Life is Never Pretty

I felt hope.  I felt grateful.

And it came sweeping over me with such gentle surprise.

You see, I've been sinking.  We haven't been in the best health over here for a little while.  I shower once a week.  Literally.  I don't get dressed.  Heaps of dirty and clean laundry are scattered.  I think I vacuumed last in 2011.  The bottom of my white porcelain sink is orangy/brown.  We eat food out of boxes.  A new herd of fruit flies have moved in.  Big ones.  Twice the size of normal ones.  And they don't like my fruit fly trap.

My bathroom is ripped to shreds.  It has a functioning shower and toilet.  But no sink.  Which means nobody washes their hands anymore.  Nor do we brush our teeth.

The sheets on the bed?  Thank goodness Big D hasn't brought me "down-town" in awhile.  Otherwise we'd be sleeping in crunch.  Because that's how much I'm sinking.

There is no dinner.  There are no thoughts of dinner.

And sometimes I sleep.  And sometimes I don't.  It all depends on how gracious Ed is.  And if the stars align in their magical pattern.  And if "cozy" (his blanket) is perfectly perched upon body.  And if he can find his "hole" in blue.  And if pink cat is present, but not hogging his personal space.  And whether or not he needs to pee or have a drink.  Or a snuggle.

And that's just during the night.

The days are far worse.  With so much screaming and crying.

And Murnice fights me every second.  If I take two breaths, she's off and playing.  Because there is nothing more fanciful, than to play when there's school to do.  Elaborate and thorough games.

But today, as I was sitting, taking my daily, convulsive, diarrhea-squirt session, I felt it.  I felt a wave of gratitude.

I don't know where it came from.  Or why it decided to show up.  Or why it thought I was worthy.  But I really liked that fleeting moment.  I really liked feeling hopeful.

Honestly I didn't realize I was sinking this much, until I breathed fresh.

I wouldn't mind a prayer or two.

The end.

Bigger is Better, But Wisdom is Best

I knew it was going to happen.  Or at least I was prepared for when it did happen.

You see, one of my spiritual gifts happens to be intuition and discernment.  It's a blessing and a curse.  And maybe I'll talk more about that another time.

I became "aware" about two weeks ago.  It was a Friday night.  Friday Friend party night!!! . . . . . except I had a nervy feeling in my stomach about work the next morning.  (I run a swim lesson program)  I wasn't sure if I was just being a wench or my "feelings" were legit.

So I went exploring.  And my mind's eye came up with a picture.

In my home town there's this really neat family.  It's a pastor and his family.  And a couple of years ago they adopted 3 teenagers from the Ukraine.  Two of the kids come to swim lessons on Saturday, and one of those kids is a daredevil on the diving board.  He's good.  And fearless.  All the makings you need to be a diver.

My mind picture was of this daredevil hitting the diving board with his head.  He would need to be backboarded. And it was going to happen right at the end of swim lessons, when the whistle was blown.

I hated it.  But I prayed over it.  Asking God to please let that not happen.  But if he did, to please cover me in wisdom, as I would be the one to be making the calls.

I prayed real hard.  And I went over and over, in my head, the drill for backboarding a victim.  And nothing happened that Saturday.  And I breathed.

Fast forward to last night.  Having moved on from my nervy feelings . . . . I wasn't thinking about diving board accidents anymore.

Tuesday night is homeschool swim.  I bring Murnice and Ed for a lesson. Mother runs the program.  Sometimes I lifeguard.  Sometimes I teach a lesson.  Last night I lifeguarded.  Mother was playing with Ed in the shallow end while she chatted with me.  The whistle blew to signal the end of class.  And the divingboard made a horrific sound.

I looked up to see 3 adults rush to the divingboard.  I knew somebody had hit it.  And then saw that it had been B.B. Bobby.  He was at the edge of the pool.  Which was a good sign that he could move.  I started yelling "DID HE HIT THE BOARD" as I ran down to the deep end.

