Cross My Heart and Hope To Buy

In a fit of social conformity and because a quick glimpse of myself in a department store mirror reminded me of the Matterhorn during spring thaw, I went bra shopping today. On the whole I’d rather have first dibs in the selection of nooses the hangman is going to use to finish me off. Or at least pick which angry nail technician is going to file my little toe down to niblet size at Naughty Nails.

First off, there’s the personality clash. Bras today are undeniably perky, padded, and prime-time ready. If the bras I saw in the lingerie section were the Tiggers on Pooh’s corner, my chest is covered in wall-to-wall Eeyores. Unless I raise my arms, you couldn’t pick me out of a lineup of Christopher Robins. Out-of-date eggs are more likely to be sunny side up.

It’s not bad enough that bras are displayed according to styles instead of arranged by sizes like hammers, condoms, and other handy household items. Overcrowded conditions cause the things jump to their deaths like lemmings whenever you approach the rack. The floor is covered with scraps of lace and spandex like the result of a bridal party-streetwalker collision. To streamline the whole process, I selected a wheelbarrow full of likely candidates and threw them on the floor.

I blame the whole thing on over-aggressive sales clerks who know that once you enter the barren land known as foundations, you’ve forsaken pleasure shopping and are not going home without an underwire that doesn’t snap in half like a fortune cookie whenever you bend over to tie your shoe.

Not only was I discouraged that everything seemed to be the wrong size, I was dismayed to find they were also the wrong shape. To me, pushups are something I had to do in gym when I refused to wear the regulation gender-neutral guerrilla togs. In Lingerie Central, it’s something that plugs your boobs into your nostrils like nose plugs. A swimmer with a push-up bra will never have to worry about water on the brain. And at my age, I’m in real danger of losing at least one over my shoulder.

I wanted something a little kinder to my body than the underwire air mattresses hanging in rows. Something feminine made from fibers that did not originate in the Space Program. I finally found a cotton and lace number that made sand castles out of parts I thought had been lost at sea long ago. Never again will I have to check my armpits to see which direction I’m facing.

I celebrated my successful shopping trip with dinner at The Egg Roll King where I finished up with a fortune cookie that was right on the money. It said, “Things are looking up.”

But just to be safe, I’m going to get someone else to tie my shoes.


This column first appeared at An Army of Ermas. Scoot over there for more than the government daily allowance of fun.

Seek and Enjoy

Spring is a glorious time of days filled with sparkling sunshine, blooming flowers, and flooded basements. I can tell it’s spring at my house when the sewer backs up and the toilet overflows like a baby with a double mouthful of strained peas. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”

About the only thing I hate worse than the first flush of spring is the annual Easter egg hunt at Dad’s farm. This year, Easter comes at the first of April, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.

I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity. It’s like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano. I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.

I can hide eggs with no trouble. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Dad any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.

But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby was born, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order college graduation announcements for the baby.

When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglass, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”

Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, I discovered a plastic candy-filled egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny candy bar huddled in a faded wrapper.

The kids acted like it was a moon rock. “Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs that we never found!”

That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. It won’t bother me if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.

Seek and You Shall Fail

"Before beginning a hunt, it is wise to ask someone what you are looking for before you begin looking for it." -- Winnie the Pooh

I appreciate the earnest wisdom of Winnie the Pooh as much as the next bear of very little brain, but in all deference, what I could use is a little bit of insider information on the location of the thing I’m looking for. Here we are teetering right on top of the time of year when well-honed finding skills are of utmost importance and I couldn’t track down an Easter egg with an Indian scout and a dedicated Coonhound trained on pastels. What I need is for Microsoft to create a search function that works in my back yard.

Since the seek-fail gene is not the sort of genealogical wonder that skips a generation, my sons Ca$h and Wrongway have this happy talent splashed all over their DNA like egg dye.

My older son is 20 and, while he has no use for hen’s eggs died to match the purples and polka dots found in nature, he has a keen interest in plastic Easter eggs which are known to harbor money or crispy chocolaty goodies in their recesses. But since he is not able to get in touch with his inner GPS, this year he requested that the Easter Bunny hide his eggs in a row on the kitchen table, marked with his name and initialed by quality control. He’d have no problems if the Easter Bunny simply left a check.

