Bitten and fanged

I am having underwear issues.

It is that time of the month, people. I tell you that because during that time of the month? I
must wear my “that time of the month” underwear.

I don’t usually wear underwear. It’s annoying.

There, I’ve said it! So freeing. I am a commando-going sort of girl.

But guess what?

Going commando is not an option today.

But guess what else? I can only find one pair of my “that time of the month” underwear. Which is not that big a deal, because one pair will do. And to those of you wondering how it is possible that one pair of underwear will do? I direct you to my expert on all things fashion, Miss Allie Brosh, who clearly states that a new maxi pad or panty liner makes any dirty pair of underwear brand new again.

You cannot argue with fashion experts, as they will make you the hell over.

And also? I have known this particular fashion tip for a long time.

I am fashion-forward and ahead of my time, apparently.

But back to the missing underwear? I would just like to say . . . what the hell? Where have the other pairs gone? It is a mystery.

Anyway.

So imagine me, in the bathroom, going about my business . . . when suddenly I am attacked by an enormous freaking black spider!! In my freakin lap, there is the biggest, most evil spider I have ever seen!!

I am leaping and hopping and panicked and trying to get this enormous spider off of my thigh, but it will not be dislodged! I am about to have a freaking heart attack, because I am going be killed by a giant spider, and I will be discovered, all half-naked and messy and bloody and dead

(not bloody because of the spider . . . duh . . . but because of . . .you know).

It is not a pretty picture, but I know it is one the paramedics will snap and post on what I am sure is a hilarious website somewhere, entitled Stupid People Who Died in an Awesomely Stupid Way, Preferably While Half Naked.

http://www.spwdiaaswpwhn.com/

Don’t you just know those photos are out there, and that the paramedics are giggling at them?

Paramedics are some sick people, if you ask me.

OK, so I am making little shrieks and hopping and flailing about, when I realize that the spider?

Is in fact a tangly ball of black stretchy threads. Not a spider at all. I am saved!

I take a moment to appreciate how narrowly I have escaped spider doom and humiliation.
The air is suddenly sweeter!

Although not that sweet, because I am still in the bathroom, remember.

I sit my naked ass down and follow the strings back to their source, and I realize that my underwear are unraveling! Stupid only pair of underwear. I grab the ball of thread and twist and pull it off. All better! I finish my business, flush the toilet (and wave goodbye to the spider), and go about my day.

OK, twenty-four hours later? The spider has attacked me five more times!

I am not embarrassed to report that I have panicked a little each time. I hate giant spiders sitting in my naked lap! It is never safe to assume that this time it is an unruly ball of underwear unravelings. Because the moment you are all cocky and say to yourself, “Oh, that’s just my underwear coming apart, no big deal,” and you ignore it?

That’s when there really is a giant spider in your crotch area! And then you are bitten and fanged and you fall to the bathroom floor . . . dead and half-naked and bleeding.

And the paramedics laugh their freaking heads off.

And so now? I am wearing about three quarters of a pair of underwear. I would say it is going to be a race to the finish line, except my underwear seems determined not to complete the course.

Will I have enough underwear to see me through?

Will I end up all commando, adhering maxi pads to the lining of my jeans?

Will I be bitten and fanged by an enormous spider?

And will photos of my hilariously dead body be posted on the internet for all to see?

It’s like an episode of an amazingly wonderful Soap Opera.

“These questions—and many others—will be answered in the next episode of Housewife in Heels.”