After about the fifth time of asking the question, somebody finally said "yes, he split his head".

B.B.Bobby is out of the pool at this point, bent over, blooding running down his face.  I take this all in as I grabbed the backboard and start ripping the velcro to shreds.

I'm yelling out commands, "CALL 911" and "HELP ME GET HIM ON THE BACKBOARD".

Immediately about 5 adults surrounded me and start yelling at me, "HOW DO WE HELP?"

This is funny to me.  You know how in fast moving events, its blurred?  So I wonder if what I was saying was actually making sense to bystanders?  And then I wonder if I even answered their questions?  Or if I just did it myself?

I remember throwing my hands up in the air at one point because I couldn't even get to all the straps because there were so many people surrounded him - supporting and gauzing and evaluating.

And then he was finally on the board, properly.  Strapped.  Immobilized.  He was nauseous and dizzy.  And then there's ice.

B.B.Bob was breathing and conscious.  The ambulance was on their way.  And then I realized, Ed was missing.  I didn't see him anywhere in the mass of people.  I yelled real loud.  Three times.  "WHERE'S MY SON".

And there he was.  Wrapped in a towel, sitting.  By Murnice.  Guarded by the lovliest mom.  She shared herself.  Her time.  While others took care of her children.

And then we waited.

I kept going over check lists in my head of what needed to be done.  I not only needed to observe the happenings with B.B.Bobby, but there was paper work, and disinfecting, and kids that needed to be taken care of, and dazed parents that needed to be walked step by step through simple directions - such as how to get dressed, a pool to generally organize and lock up, cars and belongings to collect and be driven back to Mothers - since she was going on the ambulance ride, and organizing helpers to stand in the parking lot to direct the ambulance to the correct door.  Since Father wasn't answering the phone he needed to be personally got, along with warm clothes and cell phones. And phone calls to later evening funs had to be cancelled. 

I am amazed.  I am grateful to the helpfulness of all.  From sitting with smaller children to lending underwear.  Standing in the cold outdoors with just a bathing suit to guide the EMS to cleaning up the blood bath.  To covering in prayers and not leaving his side with jokes.

I was covered.  I had already prayed 2 weeks before.  Wisdom.  It was the most perfect, worst accident the pool of 30+ years has seen.

8 staples.  No headache.  Nothing broken/fractured/sprained.  Bloody and bruised, yes.  His hands are very tender and swollen.  And they are the worst of it, pain wise.

I believe with all my heart that that accident was meant for the daredevil diver.  I believe with all my heart that my prayer changed what was meant to be.  And God was gracious and so perfect.

My heart is full of Thanksgiving.

I Will Not Swallow

I named her Mother Green Toes, because that's what she is.  She's a mother to a large car load of kids.  And she does things that would put a green-thumber to shame.

I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.

These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1)  Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2)  Doesn't own a chemical
3)  Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the  best there is
4)  Homebirths
5)  Grinds her own flour
6)  Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7)  Her make-up is from the holy earth
8)  Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9)  For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into

But she does like her fancy cheese.  And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method.  (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)

The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner.  And it's good stuff.  But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.

Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time.  And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion.  Eggs and muffins.  Naturally I agreed.

Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs.  So perfect.

But the next thing that happened was not perfect.  It was quite confusing. 

I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex.  I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.

And then I didn't know what to do.  I was a guest.  And I had a hostess.  And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more.  And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".

No, that's not appropriate at all.

But that's exactly what I did.  I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too.  There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid.  And you can't think. And you don't care.  But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.

Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?

Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?

A Typical Day With Ed

My day with naughty Ed as gone like this:

6:58 am
*SCREAMING*  "I want to get up"  repeatedly.  Loudly.  With lots of "moms".

I said no.  Because it wasn't quite 7.  And that's the rule.  And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .

I really thought he fell back asleep.  There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes.  And I thought it was my lucky day.  And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift.  And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.

