Hot Lips

I could handle the fact that my white t-shirt was splattered with coffee, honey garlic chicken wings, soap and pen. 

Cause I'm used to that.

Every day I spill something on me. Dave doesn't have to say, "Whadja have for lunch, honey-bucket?" because he just looks at my shirt. Sometimes my hair, because lunch hides there, too. It's handy having chicken salad where you can nosh when the mood strikes.

"WHY do you wear WHITE?" my friends say, scoffing at me.

White is my favourite summer colour, I say.

I like white.

I feel FRESH.  

I feel DEWY.

And I continue to look like that right up until the moment my first cup of joe slops down my front.

I also like white because I can bleach white. Right? You know what I'm saying... if you spill something greasy on a black top, it's just a bitch to get out.

The other day I met my soul mate. He was the guy who attached the heart monitor. He must have been feeling all personal, you know, gluing wires to my boobs, because he announced, "I'm so embarrassed. I spilled coffee on myself." 

I'm half-naked and HE'S embarrassed. Typical man.

I looked at the big brown stain on his otherwise pristine white golf shirt.

"Did that this morning, I bet." sez I.

"Yes!" he says. "How did you know?"

"BROTHER!" I exclaimed.

"SISTER!" he shrieked, grabbing me and hugging me close. The wires tangled up in his stethoscope and it got all weird after that.

So.

Here I am today, having just pigged out at a company pot luck for a bride-to-be, covered in honey garlic chicken wings, chocolate icing, pen marks and tomato pasta (because only the coloured things land on my shirt - club soda and water never get on me. They are repelled, like I'm a polar magnet pushing away, or the wrong line at IKEA:  "this is the coloured messy things line only, clear things get the express line over there." And people are laughing at my white shirt. And I'm laughing along.

Until, suddenly, my dear friend Leah sidles up to me and says, "Are they lips?"

I look at her like she has two heads.

"Lips?" I say.

"Yeah," she says, looking down at my crotch. "Lips."

I'm thinking to myself, is she talking about what I THINK she's talking about? Out loud? In front of everyone?

"Er," I say. Because I can't think of anything else. "Er... lips?"

"Yeah," she says. Like I'm stupid.

Suddenly it dawns on me.

"On my underwear? YES! They're LIPS."

I have pink kisses all over my gotchies. Obviously you can see through my white pants.

So there I was.

Filthy white shirt.

See through white pants.

Everybody in the office lookin' at my underpants.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudge....