The Dual Purpose Panties

At the risk of being labeled a germaphobe, I have been a wee bit concerned about my upcoming flight to New Zealand.  I'll be flying 45% of the way around the world.  Aboard a Petri dish.

So you can imagine my excitement when I saw the latest product on the Japan Trend Shop web site: the Pantsu Mask.  

If I had my own Pantsu Mask I would no longer have to worry about any nasty airborne germs.

Not to mention the secondary product benefits.  I mean,  who would want to talk to someone wearing a pair of panties on her face?

You’ve all been there.  Chatty Cathy sits down next to you and immediately asks you where you’re from.

“Oh!  You’re from Columbia?  What a coincidence!  My sister’s niece went to Columbia College.  It was her sister-in-law’s daughter, otherwise she would have been my niece, too.  Or my daughter.  (Giggles)  That’s so funny.  But I don’t have any girls.  Just three strapping boys.  My oldest….”

I decided to order the Pantsu Mask.

But it won’t be available until September 23!

I’ll be back from New Zealand way before then.  Probably suffering from some nasty strain of flu I picked up in that Petri dish. 

Or Ebola.

The Japan Trend Shop web site sells other face masks.  I considered the Doraemon Gonoturn Face Mask but it seemed so, I don’t know.... juvenile.  

And even worse- a potential conversation starter.

I love this one, but I thought it might land me in some New Zealand prison.

  
I am not taking any chances on this vacation.  I decided to make my own.

It really was quite easy, for a Nerdling as creative as me.  I didn't even have to drive to the Dollar Store:

It will work perfectly, protecting me from both germs and gabs.

If only I could get it away from Kevin.  He thinks it's some kind of doggie ascot.

Which is absolutely ridiculous.  Who would make a doggie ascot out of panties?

Chip Off the Old Block

It was a work of art.  The most realistic fake turd I’d ever seen.  Artfully created from the Poo-Dough kit I’d purchased at Walmart.

I stealthily crept into Linda's bathroom, even though I knew she wasn’t home.  (Stealth always adds to the adventure.)  I giggled as I placed the turd on the toilet seat at just the right angle.

I waited impatiently for several minutes before calling her to see when she'd be home.

“Um, when are you coming home?” I asked, attempting to sound normal.

“I don't know, why?”

“Just wondering,”  I said, and hung up before she got suspicious.

I walked back upstairs to admire my artwork.

  
Still there.

Linda came home about 20 minutes later with her friend Katerina and they went right upstairs to her room.  Perfect.

I waited.  And giggled in anticipation.  I could just hear it:  “Mom!!!” Linda would say and roll her eyes, pretending to be embarrassed at her immature Mom, while inwardly proud that she has the coolest mom of all.

I waited.  And waited.

Nothing.

I decided to check in on the situation.  Linda’s door was cracked open and girls were chit-chatting away.

They must not have seen it yet. 

I peeked into the bathroom. 

The turd was gone.  Vanished!
 
It was inexplicable.  How could the girls not have reacted to a fake turd on the toilet seat?  They should have screamed!!!

And where had the turd gone?  

My question was answered as I looked in the toilet and saw a dark shadow lurking deep in the exit tunnel. 

I was bewildered.  I had no choice but to approach the girls. 

“Hi,” I said as I entered the bedroom.

“What?” asked Linda.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Talking….. Mom what do you want?” Linda asked, getting annoyed. As usual.

“So,….” I said, looking from one suspect to the other, wondering who pushed the poop into the toilet.  Clearly, one of them was guilty.

But why had they not reacted?  Screamed.  Or Laughed.  Or something.  

It was incomprehensible.

I told Linda I needed to talk to her in private.

I came clean about my “prank” and suggested that Katerina pushed the poop. But Katerina promptly pleaded innocent to any and all wrongdoing. 

Linda said, “Kevin must have eaten it.”

"Kevin didn't eat it,"  I said. “I think it’s in the toilet.”

We walked to the crime scene and looked into the bowl.  The girls gave a collective, “Gross.”

I was about to flush when it occurred to me that play dough may not be flushable.  I reluctantly grabbed a handful of toilet paper and got on my knees to begin my fishing expedition.

As I attempted to wrap toilet paper around the elusive, slippery turd, I had the most distressing, disgusting epiphany.  Ever.

If Linda and Katerina wanted to prank me back, what would they do?

I know what I would do.  

OMG.  I was fishing a real turd out of the toilet.

Or was I?  God please don’t let her be a chip off the old block.

But then I remembered that the girls are not nearly as crafty and clever (or immature) as I am.  

It was just a soggy, very realistic Play-dough turd.

That thankfully, didn’t smell.

Sweeping Beauty

I fully expected my new Broom and Dustpan Shoes to make cleaning less arduous.  More fun.  

But I had no idea that they would help me become a better ballerina!

I'm getting ahead of myself. 

My Broom and Dustpan Shoes were simple to make.   I found an adorable miniature broom and dustpan set at the Dollar Store.  Then I cut the toes out of a pair of old shoes and stuck the handles into the holes.

My Broom and Dustpan Shoes fit perfectly.  Not unlike Cinderella's slippers.  (Note the irony.)

It wasn't until I started using my new Broom and Dustpan Shoes that I realized the balance, grace and elegance necessary to complete my household chores.

Let's just say that it would be way easier to use my hands.    

But that would be boring.  I could do this!  I just needed some inspiration.

So I turned on some Swan Lake music and put on a leotard.  And my Dance Your Ass Off t-shirt (since I couldn't find my tutu).