But then he started yelling again.  And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.

And then there was much fawning over my breasts.  Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly.  And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle".  He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".

Now, not to brag or anything.  But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with.  But it's not soft.  Or squishy.  Or, lovely.  On any level.  But I do have nipples.

And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began.  I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk.  I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table.  In the wrong spot, of course.

And then more screaming.  Because he wanted to be spoon fed.

Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child.  My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.

Well, that attitude really got him going.  Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed.  Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.

In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down.  Picked up his bowl with both hands.  And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out.  Every last bit.  And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.

That was how my day began.  And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB".  It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.

I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library.  Which just sounds boringly naughty.  It was.  But it adds.

He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot.  Followed by snickers and chuckles.

And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.

And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.

I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday.  #1 - It's kinda funny.  #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?

Take Aways
1)  greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2)  and then stay home, forever.
3)  I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4)  I haven't worn makeup in months.  I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5)  Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes.  But in a really bad way.
6)  I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7)  Wah!
8)  Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.

Worst Aunt

I'm assuming that when normal people get the opportunity to have nieces or nephews, there is this push to be grander than all the rest.  I'm assuming that normal people want to be the coolest, or the nicest.  They want to be thought of, fondly.  And with smiles.

But not me.  I try to be as miserable as I can.  I like to say horrible things that send small children screaming for their mother or father's knees.

I contributed to many non-applause worthy acts, during my travels.  All of which I am pleased as punch about.

But two of my favorite, go like this:

1)  I was home alone with all 6 kids.  (2 of mine, and 4 of B.B. Chuck and Mother Green Toes )  And Chuck has this wooden toy house.  And the house has 4 different doors on it with 4 different door bells.  It comes with keys. And the kids have to pick the correct key for the correct door.  Well, some dad gum kid locked the keys in one of the doors.

And while I was sitting on a different couch, fiddle-faddling around.   I stuck my smallish sized pinky in the smaller sized hole that was placed in all the doors . . . And I stretched my poor pinky and could actually feel the lock on the inside of the door.

Brilliant idea!  All I needed was a smaller pinky to cram down into the hole to flip the lock!  (And then I would be known as the grandest aunt around.  Restoring loved toys to their rightful players.)

First I grabbed Murnice's pinky.  But her knuckle was too large.  And then I grabbed my 5 year old niece's pinky, Mildred.  Her pinky slipped in like salted butter.  And she felt the lock.  But dreadfully so, her pinky was too stubby to flip the lock.

But then, Mildred started screaming.  And hollering.  "MY PINKY!!!!  HELP!!  OW!! I CAN'T GET!!!!! OWWW!!"

Mildred's pinky was stuck in the wooden house.  And it was just me. And 6 kids.

And I kinda got a little excited.  Wondering if I should just smash the wooden house on the floor.  Hopefully sending it into a million splinters and releasing poor Mildred's pinky.  But Mildred's pinky was attached. . . .  I thought about the chainsaw that hopefully B.B. Chuck had some where.  And then I thought about poor Mildred's pinky getting the blood flow stopped up.  And the swollen factor.  And the screams and yelps of pain.

And then nurse mode took over pig-rat-worst-aunt mode.  And I had a semi-normal thought.  Lets freeze the finger with some cold water and dump a gallon of soap - and hope that something would slippy-slide out. 

Well, a few more roars, and Mildred's pinky was restored to herself.  And then I smiled nicely at her.  And patted her head 7 times.  And thanked the good Lord that no splinters, nor chainsaws were involved.

2)  Something I've picked up over the years, has been to sing before a meal.  Versus praying.  It's lovely.  It allows participation from everyone.  And with singing, it allows for great amounts of energy to be released.

