Monday, December 5, 2011

Bottoming Out

Morning Readers,

     I make it somewhat of a priority to never look at my rear. The few times I have, since the babies, it's taken eight weeks of being in a coma, three session of hypnotherapy and a five-thousand-dollar medical bill to put my mind at ease again. But, Friday (not "Butt Friday"), I decided to take a gander. My hair, looking like it'd just hosted a cock fight, gave me hope that, whatever I found back there, had a great chance of lifting my spirits, or, at the very least, would keep me running in neutral long enough to make it to fill out my application for America's Next Top Model. Turns out, I should be more frightened by the state of my pants than the quality of my caboose...

     On the count of three, I whipped my gaze around.Where my butt had been, resided a curiosity shop of things. To the left, a splotch of liquified graham cracker similar in appearance to the state of Texas. Tiny cowboys rode over the border to a chocolate chip Oklahoma...a waffle tumble weed got ready to make a relaxing trip down the syrup river flowing along the left calf. In mustard, a sign read, "Now Entering Baton Rouge".

     The food didn't bother me so much. It wasn't until I was loading the babies into the car and started the ignition, simultaneously, I started to wonder. "You two start my car?"

     "Bah."

     We could've blamed a sheep, but a little investigation revealed the car keys had also gotten stuck to my rear, latched onto the waffle-weed, and fired the car to life. Huh. I wondered what else was hiding on my rear I didn't know about.

     That evening, I laid my pants out on the bed and took a good look. Quickly, I called down to Husband. "Hey, remember when I told you we had no life savings because I lost it? Turns out I was sitting on it. You can go ahead and pick out any retirement home that strikes your fancy."

     A voice floated up the stairs. "Hot dog."

     Next, I had to call the IRS. "Hello, Tax Man. You're not the Tax Man? He's the Tax Man? Well, when you find him, let him know I found the papers to file for 2003. Yep, stuck to my pants. Never mind what kind of pants. You already took the shirt off my back."

     "Hello, Mrs. Kane? I found your poodle. Yep, figured out what that "cotton ball" stuck to my haunch was."

     "Hi, Doctor. It turns out I did have all those pills. You wouldn't believe what can stick to a poly-cotton blend....uh huh.... if you insist. I'll bring them back on Monday. Wait..all of them?"

     "Hello, police? Are you still looking for that fugitive? Ok, but you better get here quick. I don't know how long the caramel he's stuck to will hold.

     We had a TV remote again, I found a back issue of People magazine I'd missed out on - I'd finally get to find out what happened with the 1992 election - and four spare laundry baskets there isn't storage space for.

     Before I fell asleep, I got a call from the couple across the street, thanking me for bringing back their snowman and Christmas lights from last year. The wise man wasn't theirs, but they'd go ahead and give it back to the church I walked past last year.

The next time you're out and see a mother with stuff stuck to her butt, just smile and don't say anything...unless you see something of your tax forms stuck back there...

Have you ever found anything embarrassing stuck to you?

Until Next Time, Readers!