Oddities: Lingerie

I present this without further comment:

The Queen, however, mentioned something about Pez dispensers.

I Am a Blessed Man

My father in law has been married to my mother in law for over 45 years now. In that time, he has probably had two or three professional massages all of which were given to him by my wife (when she was a practicing massage therapist). You see, my mother in law refuses to allow him to have hands laid upon him by any woman who is not related to him, and my father in law, being the typical man that he is, has absolutely no desire to have a man lay hands upon his body (I can't say I blame him either).

I told you that to tell you this.

My wife, The Queen, however, is cut from a whole nother other sheet of cloth.

Our normal, daily (work day that is) custom these days is for The Queen to text me when she is up and moving which usually happens between 9:00 and 10:00 in the morning. Tuesday's exchange went something like this (well, just like this actually since I'm transcribing things for you because I'm too lazy to screen shot things and edit out personal stuff).

The Queen: Morning

Me: Morning. How did u sleep? How u feeling today?

The Queen: Slept well believe it or not :). Started feeling good and then allergies hit again ugh. How did u sleep?

Me: Not too good. Stayed up too late. Had trouble getting to sleep. Woke up too early to try and beat traffic and still got stuck in it. Have a huge knot in my neck/shoulder. Blah.

The Queen: Go get a massage by what's her name (ed. - my "regular"...like once a year...massage therapist) or find a massage school and get one cheaper. You would b helping a student get their credit hours ;)

Now, it's almost impossible for me to get in to see my "regular" therapist for a couple of reasons. First, she takes a lot of clients from a chiropractor's office for injury therapy. Second, she keeps normal people office hours meaning she's usually working when I am at work which means that I have to schedule a partial day off to get in to see her. So, no last minute massages with her. She also does not like to do "outcalls" at people's homes (mainly because she has a family to take care of and likes her set office hours and leaving her stuff at her office). I do like her though because she is very good and doesn't charge a fortune.

Here is where The Queen distinguished herself from her mother and made me The Most Blessed Man In The World (TM). The Queen, on her own initiative, Google Fu-ed and called a couple of different massage schools and found me an appointment for after work not too far from the office for an 80 minute massage given by a student for the grand total of $42.50. How cool is that?

When I told her that the therapist was a little Asian girl with strong fingers, her comment was "Glad u enjoyed it."

My wife loves me, and I am blessed to have a woman who trusts me to be alone in a dimly lit room with another woman while I am lying flat on my back wearing nothing but my underwear (which The Queen assures me is the universal signal for men to give to female therapists that you are not a perv looking for a happy ending) and a sheet.

Now, if I can just get her to surprise me with new guns when I walk in the door from work....

Thought For The Day

To the sweet, young thing in my Torts class: I know you're young and you think you're sorta cute; but, please, for the love of all that is sacred: Don't wear hip huggers to class if you're going to forget to do a crack check after sitting down. Someone give me a penny or a spit wad or some plumbers putty...something...anything.  I'd go wash my eyes out now, but I'm pretty sure this is going to be a recurring event.

What ARE They Putting In The Water These Days???

Truth is stranger than fiction sometimes. I present this link to a news article without further comment other than to ask just what the heck does Rocky Mountain spring water do to your brain?

The Queen's New Drawers

The Great and Glorious Queen of the Erickson household has one personality trait that makes me, as her husband and loyal subject, the envy of every married man alive. She hates to shop for clothes. She hates it at least as much as I do, and I only go clothes shopping when I start looking like something which no self respecting homeless person would want to associate with. Working from home has only seen my wardrobe stagnate even more than usual since I only have to look presentable once a week or so. I’m just not ready to show up for church in my bathrobe and slippers.

So, anyway, a little over a week ago, The Queen informs me that she is in desperate need of new underwear. Under normal circumstances, this would not be a news item to which I would be privy. Unfortunately, The Queen and I have not been living under normal circumstances for about three and a half years now.

Three and a half years ago, The Queen began having health issues. We’re not talking about a touch of the flu or a garden variety case of pollen allergies. We’re not even talking about something scary yet identifiable like cancer. No, The Queen has to be unique and enigmatic. She has to come down with a chronic mystery illness that’s left my formerly energetic, athletic and independent Queen in a very dependent, constantly fatigued and decidedly unsporting state.

After three and a half years and thousands of dollars worth of medical treatment later, you’d think that The Queen’s condition would be a little less mysterious. While the exact nature of her condition remains somewhat illusive, we have learned quite a bit about what her condition is NOT. It’s not HIV. It’s not cancer. It’s most definitely not all in her head. Seriously. Why can’t doctors just admit they’re stumped when they don’t have a clue instead of more or less accusing their patients of making everything up? Some doctors need a little more practice than others, I guess.

And, now, back to our impending adventure in lingerie shopping.

Due to her distressing lack of energy and stamina, The Queen has must confine herself to a wheelchair when making public appearances. I’m sure you see where this is going. Me pushing The Queen into Victoria’s Secret.

Please, no. Not that. Anything but that.

First, let me say that sending a guy to go shopping for women’s underwear is a little like sending a bull on a tour of a slaughter house. The bull is pretty sure he shouldn’t be in there in the first place, and it’s an even money bet that he’ll be too scared to ask any questions.

This is due to the fact that men keep underwear simple. Men’s underwear comes in two basic styles and a variety of colors. The entire men’s underwear industry can be displayed in the same amount of area occupied by a walk in closet in a modest sized house. Most men can shop for underwear in less than 5 seconds. Men generally have their style choice made by the age of five and, for the most part, see no need to fix something that’s not broken. With some exceptions, men don’t spend a lot of time worrying about the color of their underwear. That leaves locating the correct size as the most time consuming task in the shopping experience. Size is based on your waist measurement. If you know the size of the pants you’re wearing, all you have to do is make sure the numbers match. Done.

Not so with The Queen’s underwear. So many dangers to marital bliss. So little time.

Let’s start with styles? The Queen shops for her dainties at Victoria’s Secret which has more styles than there are people on the planet. They have everything from “granny panties” to “What do you think I am? Some kind of cheap slut?” to “Why, yes, I am; but, no, you can’t afford me.” And don’t get me started on the displays. This is supposed to be a family blog.

Then there is size. Ladies, never ever ask a guy what size underwear you should buy. You might as well ask us to do jumping jacks in a mine field. You might be saying “Should I get this size or that size?” and really want to know which one will look better on you. All we men hear is “Honey, how big is my butt?” There are no correct answers to that question. So, don’t ask. Our brains will lock up. You can spot us in the store easily. We’re the ones frozen in position with a nervous tick. Besides, it annoys the sales staff.