1) Orange-peel colored wedge shoes were not made to run in, nor are they the best choice for jumping concrete half-walls when late to your brother-in-law's rock concert. Perhaps, they could even be blamed for an embarrassing, ankle-turning fall in front of angst-ridden, abundantly pierced teenagers. They could consequently be blamed for a limping escape from The Gossie Room at The Palms while scantily clad, surgically enhanced, intoxicated women watched. One might also hold them responsible for a particularly painful memory: Picture the JKHB circa 1995, a young BYU-coed on her first day of school is descending the stairs. She sees him. He is beautiful. The word fits. He is tall and has muscles in all the right places. She watches him as he effortlessly swings his backpack on his shoulder--his biceps briefly bulging. It's enough. He notices her staring. It's fate. They are star-crossed lovers, she decides as she steps down another stair. One more stair and they are married. Another stair and they have three beautiful children: Ryan Michael, Oceana, and can't decide on the third name. He will, of course, sweetly leave that up to her, she decides. He is that type of guy. Did you see those blue eyes? She misses a step. She falls. She lands at his feet, her ankle twisted and sprained. (She will not find out this bit of information until she crosses campus, catches a bus back to her apartment, makes it to her second floor apartment only to realize she forgot her keys, she will crawl across the complex to the main office to get a key, open the apartment, have a good cry, call her mom, crawl back to the office to return said key, cry more, wait for roommate to return to drive her to the health center, wait FOREVER, cry more, swear she will never day dream again , give up men, promise to become a spinster and finally receive the news that she will be unable to participate in powder puff football for six weeks.) He is nice. He asks if she is okay. She is purple with embarrassment. She mumbles yes and hobbles off as fast as she can. She never sees him again and is glad. She can't afford to sprain her other ankle...
2)
a) I may or may not sometimes put my iphone in my bra. Max, who always seems to be in search for the phone has noticed. He has taken to pulling at my shirt and looking down it and then putting his hands up in the air. shrugging his shoulders and asking where it is. However, this looking down my shirt and asking where it is motion might be interpreted in a not so flattering way. He likes to do this in public.
b) We were at Kate's soccer practice. Max had my iphone, of course. I was nicely chatting up one of the girls' fathers while Max was trying to put the phone down his shirt into his imaginary bra pocket. The Dad noticed and started laughing. He so got it. AH!!! I think maybe I should teach Max some nice swear words. So much less awkward.
3) I discovered the other day that Jackson forgot to wear underwear to school. We have spur of the moment underwear checks daily at our house now. We have about a 50/50 success rate. As Jackson says, "Why do we HAVE to wear underwear Mom?" Do they call Child Protective services if you send your child to school without his briefs??
6 comments:
So good. Soooooo good.
I, too, stick my iPhone in my bra. When I do the dishes, I stick it in there, speaker side up so I can hear my podcast. I also have been known to do it when I talk on the phone, need to be hands free and can't get to my ear bud/head set. Doesn't that entice you to call me more often, knowing I'll be talking to you from my bra?
Annie, it leads me to ponder the question: If bra's could talk what would they say? It also thrills me to my bra straps to know that we can now have bra to bra conversations. I feel so close to you.
Wow. That ankle story beats the time at Track practice in 9th grade when I asked Marcus (hot 11th grader with sandy blonde curly hair) to teach me to pole vault, and right then slipped in the fresh wet mud, covering my backside with swampy dirt whilst a cute, skinny 11th grade girl guffawed. At least I didn't have to go to the Health Center afterwards.
The whole bra-phone-holder-idea is brilliant. Only, to be true, my phone would probably get lost in there.
My mother-in-law keeps her phone in her bra too. We were out somewhere and it starting ringing. My niece said quite loudly, "Grandma, your boob is ringing!"
Sarah, I do NOT remember that story. But it's a good one.
Maybe Apple will create an iPhone hook that further secures your iPhone to its Bra Bjorn. Could be good...never can be too careful....
thank you, erica. i needed a good laugh. you never cease to make me smile/laugh with your witty and wonderfully written stories! :) laurel
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