clash of the tight-ans

Thanksgiving was different this year.  In our family it is always a bit different but we manage to hang on to several traditions so it seems a little less bizarre.

There is the traditional turkey and dressing.  You can read about how that usually goes for me here.  This year was no different.  Turkey, dressing, and we divided up the sides with everyone making what they usually specialize in.  Macaroni and cheese and deviled eggs for Wretch.  Jen did the beans and potato salad, and threw in a couple of pies.  I did the  turkey and dressing, and pies.  (I cheated and bought the pies.  I reasoned that wasn't really cheating when you work, that was being organized and thinking ahead, something I lack most of the time.)

Wretch called me the night before Thanksgiving.  She was sick, I mean really sick.  I could hear her slinging snot on the phone.  I cringed, hoping I wouldn't catch it just by talking to her.

Wretch: Mom, do you think I should be making deviled eggs?
Me: Why not?
Wretch: Because I am sick and I thought someone might catch it if I handled eggs they put in their mouth.
Me: Not unless you get snot on them.
Wretch: Really?
Me: Yes, if your nose is running, put some toilet paper up both nostrils, then wash your hands really good with soap and water, and don't touch your face while you are making the eggs.  It should be ok then.
Wretch: Ok. (She was laughing about the toilet paper, but it is an old trick I learned years ago.  Moms don't get time off for sickness when they have little kids.)

Then Jen texted me asking for a recipe for Lemon Ice Box pie.  WTF?! I was thinking, I haven't made one in years, and I was at work.  Did she expect me to pull the recipe out of my ass?

I did the next best thing.  I Googled a recipe and texted her back the link.

So far, things were going smoothly.  Too smoothly.  The hair on the back of my neck told me it wasn't a good thing.  My karma was going too well.

My karma did a 360 on Thanksgiving morning when I was running late (as usual) and trying to get ready.  It had taken me three hours to get headed to the shower after puttering all over the house.  I picked out some cute cable patterned tights, a black skirt, and a black top to wear.  (Everyone knows if you wear black on Thanksgiving you can eat twice and much and your bloated stomach won't show.)

I got out of the shower, lotioned up all over per my usual routine, then started to put my tights on.

That was when the war began.  I put my foot in one foot of the tights, and pulled it up.  All the way up my thigh.  Then I lifted my other foot and tried to put it in the other foot of the tights.  That was when I realized that I couldn't get my foot up high enough to get in the top of the tights that were located around my hips, because to do that would have required the agility of a gymnast.  I tried jacknifing my foot as high as I could get it, got the tip of my foot stuck in the waist of the tights, and fell back against the glass door of the shower, sliding all the way down to the floor.

I stood back up, pulled the tights back down around my ankles, then stuck both feet in at the same time.  That worked.  By now I was sweating.  Not a good feeling when you just got out of the shower and are standing in a tiny room with steam still hanging in the air around your head.

I pulled the tights up.  Then realized my feet were located about midway in the calf of the tights, with the feet trailing off in the floor, empty of human flesh.  So I grabbed the tights at the feet and started working them up my legs.  That was when I discovered the split nail I didn't know I had and snagged the tights.

I cussed a bit at that point.  Then realized it didn't matter, those tights were going ON my butt no matter what.  So I kept pulling, and snagging, pulling and snagging.  They were finally up, all the way up, I thought.

Then I realized the crotch was down around mid thigh.  I could wear them like that, but I would walk like a duck all day.  So I snagged and pulled some more, and finally the crotch was on my crotch, the feet were on my feet, and the rest was somewhere on my legs.  I looked down proudly.

The cable pattern on the tights was doing a grotesque twisted thing around my thighs and calves.  I did a few more snag and pulls, and then realized I had managed to twist the right leg of the tights and put it on backward, because it was digging into my crotch like a rubber band thong from hell at that point.

I took the right leg part of the way down, and snag/twisted it back around all the way to the foot, then pulled it back up and stood for a minute as I caught my breath.

They felt pretty good.  I could breathe and move I realized.  I looked down at my legs in trepidation.  That was when I noticed that I had pulled some spots so thin my skin was showing through the opaqueness of the opaque tights.  I pondered about redoing them again for about a half second, then said f*#@ it and finished blow drying my sweaty body and hair, got my skirt and top on, added warpaint to my flushed face, and hair gel to my limp hair, and headed out the door.

Valuable lessons learned about tights:
1. Never apply lotion right before you put on tights.  They stick like glue to your skin.
2. There is no exhaust fan big enough to suck the humidity out of a bathroom.
3. Tights should be put on in a public, dry air place.
4. Don't buy tights with a cable pattern that has to line up.
5. Put both feet in at the same time unless you enjoy popping your hips out of joint.
6. Remember that during a clash, the tights usually win.

Next Thanksgiving, I am wearing velour.

...life is very good. ~cath
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