There's No Time For Pants: The Beginning

     First of all, I had to Google the word 'beginning,' because that shiz just don't look right!  Second, apple flavored rum mixed with Sprite is delicious and magical, much like the tears of a unicorn.  Third, I suppose now is as good a time as any to explain why I named my blog "There's No Time For Pants!"

     Pictured: a very young, newly pregnant me.

     Join me, if you will, back in the days of yore, 2001.  It was a simpler time, in that leopard print tank tops were still cool to wear.  Also, it's nice to see that I've been looking at people like they have purple donkey penises on their foreheads since back in the day!  I was 20 years old, and was just a wee tad bit pregnant with my oldest child, Smarty Pants.  My little brother, Mr. Awesome, happened to be living with me at this time.  Although I was all pregnant and cranky and no fun, my sibling was very much not.  You can probably see where this will lead to problems.

     One night, when I was about three months along, Mr. Awesome had some of his friends over to play vidya games or something.  Around 9:00 (because I was tired from making a human from scratch all day,) I announced that I was going to bed.  Shortly thereafter, I was riding the train to sleepy town.  It was a peaceful, well-deserved sleep full of dreams of a stork bringing me a baby in lieu of actual labor.  At least it was until Mr. Awesome flung my bedroom door open at 3:00  in the damn morning, and screamed, "Kristi, this kid's dying in our living room!"

     I uttered something brave and heroic along the lines of, "The hell he is!"  And then I leapt into action!  As much as a pregnant woman can leap.  I have always slept in just a t-shirt and underwear, and this night was no different.   I vividly recall looking to the corner where I had thrown my pajama pants when I went to bed, and then saying to myself, "There's no time for pants!"

     And, this, my friends, is how I came to find myself attempting life-saving procedures on a friend of my brother's while sporting my underoos.  I ran into my living room, where the young fellow was flopping about on my hard wood floor pretty much exactly like a fish out of water.  His friends, bless their hearts, just watched him as he banged his head on the floor with the intensity of a speed metal drummer.  Of course, not much one can do when someone is seizing, so I just kept him from hitting his head.  He then woke up, was all loopy and post-ictal, and proceeded to vomit on my porch.  Turns out he was an epileptic who thought it was super cool to not take his meds and ALSO TAKE ECSTASY!  Needless to say, he and my brother were not friends long after that. 

     Although I was highly pissed about that kind of nonsense coming into my home, I did take a lesson from that night.  When the poop hits the fan, one must know that there's no time for pants!  I will now end this post abruptly! 

P.S. When homeboy stopped seizing and was obviously okay, I just demurely stood up and excused myself out of a room full of teenage boys to go put on some pants.