I thought it would be nice to share singing with B.B. Chuck's family.  And since nobody had a better song to sing, - the Doxology it was.  Now with the Doxology, there are some splendid opportunities to really display one's vocal ranges. And I don't know about you - but when I sing that song . . . I. can. not. help. - but to open my mouth as wide and as long as fleshly possible, flutter my eye lashes while rolling my eyes back into my head, and to belt those particular notes that are begging to reverberate off the closest cathedrals stain glassed windows.  Sending them into a monumental, what used to be - of glass shards.

Yes, and I did all of that.  While the poor baby, who was just laid down to sleep - so the poor mother could actually eat dinner, roared awake.

And then I paid my pittance of hiding in the darken corner with the snuffling of horror baby.  So that Mother Green Toes could eat in peace, and with vigor.  Just like she was planning.  Before I showcased my true, great talent.


The end.

Just Call Me the Poop Cleaner

 I started writing this post a few weeks ago when I was at Mothers - and am just now finishing it up.  What I'm trying to say, this is old news.

 ****************************************************************************
I finally made it to the local creamery this week. It was much anticipated - and when things are much anticipated, they taste 31 times better.

A friend and I sat on a table and watched Ed play with the trucks.  And then we watched him poop.  (he was wearing a pull-up)  And we cheered him on, it being the 4th day of no poo.  And we were so thankful that he wasn't wearing his man-unders.  Win win for everyone.

We were finally done licking and chatting, and I decided it was time to go - put Ed to bed since it was dusk.

Now, my friend and I drove separately, and she scurried off - not having a child to drag behind her and such.  But I had a child to drag behind me.  And so began the process.

In my prideful heart, I decided that I was going to have much more success with having Ed obey and come to me when I called to him that it was time to go.  (When we went to get ice cream a few days prior, Big D did not have much success with looking like he was in charge)

So, I authoritatively called Ed to me - and we all know that pride goeth before a fall . . . .  which ended up with me chasing him around like a typical woodchuck brat.  Eventually I grabbed his hand and began the long march to the car which also entailed a tongue lashing.

But my tongue lashing was interrupted when I happened to glance down.
 

Just to help with the visual - Ed was wearing these shoes and pants.

And when I glanced down, I was startled to see a brown glob, the size of a doughnut hole just sitting nicely on top of his shoe.  Upon further investigation and smell, I discovered that it was a shit bomb.

All in about 3.0487 seconds I went through an array of emotions.  Horror, helplessness, hysteria, disgust, and gumption.  I looked up in just enough time to see my friend's tail lights turn on as she sped away.  And realized that I had to go into no-man's-land by myself, with whatever tools I had in my car.

I'm outside, which is a good thing.  But there is no bathroom to hide the unpleasantries of what's going to happen next, which is a bad thing.  This ice cream shop is a business after all. And the only thing I can do to help save all the other guests stomachs, is to open a car door and try to hide behind it.

The problem being:

1)  Ed thought it was now a game of peek-a-boo.

2)  I was not hidden from all the new guests driving in, since we were in the fielded parking lot.

I ended up finding a few half-dried wipe-ups, a bag, and diaper in the car.  For you parents out there, you know how pleasant and lovely it is to take a pair of pants off that is filled with poop.  The sort-of gross mess turns into a full-fledged mud slide.  It's one of those things where it gets worse before it gets better.  And by worse, I mean stooping to the lowest level of humility and humanity.

As I peeled his pants down, it was as if I was in the middle of a boulder avalanche.  Except they were poop boulders.  Flying and splattering. And then I had to make the awful moral decision of using my few dried out wipe-ups to clean up the poop pies in the grass where lots of customers park and walk, or use them on Ed who needed to get into my car to get home.

 I hate making grown-up decisions.  Especially poopy decisions.

 I poopied-scooped the parking lot and then smeared and smeared Ed's butt with my 2 remaining dried wipe-ups.  Not a corner remained white.  I reduced, reused, and recycled those wipes.  Al Gore would have been proud.

