Spotlight on Panty Hose Day

I have just declared today to be "Spotlight on Panty Hose" day. Only because I've had two separate panty hose moments today...and I'm not even wearing them.

The first being that for most of the day I've been wondering who the blazes wears stockings (if your 70), panty hose (if you're 40), tights (if you're 23) in 90 degree heat. Then this got me to thinking about the time my friend told me that her boyfriend once saw her putting on her tights and cried out in horror "THAT'S what those things look like?!" Which I have since learned is not a unique situation. If he thought that was traumatizing, he should see when one foot gets stuck resulting in a freakish bounce around the room in attempts to get the other foot in the nylon casing/suction. This usually ends in expletives when I see my toe poke through the spot where my knee should be.

Next, and perhaps most touching, the cleaning lady at work stops me in the bathroom while I'm washing my hands, motions to my legs and says in broken English "are dose you skin or you panty hose that color?" Fair question given that my legs are the color of Arby's curly fries, soon to switch back to the color of McDonald's fries so enjoy it while it lasts.

"Oh these old gams? Oh aren't you sweet!," I replied. And then I hugged her. No, but I wanted to.

In retrospect, I think this might be one of those situations where I confuse compliments with backhanded jabs.

Because We Were Getting Sick of Rap Snacks.

Although most of you probably know me as Mz. Booty Pop, I thought I'd take a little of the spotlight off my goodies, I mean self, and throw this photo out there for you all to comment.

Whoever comes up with the best caption gets a personalized video of me booty popping. Okay that's a lie, and may only be considered a prize to federal prison inmates, but I will buy you a bag of Booty Pop ( note: AS SEEN ON TV) and will even throw in some Rap Snacks.

And by "you all to comment", of course, I mean the people who either a) feel sorry for me and pretend to read this blog, b) actually read the blog and end up asking themselves how I am able to survive on planet earth or c) gave birth to me.

Fine, I'll Leave the Face Paint at Home.

First, I would like to note that I could probably write an entire book on Jeans Days. I'd have a chapter on how they are like sedatives for disgruntled employees, a chapter on how creepy it is to see certain coworkers in jeans, a chapter on the good ole' days when denim mini's and jorts were acceptable, etc.

For now, I'll just share the Jeans Day announcement email I received at work today:

"We will be having a Jeans and Jersey Day tomorrow! Please feel free to wear your Blackhawks or World Cup apparel! This is the first time since 1961 that the Chicago Blackhawks are Stanley Cup Champions! Tomorrow is also the start of the World Cup!! An event that only comes around every 4 years is worthy of a celebration! The usual jeans day guidelines are in place, and no face painting is allowed."

Okay so is it just me or this a direct attack on me?? "...and no face painting is allowed." It's almost like they were speaking to me, "And no Jordan, no face painting is allowed. Don't even think about painting your face half black/half red and tattooing that Native American to your cheek. Just put it away." Next they're going to suggest leaving the tomahawk at home.(kidding if you're reading this Fed Reserve Bank security guards.)

The second best part about this is that you know someone in the course of this law firm's history decided that it would be a good idea to wear face paint to work. You don't just make that shiz up, "Oh and by the way, if you were thinking about painting your face for that deposition, think twice."

Will it ever end?

All my life I have had one question burning and churning inside me. No, it's not what man will I bring home to the smurfs...what will my retirement package look like...is my pet turtle Chipper really BBQing with my cat Grits in animal heaven?

It is simply this: Why do I have one eyebrow hair that outgrows all others overnight? Literally, overnight. And it's long too, it's like an inch long. And it's really blonde, it's like if you took one strand of Dakota Fanning's hair and stuck it on the side of my face, that's how blonde it is. And I try and keep track of it too, like one night I didn't sleep at all because I wanted to catch it growing, but I couldn't keep my eyes open for that long.

Unlike "mister 2 cents" of Yahoo!Answers who has given up, I will move forward with my quest because I too, mister 2 cents, sure would like to know why my Dakota hair outgrows all the others.

Probably more to come on this facsinating story.

Super Fly

Before I tell this story I want to give you a little context...
My friend and I have a morning commuting routine, (for the sake of anonymity, let's call her Argela). It started with her sending a text at 7:11 that said "Do you want to commute this morning?" then degressed to a 7:32 text that said "Commute together?" then 7:45, "Commute?" then "C?" and now I'm pretty sure we just meet at the same corner every day at 7:50 after a "?" text for a powerwalk to the train.

It's a precious bonding moment we share. She usually asks me if I went out last night, implying that I look like a trainwreck, and I mumble something about how I didn't think I needed to wash my hair today, or yesterday, "but I swear I took a bod shower." The other thing I should note is that Argela is a very graceful person and is one of those few people who roll out of bed and look cute. Normally I despise those people but for some reason our friendship remains intact.

In fact, the only time I've seen her really uncomfortable was when our neighbor's bulldog was humping her leg, and let me tell you that image will live on forever.

Which is why I thought I was soooo lucky that I was able to witness Argela's second awkward moment at 8:01am Tuesday, June1, when a stranger approached her on the Southport brown line platform to very seriously inform her that her "fly was open." Of course I got a good chuckle out of it, then got a little creeped out because the woman was obviously staring at her crotch for too long, and then got another good chuckle out of it, and I thought to myself "Holy monkeys, that happens to me! I'm the one who walks around with my fly unzipped!! What a treat!"

And then I looked down and my fly was unzipped.