Take Advantage of What You See

I wasn't sure where this was going. Now I know. It's worth sharing. If it wasn't the baby, it might have been the husband.

Dilemmas - WWYD?

Today at breakfast Sam posed the age old question: "would you rather have your arm sawed off by a bread knife or a steak knife?" Although these are preposterous questions and dilemmas that we never envision having to grapple with, I always think about them pretty seriously. Over my coffee I pondered if the butter knife would be worse because it would involve a lot of sawing and would be painfully and gruellingly long - but then the steak knife with its ridges and sharpness would certainly bring more immediate blood and injury. But it would be quicker.

My life is not so leisurely that I can spend a lot of time on these quandaries, but I think it shows Sam's mind is ticking and he makes mine tick too. It's morbid, yes, and he's not a weapon-obsessed kid. On another day he might ask what would happen if humans didn't have tongues or if your wheel fell off while you were going 80 mph on I-25. Most of the time I don't have the answers, but it's fun discussion. Mind expanding in a weird way.

As we get older it seems we lose this ability to think way outside of the possibility of our situation because we don't have time or it's dumb or why bother if it will never happen. But the mind of a kid is always contemplating and wondering and it's too bad we lose some of this when we age.

And then there are always the crafty solutions our kids come up with that we would never dream of. Take for instance dinner last night. Emma had a mouth full of chicken and rice. The phone rang and when I answered it (totally a no-no during dinner, but I the number was for a hospital and I thought maybe someone was in trouble). Anyway, it was her friend wanting to discuss "twin day" and what they would be wearing. Knowing it would be a short convo, I gave the phone to Emma. She had a dilemma because her mouth was full yet she wanted to talk. What would most of us do? Put our index finger up to give the universal sign of "hold on a minute" and finish chewing our food. Not Emma. She grabbed the phone and with complete reflex and lack of inhibition, spit her food out on her plate and began talking. Not a solution I would have come up with or chosen.

There's always something to learn. Always a new way to look at things.

Tween Talk

Sam, yesterday: Mom, guess what?

Me: What?

Sam: There are some girls in my class who have bigger boobs than you do.

I have nothing to say to this. He is right. Either this is a total bust on me for being small, or a comment on those 11 year olds who are too big for their age. Either way, the bottom line is that Sam is noticing breasts (including mine) and I'm not sure how that makes me feel.

Flakes and Other Issues

Emma has scalp issues. As an infant she had the worst cradle cap and since dandruff is kind of a big person problem, I prefer to say she has 7 year old cradle cap. If you happen to look down on her head from above, kind of near where her hair parts, you can see some major flakes. This morning she had too many flakes to count and her hair looked kind of greasy. Fortunately most second graders are about her height so not too many of them will notice the multitude of flakes on the top.

Emma's flakes made me think of that kid in fourth grade who always had greasy hair, dandruff and smelled very earthy and musky. Like wet socks. This kid often had clothes that weren't right for the weather or were too big. He or she often "forgot" his lunch and played alone at recess. His or her homework, if it was turned in, was usually wrinkled and smudged. From what we know now, we can say that if a kid shows up repeatedly with poor hygiene and ill fitting clothes, they aren't getting quite the right attention and care at home. God only know what type of dysfunction might be going on. The last thing they need to be is excluded at school, but that's what usually happens because kids are kids and this is what they do to one another. They can be mean and cruel.

I like to think I was a pretty nice girl growing up, but even I dissed "Barbara Booger," the girl who I now know must have had major psoriasis or some other skin condition that caused her to always be flaking dry bits of her body everywhere. I'm not sure why we called her "Barbara Booger," probably because since it wasn't enough to have a debilitating skin condition, we decided that she probably ate her boogers too. Or maybe we thought the flakes of skin were boogers. Then there was crazy Marvin who was partial to having major rages in the middle of class. I think the first time I heard the "F" word was when Marvin screamed it at a teacher while he was being restrained by several adults.

We all have memories of these kids - the ones who were excluded, made fun of - the troubled kids. As a kid we usually don't have the insight to know that it's not really an issue of dirty clothes or inappropriate tantrums, but a larger and more pervasive systemic problem most likely connected to something going on in the home. Even my best friend, Leigh, always wore mildewed and wrinkled clothes, her favorite t-shirt in fifth grade being one that read "Seven days of beer makes one weak." Her house was so filthy that we never played there. Her mom always had a bad back was marooned on a hospital bed in the dining room and her brother was disabled. I never saw her dad. At the time it didn't strike me as weird. But as an adult I would love to know what was really going on in that home.

Don't get me wrong - not all kids are perfectly coiffed or behaved. But a few stand out and I see them now in my kids' classes. I try to explain to my kids the bigger picture without getting too graphic. I also try to encourage kindness and thoughtfulness towards those who might be struggling.

Just a few thoughts on my mind about those who might not have it so good at home.

Sweet Gear

I think I'm one of the last people to know this - Ken found a headline on CNN.com the other day that read "Beavers Return to Britain." He said, "You know how you can get t-shirts made out of headlines on CNN? I think that would be a great one to have." Ken just happens to like beavers.

No, I didn't know you could do that. But if you look at CNN headlines, it shows you the ones you can make into a t-shirt. Such real life current headlines as "Monkeys Become Waiters, Deliver Beer" or "Holiday Tips for Dysfunctional Families." I think this is ingenious!! Who thought that up? Seriously clever.