You’d think this would take some of the spirit out of the Easter morning egg hunt, but it’s actually a lot less painful than squiring a twenty year old to and fro past the back gate squealing, “Look! What's that behind the third tulip from the left? No, the other left.” Meanwhile, woodland creatures are gathering behind the bushes to place bets on how many eggs stay in the yard for another year.

He did find a group of colored eggs one year. Our Golden Retriever, who never met a food based item he didn’t like, rolled all the dyed eggs into the middle of the yard and licked the Crisco off. I thought the Crisco was to make them shiny, not lend them dog appeal. That's like rubbing meat tenderizer on the cat. Son One got up Easter morning, collected eggs like a hayseed in a henhouse and went back to bed.

My other son is an ace with Easter eggs. He has a multi-sensored tracking device embedded in his brain that can secure the enemy egg’s location in a nanosecond. It’s our house that he can’t seem to locate without help. In his defense, he hasn’t had his driver’s license long enough for the plastic smell to wear off. On his way home from the mall one day, he discovered a new school. In a different county. My cell phone rang that evening and an eerily familiar voice said, “Mom, I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.” "Honey," I answered, calmly twisting the telephone wire into accordian pleats, "We live in South Carolina." So I can count on him to come up with the goods on the annual egg hunt. If he can find our yard.

I don’t understand it, though. I’ve seen these guys play video games. Either one can pick out a sniper across three continents hiding in the broom closet in the basement of a fourteen story building made of concrete slab with no windows. If the sniper is crouched under an overturned mop bucket wearing an invisibility cloak, all the better. The only decision is weather to sneak across a landbridge with a simple shotgun or a fall back on a weapon with a little more finesse, say a flame thrower.

But for now, our Easter eggs are safe. Unless he drops them in an underwater volcano somewhere in the mid Pacific. Personally, I hope he hides them on a certain ship or two located off the coast of Somalia.

Those stinkin' pirates wouldn't stand a chance.

Seek Not

Spring is a glorious time of days filled with sparkling sunshine, blooming flowers, and flooded basements. I know it’s spring when the sewer backs up and the toilet overflows like a baby with a double mouthful of strained peas.

I’m looking for the day when the first flush of spring brings added surprises. The plumber marks his annual trip out to my house on his calendar right next to “Order New Mercedes.”

About the only thing I hate worse than that first flush is the annual Easter egg hunt at the farm. This year, Easter comes at the end of March, so it’s possible that the two events may coincide, much like a slingshot-launched rock and a plate glass window, only in this case the thing that gets launched is a good deal less desirable as a projectile than a rock.

I’m just as helpless at the egg hunt as I am in cases of explosive plumbing malfunctions. And to make matters worse, now that Easter is rolling around like the last jelly bean in the bowl, I’m running out of ways to disguise my nonconformity, which is like trying to disguise one of the white keys on a jazz piano.

I’m seek-challenged. I couldn’t find the spots on a ladybug without a field guide and a labeled specimen. If it were up to me, all the hidden eggs would find a home in the wild.

I can hide eggs. I’m the one that thought of putting the cracked one under the seat of the car when we were kids. It’s still there. I’m anticipating an ugly phone call from Mom any day. Reminder to self: Sign up for caller ID.

But when it comes to finding eggs, I can scramble around all day and come up with nothing but an empty basket. Especially now that I’m at the stage of life where every morning starts off with a hunt. As I get older—I won’t say mature as that can lead to lawsuits from the false advertising people—I couldn’t find a lost thought with an All Points Bulletin and a Vulcan mind meld. I haven’t been able to locate my belly button since the baby, and I wouldn’t recognize my own knees in a police lineup. Note to self: Order high school graduation announcements for the baby.

When I was a kid, the Easter Bunny used to hide “pity eggs” out in plain sight to make sure I could find them. He could have dyed them neon colors, dotted them with iridescent sequins, and implanted them with a tracking device that emitted a sound that would shatter Plexiglas, and I would still wander from shrub to shrub saying, “Am I hot? Give me a hint.”

Last weekend, while rearranging furniture in an attempt to find my glasses, my teenaged son discovered a plastic egg in one of the nooks in my desk. Inside was a tiny chocolate bar huddled in a faded wrapper.

“Look! It’s one of last year’s Easter Eggs we never found!”

That does it. I’m through with egg hunts. I don’t care if I never see my navel again, but if my chocolate detector is lost, I’ve got nothing left to dye for.