It Wasn't Gracie's Buns Hanging Out...

Yes, this post is about what you think it is (or at least almost). There will be no photo.

Last night Steve and I were invited to a welcome dinner put on by a 2nd year med student and his wife. (Oh gosh. Why am I sharing this with the blogosphere?) Several new med students and their significant others were going, and it was sort of a get-to-know-some-people dealie.

I've been pretty excited about it, because while Steve has been galavanting around (right honey?) at school, Gracie and I haven't really had much opportunity for social situations, except for seeing a guy driving his riding lawn mower in the Walmart parking lot.

So Steve got home from school last night and we both started getting ready. I've been trying to dress up a little more for Steve, and had been mentally planning my ensemble all day, and was really happy with how it turned out. The color of my shirt looked nice on me, and my new classy black shorts looked pretty darn good on my butt. I checked. So we were all in pretty good moods driving over: Gracie had her hands wrapped around a full bottle, and Steve and I looked fabulous (if we do say so ourselves).

We got to our host's house right at six, pretty good--on time, at least.

And then. As I was getting Gracie's backpack full of stuff ready to get out of the car. My. Pants. Split. Big time. BIG time.

Steve and I had a sort of honey-my-pants-split conversation. I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say I turned for him to assess the damage (it was BAD) and searched the car for anything that might be wrapped around my waist. There was nothing to be found. No change of clothes, no sweater, nothing.

Did I learn nothing from junior high? You ALWAYS need to prepare for fashion emergencies. Always. Ugh.

Since it was already 6 and we had no time to go home, we did the only thing we could do. We went in anyway. I slung Gracie's backpack over one shoulder to hide my undies (which did not match my black pants at all, of course) and hoped for the best.

The rest of the evening was a sort of elegant dance. Steve held Grace as I walked through the buffet line with the backpack still slung low on one shoulder, hiding my bum from view. (The host offered the suggestion that I might want to take the backpack off, and I was very quick to decline that offer.) I set the bag down only once I was safely lowered into a chair in the living room, food on my lap and back (and bum) to the wall.

I did not take my buttocks off that chair until we made our exit. As Gracie crawled around getting into various scrapes and escapades, I was forced to continually call on Steve to attend to her. (He got it, of course, but everybody else there probably awarded me the Slacker Mom of the year award when we left.) Oh, and Steve can you get me a fork/take my dishes into the kitchen/stand behind me while we walk out the car? Thanks.

Actually, I had a surprisingly good time, and felt more comfortable at that shindig than I felt at church on Sunday. Which hopefully won't set a precedent for future gatherings.