It was awful.  Poop was everywhere.  Including up to my elbows and under my fingernails.  And Ed was laughing and still playing peek-a-boo.  And I then had to pack up all that poop and put it into my car.  And pray that the cops weren't called on me.  And cross my fingers that I found all the BM boulders.  And keep my eyes down to not make eye contact.

And I slithered into my car where I grumbled and roared all the way home.  Because this WAS going to be a night where I didn't have to give Ed a bath. . . . .  And all because he bomb shot himself . . . .

I think I was grumpier about the bath giving then the poop cleaning.

Take Aways

1)  Always make sure that you have diapers, wet wipes, and bags if you go ANYWHERE with children.

2)  Never expect to not have to do something.  Because it is inevitable that you'll have to do it anyway.

3)  Also, carry elbow-high rubber gloves with your diaper supplies.

4)  And maybe a privacy curtain.

5)  A power washer?

6)  Or, just leave the babies at home.

Not the Safe Choice

I haven't really talked about this - but I have been interviewing for a job.  A nursey job.  It's been a 2 month process.

It was a perfect opportunity, doing something that I'm ridiculously excited about.  It could not have been a better set up for me - being a stay at home mom - or shall I say, SAHM.

First interview went great.  And that was because I didn't have to say much.  They just wanted to let me know what their business was all about.  And before I left we had set up a second interview.

Second interview was a tad more challenging.  I had to do a lot more tongue flapping.  There were a lot of forehead crinkles at things I would say.  And honestly, I was not expecting to be invited back.

But I was.  For a third time.  And I had the best time at my 3rd.  Maybe I was just getting used to the process.  Or I just decided to be my snazz-sparkle self.  It was glorious.  I walked away expecting not to get the job, but relishing in the fact that I was true down to my toes and that I got a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of funny looks and squirms.

Let me preface what I'm going to say next, by saying that my lie (and everybody has a lie that they're told) is that I'm not good enough.  Such a good lie.  And I believe more than I would like to admit.

I got the call yesterday that let know that they had "found somebody else that fit the job requirements better".

For those of you who have gotten this call for an opportunity that you were a bit stoked about - know the hurt.

First I believed the lie - I'm not good enough.  Then I cried 37 tears.  Then I wondered why it took two months and 3 interviews for them to tell me that I was too rad for them.  Then I started to question myself on how I answered the questions.  Then I got angry at their lack of open heartedness and their inability to take a risk and hire somebody who would rock their world on all the levels that their world is built.

And then I remembered that Jesus only gives us the best.  And that this was a gift.  And I wouldn't cry or feel rage for a perfect gift handed to me from Sally Jones, why should I feel grumpled over this gift - that I know is perfect.

So I'm choosing, choosing this gift.  Refusing the lie, the best I can.  And believing that God is allowing me the chance and opportunity to stay home full time, to homeschool full time, to have playtime with friends full time.  To continue to cook dinner 3x a week and wash poopy underwear full time.  I'm going to choose to trust the bigger and better picture that I can't see, but I'm learning about through experience.

I know in my heart of hearts that I was indeed the perfect person for this job opening.  But  I was not the safe candidate, and I understand a business wanting to make a safe decision.  I wasn't safe because I still have young children at home and the probability of me leaving the company within a few years is great - and training takes up to a year.  Also, they need somebody a tad more conservative in the vocal arena.

Take Aways
1)  Choose to look at the unpleasantries as a gift.
2)  Or at least try.
3)  Say no to your lie.
4)  And look at pictures of all the sweet babies that have entered their new world.  Welcome Miles, Evelyn, Benaiah, and Isaac!

Never Assume

It's always a little awkward when you think you're the only person in the house.  And you produce an enormous amount of unflattering noises that come from unflattering places.  And maybe the songs you sing are a bit pitchy and rude.  And the crashing and thrashing that's being produced while cooking dinner is a tad alarming.

It can be quite awkward just assuming that you're all alone only to realize that maybe you're not.

