Here’s the big Sister Sunshine Charlotte Moment on the trip. (You knew there had to be one.)
We were at the Crystal Palace (the Pooh Bear photos), and we were eating these things called "Pooh’s French Toast". They looked like tree bark or something, but were SOOOO good. Fried dough with cinnamon sugar on them. Really spiffy. So, the four adults are eating them like it’s some sort of contest, and I made this funny, off-hand comment, "How many of these things can you eat before it becomes obscene?" Everyone laughed and kept right on eating.
So, a few minutes later, Pooh Bear comes around to the table, and I get up to hand him the autograph books and to take pictures of the kids, and suddenly I notice that it’s a little breezy around my rear end. I feel around there with my one free hand and sure enough, my Capri pants have torn in the rear, and I don’t mean like a little seam issue or something like that. They were this Florida sort of linen material. I hadn’t worn them since last summer, and the pants were a couple of years old. We were sweaty and hot and rained on, and the linen got so wet that it simply disintegrated. Dry rot. The entire back of the pants was just gone. It just separated and fell apart. Like Spanish Moss clinging to my bottom.
No one else had noticed this, so I quietly sat back down and turned to the table and said, "The answer is two." Everyone looked at me like what-is-she-talking-about, and I said, "It’s two Pooh French toasts until it’s obscene. I know this factually because the back of my drawers are slap gone."
After everyone quit laughing, I made the idiot move of the century and sent Steve and Shelley to get me some pants at one of the zillion gift shops on the main drag in the Magic Kingdom. Within 100 yards of the dining room are maybe 25 places to buy stuff. I told the Dynamic Duo to buy XXL, so that we know they will absolutely fit. I probably could have squeezed myself into anything in a large size, but sizes can be tricky, so I’ll tie them up, pin them, let them sag, whatever, but I don’t want you bringing back pants that don’t fit and have to go back to the store not only with torn britches, but also humiliated because now it’s confirmed--I’m a cow. Sweats. Shorts, Cargo pants, Capri’s whatever. Doesn’t matter. Bring pants.
I’m stuck in the chair and don’t have a clue how to get to the bathroom without flashing the entire restaurant. Michael (who stayed with me to watch the kids and out of sick amusement) has the idea that I can tie a rain poncho (clear—-of course) around my waist and get to the bathroom that way. So, I sort of scoot up and slide the poncho underneath me and wad it up like I’m making a homemade toga. Project Runway right there in the restaurant. In the middle of this interesting maneuver, my cell phone rings and it’s Steve wanting to know what color shirt I’m wearing. I’m like, who gives a crap? I’m naked in a restaurant. BRING ME SOME DRAWERS! I get the poncho around me and Michael walks behind me to the bathroom to run interference and provide one more block, because the pants are now gone. How gone, you ask? One leg is hanging off and everyone in the restaurant could have a marriage vow sort of moment with me.
So, we waddle up the aisle, and I make it to the toilet. I’m in the bathroom stall for about 10 minutes when the phone rings and it’s Shelley. The store they are in doesn’t have XXL pants. I’m like what? WHAT? Are you kidding me? Look out the window, Shelley! There are a thousand fat a$$es in the park. No way do they not have some dadgum 2XL pants! I hang up in a tizz. (Why she still loves me and puts up with me is a mystery unknown.)
Steve calls back 5 minutes later and tells me that the clerk has gone to the back to find the right size. They’ve found ONE pair of pink pants, but they are long and should they cut them off with scissors or just bring them to me?
I can’t type the words that I said then. To summarize, I’m pretty sure that if you edited it for TV it would be something like "please bring the pants to me right now." (25 minutes in the toilet with no pants on will do that to a girl.)
So, Shelley comes into the bathroom and hands over a plastic bag containing the britches. She very kindly adds that if they didn’t work we could go back and exchange them. No, no, just let me get them on. Evidently, they went shopping in a PETITE shop where everything was Size 4, Size 6 (think supermodels and head cheerleaders). I haven’t been a Size 4 ever in the History of Me. I don’t know any women who are Size 4’s. No wonder the sales lady in the petite store couldn’t find an XXL. She’d probably never seen one before.
Anything I write will not do these pants justice. You’ll have to see the photos. Because the moment that I appeared out of the bathroom stall the entire trip became about taking pictures of my rear end in my "Snazzy Pants" as Steve began to call them (much, much later in the day. I’m not married to an idiot, you know).
The pants, my God, the pants. Sweat pant material. Bright pink. Had this sparkling thread throughout the fabric that glowed in every ride like I was a human disco ball. Elvis bling on the shins. I’m talking from the knee down to the hem was covered in thick, silver Hispanic hot rod detailing with bedazzler business and glitter all over it. Rhinestones on the pockets. Lots and lots of rhinestones on the pockets. And as if that weren’t enough, in huge silver script letters across the backside accented with rhinestones and pink jewels? The word “Princess”.
Naturally. Because if you’re a woman who needs to wear XXL pants, you want to draw attention to the size of your inordinately HUGE derriere.
And I was once again right. I assure you that the color of my shirt didn’t mean jack with the word Princess written in silver across my butt like a big billboard. I felt like those ugly girls with personalized tags that say "Cutie Pie". I’m sure all over Disney World there were mutters and giggles of "Princess? Is she kidding with that or what?"
I did roll the pants legs up to the knee to eliminate that part of the deal. Small victory with my pants sparkling and reflecting all over the place in the middle of Peter Pan’s Flight. Oh, Charlotte, surely they weren’t THAT sparkly! At one point on a ride, I turned to Shelley and said, "Hey look; I’m Edward," and she laughed so hard she snorted Coca-Cola out of her nose. (Read the book.)
Snazzy Pants. He’s lucky I didn’t kill him on the spot. I just busted out laughing, because what else is there to do, really? It beat the fire out of being naked. That or touring with a clear poncho draped artfully over my hooch.
It’s fun being me.