Thursday, September 9, 2010

I see London I see France, where'd your Mom buy those hideous underpants?






Question: I've had an embarrassing situation where a (guy/girl/family/group of people/audience) saw my UNDERPANTS. How do I handle it?


Answer (s):


Hide.


Bury the embarrassment deep down until you take it out during a social function when you're on your 2nd martini.


Throw your 401K money into 15 years of therapy.




What did you think I was going to say? Wear them as a hat? My situation happened way too long ago to be considered emotional scarring, but I'm dramatic, so I still talk about it (when my girlfriends dare me to drink the boxed wine).


If my grandmother buys me the underwear of the week at some point I'll never be able to post that. So you get a cartoon instead.






Before I officially start, we are going to stick to the terms: bloomies, underpants, and underoos. No  amount of money will ever get me to say: panties. I just CANNOT go there. (I sorta just did, but I mean in the grand scheme of my life, I never can mutter it.) You could submit your financial dare, we'll leave it at that.


I don't have this man's waiver signed just yet so I'm unable to use his real name. Let's just say it's something along the lines of Anthony Spumatto. (The name doesn't really affect the story. Feel free to sub in with your evil-doer such as: Matt, Brian, or Bob).

William Zabka, the bully of the 80s. Nope, he wasn't my bully, but for some reason I still want him to pull up in his car and offer me a ride. 


It was first grade. I have fuzzy memories of that year. There are some highlights- like petting a white rabbit for the first time and eating powdered cheese balls. (Obviously not at my house). Those two things actually happened on the same day. I'm sure first graders now have cellphones, boyfriends, and order out sushi for lunch...life was simpler back in 19XX.


We'll probably find out in the next 10 years that if women didn't ingest these 'they' (smart people) would have been able to develop that new cream so we'd never have to shave our legs again.



It was right after lunch and we had just come off the playground. Sweaty, flushed faces and dirt under our fingernails from throwing gravel at each other in the church parking lot. Being in catholic school meant we should be orderly, quiet, and in our seats. That rarely happened.

Disheveled from the twisting and pulling during the game of tag and really--the combination of rayon and polyester? I'm obviously not writing this in my latest Diane Von Muchodollar wrap dress but the uniform I wore for 8 years didn't help my hive situation.

We're all settling into our afternoon routing of stealing each other's crayons (black was the favorite because then you could outline all of your drawings). No one ever wanted to share the black crayon for fear of losing the pointy'ness'. It was quite the gamble to give it away and get it back all rounded and flat. Luckily the rich kids had their boxes of 64 and would let me borrow burnt cyan.

This is artistic, but honestly that pink crayon would stress me out. Who used so much of it?



Our teacher is calling us up one by one. Mrs. Marinara (no, not her real name but it rhymes, I'm Italian, and I'm hungry so...there you go) is yelling about the chaos. My name is called and I head towards the front of the room. I was handed back my phonics workbook and Mrs. M. wasn't happy that even though my work was correct, I colored all of the pictures yellow. And I'll add that I didn't even bother to stay in the lines. A bit outside of my o.c.d. personality. I would say that this was my first move at sarcasm but I nailed that personality trait the day I sashayed out of my mother's womb (we'll get to that later).

I gave Mrs. Marinara the hair eyeball (or eye roll) and explained that if I got all of my answers right-is it really important to color the tree and pineapple to perfection? Really? With a huff the book was dropped into my hand and I swiveled around to head back to my seat.

OK so here's where UNDERWEAR comes in. All tangents aside.


It was like it happened in slow motion. If I could give the slow motion a parallel I would pick ESPN plays of the week.  Hey! I was in first grade, these moments all happened in slow motion.

I'm walking back to my desk and about five yards into my stride I hit something. My left foot fumbled, my hands went up, and I lost my grip on my perfectly wrapped contact covered phonics book. I was going down for the count.

Our uniforms weren't so flamboyant, but other than the awesome position, this was me about to flip over.


 My foot hit something because I'm pretty sure my body did a perfect ice skater's twist in the air--except it wasn't perfect at all. My white shirt untucked itself from my ironed pleated skirt and I let out a gasp as I hit the dark green brown carpeting with a thud. My skirt, always so perfectly at my knees was now around my waist and EVERYONE was staring at me. I'm pretty sure in that moment-time stopped and all students at Saint Francis found a way to turn their eyeballs into supersonic eyeballs that burned through three layers of concrete, asbestos, linoleum tiles and really harsh unflattering ceiling lights to see 


ME-laying on the floor with my underwear exposed.

MY UNDERWEAR. OUT in the OPEN for everyone.

