I should never have bought the pants.
The self-debate at Kohl’s was pretty extensive. You see, I have a longstanding love-hate relationship with white pants. Basically, I love to see other people wearing them. So stylish. So chic. But my years collecting stains in a white nurse’s uniform have caused some hard feelings when I become the wearer. And so I’ve done without white since about 1989. Add to the equation the ongoing debate about white pants before certain holidays and you have yourself a dilemma. Historically, people who care about this sort of thing claimed it was a faux pas to wear white before Memorial Day. But then some lobbyist (we can assume a marketer for the garment industry) infiltrated the naysayers and the fresh “rule” became Easter. I’m certain persnickety fashion police are still cringing over this modification. Personally, I say if the Middle School kids at Penn View can wear flip-flops in January, I can do anything I want. (But I digress… shocking, I know….)
So I was running about 15 minutes late this morning. There are 35 days left on the school calendar and I am becoming increasingly immune to the piercing sounds of my alarm clock snoozing for the sixth time. A pitiful excuse, but there you have it.
I wore my newly acquired white Capri slacks on Sunday morning and nothing untoward occurred so I decided that even though it is only April 19th (scandalous!) I was home free for a weekday white fabric debut. I dressed quickly and headed downstairs. Per my usual mode of operation, I was trying to do several things at the same time. Having a heartfelt conversation with Jasmine the cat, I dropped tuna in her bowl, filled her water dish and zoomed around the kitchen stuffing paperwork in my bag and putting the finishing touches on two packed lunches. The Oreos in Aubrey’s lunch were my undoing; I should have stopped with the apple. As I reached into our congested pantry to extricate the Oreos, I leaned too heavily on the baking shelf supplies and was cognizant of something rather heavy falling to the tiled floor with a thud. I found myself coughing on unexpected airborne powder as a brown mushroom cloud erupted with convincing gusto. And there I was… standing in a pile of Hershey’s cocoa. It was an imposing mound, deep enough for enterprising canines to hide bones or other small treasures and covering a rather astonishing surface area of my kitchen floor. Truly, it looked more like a newly excavated construction site than the pleasantly scented (albeit untimely) disaster it was. My sandaled feet were covered in dust and the left cuff of my heretofore pristine pant leg was wholly enveloped in brown. I was momentarily speechless. What are the chances of white pants and brown cocoa powder coming together in such an unanticipated manner? It was a perfect morning storm.
I have spent hundreds (maybe thousands) of hours baking. You’d think a person responsible for that many cakes, cookies, brownies, muffins and pies would know what happens to heaping quantities of cocoa powder when one adds water - but apparently you would be giving me more credit than is due. Because before long, (and while utilizing every yoga move known to man which does not include resting white panted knees on the floor while stooping to undo my Hershey disorder) I had created a chocolaty sludge suggestive of some lucky swine’s habitat. An impressive mess by any standard.
There was no time to change my outfit, so all I could do was brush away most of the clingy powder and hope for the best. (I will attempt the vacuum cleaner hose when I am done blogging this nonsense.) Aubrey claimed it just looked like a “shadow” over my cuff, but she might have said whatever was necessary at that point to direct her well-powdered and teetering mother away from the edge of Crazy Ravine.
When I am agitated and otherwise talking unremittingly about whatever current baloney has befallen me, I tend to get hiccups. This morning’s cocoa incident was no exception. When normal people get hiccups, there is a delicate (dare I say discreet) hum – usually followed by gentle cadenced shoulder movements and nobody really noticing what is transpiring. NOT SO when I get hiccups. As with most things in my life, my hiccup events are pure drama. My family receives great delight in listening to me battle hiccups. This is because the sounds coming from my petite aging frame sound very much like a baby dragon trying with great persistence to get the Mama Dragon to pay attention to its pitiful pleas. I can’t squelch the awkward noises I make and the harder I try- the more absurd I sound. Jim and both of my children (in their charming benevolence) laugh heartily and mercilessly when I am unfortunate enough to succumb to a severe episode.
My brown pant leg and my rhythmic dragon sounds were the backdrop for a TRULY annoying drive to work this morning. To Aubrey’s credit (and notwithstanding the relentless torture of the dragon concert) she kept any eye rolling to a bare minimum.
Though it was a CRAZY busy morning (my rather serious stance prompting one of the 6th grade wisenheimers to say: “Mrs. Shelly – why don’t you SMILE? You’re God’s creation!”), all major glitches appear to have occurred before I reached my desk this morning. Nobody noticed my cocoa shadow, nobody offered unwanted fashion counsel about my inappropriate display of white before the end of May, and the only residual side effect was my nearly overwhelming desire to eat something chocolate… When I finish attempting to vacuum my pant cuff, maybe I'll have an Oreo.
