Of Trapped Yawns and Sweater Sets

I've got a bit of writer's cramp in my brain. I have three posts started and still - nothing. I can't finish them.

It's like having a sneeze caught. Or a yawn. You know that feeling when you need to yawn and you just can't get the whole yawn to come out? Then you start to obsess about it and that just makes matters worse.

Now if you don't yawn soon, you're going to stop breathing because that jammed up yawn is clogging your respiratory system and you can feel it in the back of your throat and your lungs feel like they are being squeezed and you're dying and will someone please yawn at you because yawns are contagious right?

I'm not quite writhing on the floor, gasping for air, trying to get my lung constricting bra off with one hand while dialing 9-1-1- with the other. But I'm getting close.

The fact that I'm blogging live from the living room at Golden Manor while sharing space with The Actor isn't helping matters at all. He's got the remote and is toggling between Forest Gump and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Now Garbo has joined us - she'd been sleeping off a school drunk draped across the trough I share with MathMan. And there she goes again, picking a wedgie from her ass, looking like she might topple over if she doesn't get some raw spaghetti down her yawning maw immediately.

Oh hell. Back to the yawn.

So maybe I just need to force it. I regret what I am doing to you here and what I am about to do to you. My new favorite word unfortunate would be most apropos because, you see, as I am halfway through this post and there's a nagging in my brain about the dryer alarm that I ignored fifteen minutes ago and I'm afraid to get up and lose my train of thought.

Which might actually be an improvement, don't ya think?

MathMan and I spent the day together. We had a confirmation hearing for our bankruptcy. I'd love to regale with the wickedly funny details, but the truth is, as soon as we got there, our lawyer sent us away again. Everything is under control. We forgot to call yesterday to see if we had to show up and since we'd already taken the day off anyway, well, it was that kind of a thing.

After a long, arduous discussion about appropriate court attire, we headed up to the Federal Court Building in Rome (Georgia, not Italy, duh)

As an aside, perhaps TLC could do a program about what one wears to a bankruptcy hearing. I mean, do you wear your nicest business attire? If so, will the judge look at you and insist that you must have some kind of financial means and thus, should, in fact, pay back all those debts and happily accept ever sky-rocketing interest rates, fees that multiply like octo-bunnies and abusive collections calls until you've divested of all that fabulous clothing?

Because, you know me - I'm the Queen of Fabulous Clothing. If by Fabulous Clothing, you mean momstretch polyesterish pants and a swinging sweater set. All bought second hand, but who's keeping track?

So anyway, we took the windy-curvy route to Rome because driving to a court hearing isn't fun until you've achieved Motion Sickness Mach 4. We turned onto the cleverly named First Street and MathMan announced that he thought the big building with the gigantic American Flag must be the place. MathMan is wicked smart like that.

We locked everything we had except our Official File, our drivers' licenses and Social Security cards in the car's trunk (because if you want to see shiftless and shifty, take a peek at the people hanging around smoking outside a Federal Court building) and made our way through security. The nice octogenarian who wanded me twice was only slightly amused when I finally, with much exasperation, just reached up under my matronly sweater set (with faux pearl buttons, no less) and unhooked the offending metal under wire bra, pulled it through my sleeve and handed it to him.

"Make sure you don't lose this. I'd like it back when I leave," I smiled demurely at him.

Finally, we got upstairs to our appointed room, with almost half an hour to spare. We decided to look for our fifteen year old attorney. Well, heck fire! There he sat, coolly texting away on his iPhone with his telltale white earbuds jammed into his ears. I was glad to see he was still going with the gelled hair look. Nothing says legal authority like Bed Head's Got 2 B Glued.

MathMan tapped him on the shoulder and he smiled a greeting. As they discussed our case for all of thirty seconds, I surveyed the room. It was full of other financial losers just like us. The room was steadily filling up with couples in all manner of dress, including a critical mass of Koret matching separates. I felt an odd sense of relief to be neither over nor under dressed. Perhaps if I'd not ditched my bra downstairs, all eyes wouldn't be on me.

MathMan returned to my side and told me what the attorney had said. We were free to go, Mr. Fifteen had us covered. Well, that was a relief. I took one more look around and stepped toward the door. Something was bothering me, though. Then it came to me. I stopped and turned to face the crowd that had now gone back to their own thoughts and conversations.

"Um, excuse me!" I had to raise my voice a little, "Excuse me! Hi. Um. Sorry to bother you, but I thought you should know something. You. Um. All you people here seeking bankruptcy protection and debt relief! It's important that you know that you are ruining America with your greed! Our economy is in the shitter because of you and your clutching greedy ways! How dare you use those bank-issued credit cards! How dare you take out those supposedly regulated mortgages that you knew you couldn't afford! For shame! For shame! For shame!!!!!"

It was at that point, my octogenarian bra-keeper and some other fascist thug dragged me from the courtroom.

I guess they didn't take kindly to my use of the word shitter in front of the American flag.

MathMan was soooo mad at me. It took him twenty precious minutes to convince security that I wasn't really dangerous. They let me go with him after he agreed to let the old dude keep my bra. Dammit. That was my favorite black bra, too.

When we finally escaped that ordeal, we discussed the day that yawned before us. We didn't have any solid plans, but MathMan had some dirty ideas. Listen up, People of the Internets, we've been married twenty years. We have three kids underfoot most of the time. We have the house, two jobs and our fair share of stress. What else would we do to release a little of that angst and anxiety?

We ran errands, course! Got the oil changed on MathMan's car, paid the extra three bucks to get it washed, too, deposited a check from my side job, blah, blah, blah. Then we came home and got busy. In front of our computers. Really.

I even made a video, which I'll share with you later.

Yawn............ah, that's better.