As I'm writing this I'm sure there have been at least 500 girls somewhere in the world on spring break that have voluntarily taken off their tops, and bottoms, and are parading around naked. Sigh. One day those girls will be stripper grandmas.

I'm laying on the smelly first grade carpet, frozen in time.  Anthony Spumatto got his glance, tucked his tripping foot back under his desk, and like everyone else in class, went back to coloring and post recess sweating. 

I never wore that pair again. Thank god it wasn't my wonder woman, spiderman, or incredible hulk garments. OR maybe if I was wearing my super underoos I would've been able to jump up kung fu style to dole out a serious wedgie that would have given me cool status for the next 7 years at St. Francis.


Ok, I get it. Nothing would've increased my cool status at Saint Francis. My MOTHER worked there. But that my friends, is for another story.

I have a feeling if they brought these back, people at work would start flashing. Not a pretty sight. And maybe I just realized I work with a bunch of potential flashers.










Tuesday, September 7, 2010

You wanna ride or do you want pancakes?


Question: I'm embarrassed about my car. I offer to drive everywhere and no one let's me drive. What should I do?

Answer(s):

What does your grandma's ride look like? Usually the seniors have the sweetest cars with about 80 miles on them. And by sweetest, I meant no dents and low mileage.

Try trading your car in for one of those cars with an entire decal. Then you can say,"Yeah but at least I'm advertising for Pampers and not Metamucil, I mean, it's KINDA funny, right?"

Can you hot wire someone's car at work? Actually, I can't support this, I don't even have enough cash to get myself out of jail. Adventure at your own risk.

Pretend that you inherited the car from someone in the family. "Yeah, I mean Uncle Bob really took an interest in me, so he passed this along. Hey, my next ride is going to be sweeeeeeeet."

Or, if you're me, you can pretend you drive an under cover cop car. See below:



"Hi. Yeah, I'm talking to you (wink, wink)."


"You wanna ride? Where you headed?" 


I said,"Grandma, where are we going since I'm driving you?!"


Hyundai Sonata 2010 steel blue. That's my ride, and I know you're not running to your front door waiting for me to pull into the driveway. The 2011 version is selling at RECORD PACE and that's me quoting numerous auto sites.



My sweet blue heaven/undercover lover is selling to get the remainders off the lot.


dad took a photo with me and my new cop car- don't ask him to e-mail images, new computers really stress him out.


I didn't just fall into this family sedan option (sans family). There's a backstory of my athletic attempt at trying to get to a 4 mile race on a Sunday followed by mad shoe shopping only to be indefinitely postponed because Mrs.RangeRoverMoveOver slammed into the back of my previous sleek 4 wheeler while proofreading a pancake sign and neglecting to STOP.

<breathe>



Mrs. RangeRoverMoveOver was reading a pancake sign. And that was the death of my ride. A sunroof, soft grey leather seats, a hatchback that held the possibilities of too much camping equipment and borrowed snowboards. I mourned and tried to squeeze out a few tears as I tripped on valium for my neck and back. It was mostly impossible because I was too busy daydreaming about mechanical pencils and eating marshmallows. I also thought about making pancakes and leaving them piping hot on the door step of Mrs.RangeRoverMoveOver. 

"Here you go lady, apparently you love yourself a stack of pancakes."

It's like in the movies, where the bully leaves a flaming bag of dog poo on someone's doorstep. Then the owner comes out and angrily stomps on the bag only to get the poo on his shoe. (I don't even think you needed that explanation but the rhyming kept me going.) Nevertheless my steaming pancakes would be in the vain of the bully but with sweet sarcasm and maybe draw some emotion. (and the audience says,"awwww" all at the same time).

In record time my father test drove everything similar in sight. He called me from every dealership dealing with my,"Absolutely not! Who do you think I am? A millllionaaaaare?" comments.

eloise illustrating how i was acting on the phone because i am SO busy and mad at pancake lady.

Five to seven business days later, I had myself a car. A cop'ish' car. Which initially I thought was beneficial in case a cop wants to pull me over. See scenario.

Shortest Car Fake-out Cop Play             by: Amy Porpora

Scene: a road, slightly slick (cause that's cool), breezy winds (wait, can that happen?)

Amy: radio is blaring, 'Life Is A Highway' and she taps her fingers on the steering wheel. She's headed home and is putting the pedal to the metal leaving behind the stresses of work.

Cop inside Cop Car: mumbling to himself,"Hey that car is going a little fast. Oh wait, it must be George from the precinct heading home."

THE END
*note: Life Is A Highway is actually one of my favorite songs.