I used a barre stool for balance and was ready to go.

"Look, Dave!" I announced enthusiastically, "I see some pretzel crumbs on the floor.  Watch me sweep them up."  I danced my way over to the mess, did a demi- plie and swept the big pieces into the dustpan.  

I turned to Dave expecting applause.

"Wouldn't it be easier to use your hands?" he said. 

"You're missing the pointe,"  I said, chuckling at my clever pun.   I did a pirouette and swept up some of the smaller pieces."

"You missed a bunch of crumbs," Dave said.  "You better dance harder."

"Who are you, Dance Mom?"  I said, beginning to get annoyed.  

I did a pas de chat (without falling over) and attempted to sweep the remaining crumbs into the dustpan.  But my right foot fluttered and half of the pretzel crumbs fell back onto the floor.

Dave was beginning to enjoy the entertainment.

I reverted back to my demi-plie, since it had been effective on my first attempt.  But by the time I got the big pieces back into the dustpan my calves and thighs were on fire. 

Then I had another idea.

"Here, Kevin! "

"Want a treat"?

Daddle Up!

When I purchased the gift for my friend Jamie's baby shower I played it safe.  Got something they registered for.

No Nosefrida.  Or Pee-pee Teepees.

And, of course, NOW that the gift is bought and wrapped, I find the most perfect gift EVER. 

The Daddle. 

The Daddle is just what it sounds like.  A saddle for Dads so they can safely give their kids horsey back rides.  

We definitely don't want Danny to sustain any back injuries.

Being the sharp consumer that I am, I did my homework.  Read some Amazon reviews.  The first one pointed out a liability I hadn't thought of.  Better warn Danny.

"as much as i love using this with my kids, i have to remind myself that sometimes they're still on my back and i need to get them off first before i stand up. other than that it's hours of fun."

It looks like the Daddle can be educational, based on this next review:

"After wearing this, I was able to learn how to count by pounding one of my "hands" against the ground. Also, when I'm being a bit too quiet for her taste, my wife rubs some peanut butter on my gums and we have long, thoughtful conversations...of course, of course."

OMG!  It looks like one shopper put his Daddle to use on his Grandmother?
 

"The first time I saw the daddle I knew it was the perfect solution for my grandmother to get up her pesky stairs. No longer are we burdened with an expensive mobilized system for her stairs, instead, her gardener strapps on the daddle, or it our house we call it the "gradddle" and escorts her up the stairs. Only once has the graddle failed us when she couldn't quite make it to the bathroom in time. Maybe daddle should think about a waterproof version???  I would deffinately reccomend this product for aging relitives. Forget the mobilized scooter or segway's- the graddle is so much more sustainable."

I'd better warn Danny to make sure he uses his Daddle the correct way.  It looks like the instructions may not be totally clear:

"I am posting this review to warn the myriad of Dad's out there who may very well be walking into a trap; and not even realizing it.  You must be extremely careful with how you use this product, because APPARENTLY there is correct and an incorrect way to use the freakin thing. I can't tell you how many times we tried to use with the kids, and it was just whine whine whine whine... "Daddy, I can't breathe", "Daddy, you're so heavy", "please Daddy get off, you're crushing me!" I love the product - I do... but man - the name is just SO misleading!"

 

You know what?  I've read enough.  I think the Daddle is way too risky. 

 I’m going to stick with the Po-Knee.

Falling off the Pedestal

It was a typical research team meeting.  The three of us have worked so long together that we’re like Sam, Norm and Cliff from Cheers.  

(Shut up.  Don’t tell me I’m old.  Google it.)

I walked into the meeting all wound up about Tom Brady’s Facebook post, where he denied any and all wrong-doing:  "The fact is that neither I, nor any equipment person, did anything of which we have been accused."

Oh, really Tom?  Not even the guy who called himself The Deflator?  Hmmm. 

I told Christine and Jeff about how all the comments underneath the post were like, “This is so unfair!” and “I know you would never do this!” and “You are still my HERO, Tom!”

Christine, our token softie, said, “You know, they’re probably just very loyal fans who have a hard time accepting the fact that their hero isn’t all they thought he was.  Try to put yourself in their shoes.”

That’s when I had my epiphany.

 “OMG!”  I shouted.  “This is exactly like what Bills’ fans went through with O.J.!”

Christine and Jeff looked at me like I’d deflated a football in a playoff series.

“Yeah,” Jeff observed, “If you want to compare a double homicide to cheating.”
 
Book at the similarities: they were both celebrity football stars married to super-models. Well, until O.J. murdered his.

Oh, yeah.  I know exactly how Patriots fans feel.

Because, I was the last person in the United States- maybe the entire English speaking world- to believe that O.J Simpson was guilty.

I mean, I would go to the mat for O.J., saying things like, “This is so unfair!” and “I know you would never do this!” and “You are still my HERO, O.J.”

During his infamous Bronco escape attempt I was saying, “Run, O.J., run!”  I figured he was on his way to visit impoverished children with cancer in a Mexican hospital.  Or something else heroic like that.

When the glove didn’t fit I said, “I knew it!!!  O.J. wouldn’t harm a flea.”

It wasn’t until I heard his sister-in-law testify in tears about O.J.’s assaults on his wife that reality set in.  

O.J. was guilty as sin.

Yes.  I can completely empathize with Patriots fans who continue to believe Tom Brady’s lame denials.   He has fallen off his pedestal.  Just like O.J.   

Jeff may be right.  I probably shouldn’t compare a homicidal manic to a cheater. 

But I can’t resist.