The Junk Drawer

In this season of giving I bestow upon you, my faithful readers, a gift like no other. And that gift, of course, is BACON.

I found a cool site that will baconize any web site simply by adding its URL to the end of it.

Here is the site: http://bacolicio.us/

If you’d like to see The Junk Drawer in all its bacon glory, click this: http://bacolicio.us/http://www.junkdrawerblog.com

Freaky and delicious! Walk back from your screen and it looks even more realistic.

You’re welcome.

My husband Dave and I had the fortune of traveling to Paris in the summer of 2004, a trip I won on a $5 raffle ticket. Rifling through some boxes today, I came across an envelope stuffed with receipts, ticket stubs and other miscellanea we collected.

In this picture you’ll find the strangest thing I’ve ever saved from a vacation trip. Can you find it?

When you travel, do you save all the little papers and stubs you collect along the way? I think the fact we saved such seemingly insignificant items shows how memorable the trip was to us.

Going to Paris absolutely ruined us for every other trip we’ve taken since. Nothing else compares. If you have the chance to go, GO! It will change your life.

I do frump really well, but today I’m a diva!

I had the honor of being interviewed by Vivienne at the deliciously spicy Diva Cosmos blog. Aside from giving me a really big head, she asked me a lot of great questions about one of the best parts of my blog — the comments!

Vivienne’s interview gave me a chance to reflect on why I think The Junk Drawer gets the number of comments it does, and how important they and my readers are to me.

I’ve always said that half the fun of blogging is reading through the comments after each post. If people stopped talking, I’d close up shop and slink away.

Click here to read the interview. If you have any follow-up questions, drop ’em here or over at Vivienne’s place. You know comments are welcome!

I generally try to avoid showing my underpants and boobs to others in public, but I’ve done both when I was 12. Gather ’round kiddies. I’m going to see if I can make you cry.

First up, the crotch: Gymnastics class, YWCA.

I took an introductory gymnastics class at the Y the summer of 1977, and quite enjoyed it until my panty-revealing experience. Let’s begin.

Know that my gymnastics instructor was drop dead gorgeous. He was dreamy and delicious and just about the best thing that could happen to a 12-year-old girl who kept a diary with a tiny lock on it. Dear Diary, Please make Mr. McDreamy show us again how to do a handspring. Note to self: Keep sucking at it so you need extra help.

We were practicing backbends when it became apparent I was going to have problems. My one-piece leotard had snaps at the crotch. Three of them. At. The. Crotch. Why anyone wants metal buttons down there is anyone’s guess and I have no idea why I chose that one when I needed attire for my class.

As I bent over backwards, with Mr. McDreamy spotting me, all three snaps labored to stay connected — but didn’t. One! Two! Three! Helloooo, undies!

I do not recall the degree of horror I experienced. In fact, I think I blacked out for a while. I just know I never returned to class. Once you reveal your underthings in front of a man you wanted to marry someday and a gym full of laughing classmates, you can never go back.

Next, the boobs. Wait. Make that singular booby: Neighborhood swimming pool.

As I waded into the four foot section of the pool in my cute, hot pink bikini, I dunked my head under water and came up to find a young lad the age of eight or so staring at me. Blink. Blink. Mouth agape.

My first thought was “Hey, jerk. What are you looking at?”

My next thought was “Why is one of the strings to my bikini top floating on the water?”

Hellooooo, left booby!

Mortified, I dunked myself back in the water and retied my top, as the 8-year-old lad swam away yelling to all his friends “That girl over there just showed me her boob!”

I did no such thing, you perv. “And you can stop looking already!”

So kids, which was worse? Flashing my underpants at Mr. McDreamy or flashing my boob to a lucky young boy who’s probably never forgotten the experience?

You know what’s coming next. Let’s hear about your involuntary flashing experiences. The more mortifying, the better. Make me cry.

Extra points to any woman who’s had the misfortune of inadvertently tucking the back of her skirt into the waistband of her pantyhose after using the ladies room. I’ve seen it done and can’t believe it hasn’t happened to me. Yet.

Of the 70+ guesses made on the Sunday What’s That? post, only one was correct. A hearty congratulations goes to Becca of the Gray and Becca blog!

The object shown was part of a paper towel holder.

The hint I gave you might have thrown you off track. I said it may or may not be Christmas-related. Do you hate me? I didn’t mean to confuse or trick anyone. (Yes I did.)

And now for something totally random!

I hate my own name today. There are five Kathys at work with whom I conduct business regularly. It’s a nightmare when several of us are involved in the same issue, as was the case today.

It’s pretty much a given that half the emails I read or send today will be from a Kathy or to a Kathy. In one exchange I talked to four Kathys in two minutes. I’m all Kathied out! Kathy Kathy Kathy! Doesn’t my name sound weird when you hear it over and over?

My phone just rang. It was from a Kathy. A Kathy who doesn’t work here. That’s it. I’m being stalked by Kathys.