So back to present day. Which is me, now, writing, as my undercover lover, my blue heaven, fake cop car sits out in the company parking lot. He waits for me with sad eyes as I laugh and make senior citizen jokes:

"Dad, seriously, this car came with oatmeal packets when I bought it."

"Dad, I play this game in my car...when I pass another Hyundai Sonata 2010, I break the demographic profile EVERY time. Usually the driver is over 60!"

"Dad, thanks a lot, you're killing my single lady game. Should I be hitting up bingo halls?"

"Dad, when I said I wanted a sugar daddy, I didn't mean I want to pick up an 80 yr. old diabetic and learn how to fold his walker in my sedan sized trunk."

"Dad, seriously, you just conned me into buying an old person's car. I'll trade you when you get a new one. It just makes sense."

"Dad, if they have an annual picnic for people who own the Hyundai Sonata 2010, everyone there is going to think I drove my grandmother's car for her."


And as my ridiculous jokes sprinkle every phone, dinner, and email conversation-- my dad and I just feel comfort in knowing that pancake lady only got me addicted to valium for 48 hours (I have renewed love for mechanical pencils), and that even though my old black stallion is sitting in a metal yard, not only do I have new material to keep friends laughing but I've got the best damn family sedan for 2010.

but it's labor day

Question: Should you take advantage of the FREE radio advertising for online dating during a holiday weekend?


Answer(s)


1. What holiday is it? If it's a winter holiday, chances are you might be snow bound and your Aunt Gertie and Uncle Brian who incessantly bicker and give you gifts that make you want to learn how to build a cherry bomb, my answer is: go for it. Maybe you can meet an engineer and make cherry bombs together. Or at least make out on a date. I gather you're going for the latter instead.


2. If it's a summer holiday, think of all the people watching you're missing out on. AND if you love people watching, then you're potentially missing out on Mr./Mrs. Right who might be people watching right next to you. Can you imagine how cool your wedding would be? Invite strangers and people watch over some really good cake. Can I be invited?

If my answers haven't been helpful, then maybe this funny story will deter you from my horrible suggestions:





My dad and I are were driving around this past weekend, running errands. The usual is sarcastic banter with a mix of lecture about how I need to keep my life on track. 

Dad: Amy, so you're saving money so you can buy a place--right? Maybe next year at this time you'll have a townhouse.

Amy: When I think of nursing homes, right now the one you'll be residing at doesn't have a pool or ramps. I think they serve jello as main meals too. Are you picking up what I'm putting down?

Dad: rolls his eyes

Amy: rolls her eyes HARDER. (trust me, I'm the master at rolling my eyes).

So, back to Labor Day. We're in my car and my dad brings up online dating. Not only did I roll my eyes, but I'm pretty sure my left eyeball rolled out of its socket. To deter my defenses I bring the conversation to the marketing behind online dating.

For instance...the advertisement over the radio for online dating was: "Labor Day weekend means FREE communicating for e*harmonizing!" (or a site such as). 

this is definitely what my dad thinks is on the other side of the computer when he hears online dating. and i went with a redhead model because then i can pretend this is my mom and not get creeped out that my dad is imagining other women.


That seems kind of counter productive right? 

After a full day of work in front of the computer, the LAST thing I'd want to do is get back on the computer when I get home. I'm taking an online class too, so my eyes are practically bleeding by 8PM. 

My only parallel would be 'beer goggles.' I'm going to try to select Mr. Right after being on the computer for a solid 10 hours. And of all weekends to be 'FREE to communicate' shouldn't someone take advantage of the beach, bbqs and family parties to get OUT and meet someone? 

there is a reason why this poster is in almost every guy's room in college. yet everyone makes the same mistake over and over and over and over...don't lie.


Me,"Um it's Labor Day so instead of hitting the beach or going to XYZ's bbq, I'm staying in, throwing on sweats and working on my dating profile. What Mr. Right is staying IN? It kind of negates all the profiles that say he/she likes hiking, going to the beach, being outdoors, swimming, walking their dog....

I guess if you're a World of Web Wars fan then this extra free weekend is like a birthday gift all wrapped up in a pretty bow. Let me know what that gift looks like after you tear off the wrapping paper. I'm pretty sure socializing with my grandmother and her senior citizen crew on Labor Day not only had a slamming apple pie but if I missed Mr. Right online, I'm ok with it. My tan is a shoe-in until the last weekend in September.

i named this .jpeg 'romeo' and you know what- he might just have a slammin' body, cruising the streets of santa monica in my dream car. i don't know what my dream car is yet, but i bet this guy has it beat.