And you happen to walk into the darkened living room and there beholden unto you, is a god-like creature sprawled in the recliner with a cup of coffee.

Things that physically happened 
1) My vocal cords collapsed, which resulted in a gasp and gargle, followed by a choke
2) My heart landed on the floor, flopped around and then crawled back into my chest cavity via the back door.

Things I thought
1)  Where did this creature come from?
2)  How did he get in this back room without me noticing?
3)  What is he doing lounging around drinking coffee?  (I have a thing for creatures that lounge and drink coffee.  Argyle socks are an added bonus)
4)  What are the things he's heard?
5)  How long has he been in here?
6)  Who is this special gift?

Things I said
(after  I was done choking, gasping, and my heart had resumed its normal behavior)  Are you a parent?

Then I ran - after we had a decent amount of awkward time, and went back to the kitchen and did kitchen things and died a thousand deaths.

It was like walking in on somebody taking a poop in your garage.

The good news was - it was dark.  And we couldn't see each other's eyes.  Just outlines.  And muscles. And coffee.  And voices.

And then the worst part happened.  That coffee drinking muscle creature stumbled out into the revealing lights.  I worked furiously.  *look busy and unapproachable* *scrub that cup*  And that man walked right over into my peripheral vision and stood.  And I washed.  And he stood there.  And I washed.   But he wasn't leaving.  Just staring.  And waiting.

*NO!  NO EYE CONTACT!*  But I had to.  Because he was just standing and waiting.  I had to look and acknowledge that the uncomfortable moment of number 584,395,110 in my life had happened.

I looked.  And the creature was gone.  It was just a regular blue-eyed man.  With muscles.  And a crumpled shirt.  And he asked where he could throw his coffee cup.

 ********************************************************************************

Doesn't this man know what the rules are of awkward meetings - at all cost, avoid another meeting?  Especially in the light?

Apparently he missed THAT memo.

Or maybe, that memo is only for women, and men get a different memo.

Take Aways
1)  Never assume that you are alone.
2)  Wear a bag over your head.  And don't cut eye holes.


Fun Facts
I moved in with my mother.  And that's all I'm going to say.

How to Properly Meet a Co-Worker

1)  Make sure the house is trashed with appropriate crumbs heaped under table and dirty dishes piled high.

2)  Definitely make sure that you have not showered in approximately 4 days.

3)  Wear skuzzy green running shorts and sweaty floraled grey tank top that Big D despises.

4)  Apply zero amounts of makeup.

5)  Do not wash face for 3 days.

6)  Have the front of your hair plastered to your head with grease, properly pinned down with neon bobby pin.  And the back of your hair should be placed in a mom pony tail with a huge dread in the middle.  It's actually less of a dread and more of a beehive.

7)  Eat bagel smothered in cottage cheese moments before said co-worker arrives.

8)  And most definitely, do not brush teeth - for fear of removing smashed curds from grooves.

If you can accomplish all of these requirements, then you are ready to meet your spouses new co-worker who happens to be riding his bike over at that precise moment.  Don't feel too alarmed, for there is not enough time to do anything to get ready.  In fact, this is the perfect opportunity to practice not apologizing for the state of your home.  Or for your own personal state, for that matter.

And the best part is, co-workers girl friend will be following shortly in her car.  Oooo goody.  I love meeting new co-workers and their girlfriends.  The girlfriend making this meet and greet that much more exciting.  That much more puke worthy.

Just smile and nod.  And maybe even tell the new co-worker that next time he sees you, to say "my, you clean up real good".

Take Aways
1)  Always keep your sense of humor close by.
2)  Practice smiling and nodding extra good to ensure that the curds in your teeth are flashed appropriately.
3)  Contemplate making cookies to bring by the office while wearing your foxy-est attire and extra huge push-up bra and casually stroll by co-workers cube.
4)  Five cheers for humble-hood.