drawers and threw away a bunch of worn out underwear, he asked me to order him about 30 new pairs of underpants. (Younger women: I am speaking to you from your future -- this is what the carefree and fulfilling life of a 10-years-married woman entails.) Off I went to FreshPair.com and placed the order for the 30 pairs of boxer briefs.

First one month passed. Then, another week. That's when my campaign to locate the underpants-in-limbo* began. (*Unrelated aside: When I was in AP Art History in high school with my sister and our friend, Darren, we studied a painting titled "Christ in Limbo" that depicted Christ in between heaven and hell. To amuse us during a rather lengthy lecture one day, my sister drew a line over Christ's head and retitled the painting, "Christ DOING the Limbo". Heathens...all of us.)

I wrote a politely-worded letter to FreshPair that asked simply,

"Can you please tell me the status of my order?"

which received an automated reply with generic information telling me that a customer service agent would be in touch with me soon regarding my order.

No one got in touch with me. So, after another week, I sent another note, this one worded a little more strongly, asking,

"For the love of God....where are my underpants?!"

Again, an automated reply. But this one was followed up with a "personal" note from a customer service representative that did not provide one more bit of information, but gave me some encouragement that there was actually a human being on the other end of the e-mail address.

Another week passed, and I decided this called for some serious action, so I wrote another e-mail that went something like this:

"I've seen London, I've seen France, what I haven't seen are my underpants. Where the heck are the underpants that I ordered?"

And again, I received the most generic note from the customer service representative, with no indication that they had read or appreciated my psychotic ramblings directed at an automated response mechanism amazing wit.

Days later, as I was preparing to send a photo of my husband naked from the waist down to emphasize just how desperately we needed these underpants, we finally received a package of underpants in the mail from FreshPair.com.

Now with a happily underpanted husband,
Brutalism

Delicate Flower

The most fun thing about having Avery in preschool is she has a whole new audience to whom she can announce that mommy and daddy had an argument last night she learns things from other kids that are pretty entertaining.

Last night, in the middle of dinner, she jumped out of her chair and began walking around like a robot with her arms bent at ninety degree angles saying, "Ro-bot con-tin-ue." We had never heard or seen this before, so Canetto and I burst out laughing.

Because she was enjoying making us laugh, she cranked it up a notch to "Ro-bot poo-poo Diarr-hea Con-tin-ue."

The apple does not fall far,
Brutalism

Isn't It Ironic?

I sent an e-mail to Canetto earlier (he is picking up a piece of furniture later today out in Gainesville that we had painted and distressed) that read:

"Please drive carefully out there...lots of two-lane roads. Please play attention."

Perhaps I should heed my own advice.

We Can Hitch A Ride To Rockaway Beach

Friday night, I'm getting on a bus and heading up to NYC. "Sightseeing?" you ask. "No," I reply. "Bar crawling again?" "Been there, done that." I say. "Taking in some culture and good restaurants?" Sounds nice, but no. (And stop giving me the third degree. Sheesh...)

I'm going to New York to learn to surf. You read that right. I spent 15 of my formative years in Virginia Beach, Virginia, where there was both ample coastline and opportunity to learn, yet I never once gave it a go. (This, of course, did not prevent me from wearing t-shirts from every surf shop at the oceanfront and peppering my tweener conversations with words like "tubular" and "stoked.") (I'm nothing if not a dedicated poseur.)

As I head out to a Long Island beach on Saturday morning, I will try to forget that a 24-foot-long shark washed up on the shore there not even a month ago. People I have mentioned this to inevitably try to reassure me about my safety, claiming that this was a plankton-eating shark and that there is really nothing to worry about. Nothing except a TWENTY-FOUR-FOOT-LONG SHARK, FOR CHRISSAKES!!!

We're gonna need a bigger boat,
Brutalism

UPDATE: Thanks to Hurricane Bill, the surf instructor cancelled classes this weekend, so there will be no surf lesson for me. I am going to go home, put on my (new, bought just for this occasion) board shorts, clutch my bus ticket and play some Chris Isaak while staring forlornly into space.

Good Career Move

One time, my wise older sister suggested that the best way to get a paid vacation from work was to pull my skirt up over my head and run around my workplace babbling incoherently.

This has been a bit of a challenging week. I'm wearing a skirt tomorrow just in case.

A Woman's Prerogative

Our weekend at the Inner Harbor in Baltimore:

Avery (two seconds after seeing the dragon boats): "I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats. I wanna go on the dragon boats."

Avery (two minutes and $16 after getting on a dragon boat): "I wanna get off the dragon boat."

Avery -- ready to get off the dragon boat.