That got me to thinking about all the great and offensive t-shirts that must be out there. I found this site - http://www.flippinsweetgear.com/ that has to take the cake. Here are a couple highlights:






Talk about tasteless, but the perfect gift for that "special person" who could really appreciate it.

Neti vs. Spaghetti

I went to the doctor yesterday.

I'm not a frequent doctor goer - usually only for that annual female business. I love to be told that "you're going to feel some pressure and something cold down there." Why can't they warm up those damn things? And why do they have to make small talk while they've got that up there? We both know what is going on. I have a speculum shoved way the hell up me and you are doing the shoving. So let's be quiet and just get through it. But, no, the doc has to say, "So, any plans for the weekend?," "How about them Broncos?" They could at least stick to the subject with something like: "Any plans to have sex this weekend, i.e., have something other than a speculum up here?" or "Done any horseback riding lately? Because you seem to have done exceptionally well getting your feet into those stirrups."

Yesterday's visit did not involve a speculum, thankfully. I went because I have this cold I can't kick. Antibiotics might be in order. I learned that my normal doctor, a very sensitive and fast talking woman, is on medical leave until the first of the year. Apparently she went to the Philippines and contracted some horrendous illness that no one is willing to speak of. I asked both the receptionist and the nurse what the mystery illness was, and they both were very secretive and withholding. I have now diagnosed her myself with Dengue Fever mostly because it sounds exotic and is one of those diseases that you have heard about forever, but don't really know what it is. Can't say the school nurse has sent home a memo recently saying that Dengue Fever is going around.

But I digress. So, I'm waiting in the exam room for substitute doctor (SD) to appear. I am wondering if it will be a male or female. I am wondering if he or she will talk fast. I am wondering if I should treat the substitute doctor like we used to treat substitute teachers in middle school. I can't find anything to make spit balls with, so I decide to let that one go.

In walks SD. He is approximately fifteen years old. He introduces himself: "Hi. I'm Fabio." No joke. I have two issues with this. Number one: since when do doctors allow us peons to be on a first name basis with them? Number two: WTF? Fabio? Who names their kid Fabio unless he is born with wavy long hair that is perpetually blowing away from his face and has the countenance of someone who will be on thousands of future romance book covers?

This is where the story becomes anti climatic. Dr. Fabio says I have an upper respiratory situation (no shit) and that I should try a neti pot. Now that's an invention that in all its ingenuity makes you wonder, who first tried this thing? It had to have been some parent of a kid who got the spaghetti noodle stuck up one nostril and at the same time coming out of the other. Check this out, paying special attention to how she "blows out of both nostrils" at the end (and you're not alone if you're wondering where in the hell do they get these models? The hair cut alone is an outrage).



Who knew there were special neti pot exercises? Who makes neti pot salt?

Who knew neti and spaghetti were so close in theory?



Bottom line is Dr. Fabio sent me on my way and nicely told me to stop being a pussy and deal with my respiratory situation sans drugs. Fine.

But did you know Fabio, the real Fabio, has never done pornography? What a waste.

And On that Same Note from Yesterday

Kudos to the Urban Dictionary (my new favorite source for hip information) for this definition that is oh, so relevant to yesterday's post:


Broccoli Fart:

A particularly hot, sulfurous fart that smells suspiciously like broccoli even though you haven't eaten broccoli for days, even weeks. Not to be confused with a "Sulfur Strut," a broccoli fart is usually an SBD special.

Broccoli & Glade

I took Sam to the pediatrician today for his big boy eleven year old check up. He hates these mostly because the doctor always wants to mess with his private parts (see post dated 5/27/08 - "Break a Testicle") I told him today he'd be seeing a woman doctor (gasp) and that she would probably make him wear a gown. Not only that, but the gowns usually have some gay pattern on them like a teddy bear playing various sports. Not so cool for an eleven year old.

Anyway, we get into the elevator at the doctor's office. Once the doors close, Sam lets this enormous and thunderous fart rip. Then he says, "Broccoli, 49 cents a pound." This sounded vaguely familiar (not the fart, but the broccoli part) and Sam reminded me it was from this YouTube video we watched last year. Seriously, this thing cracked me up. We were rolling with laughter in the elevator. Although I'll say it wasn't nice of Sam to rip one when we were confined in such a small space. Like mother, like son - anyone who knows me well knows I don't hesitate to let one fly on airplanes, hair salons or any other public place (Vanessa, I ripped on at Brownies once, didn't I? And Erika, how about that one last night when we were getting our hair cut?)

Well, crap. I wanted to find the video of the broccoli, but it's not out there anymore. But in my travels, I found another flatulence related video I like as much if not more. But first, here's the verbal on the broccoli so you'll know what Sam was referring to:

"An old woman is riding in an elevator in a very lavish New York City building when a young, beautiful woman gets into the elevator, smelling of expensive perfume. She turns to the old woman and says arrogantly, "Romance" by Ralph Lauren, $150 an ounce!"Then another young and beautiful woman gets on the elevator, and also very arrogantly turns to the old woman saying, "Chanel No. 5, $200 an ounce!"About three floors later, the old woman has reached her destination and is about to get off the elevator. Before she leaves, she looks both beautiful women in the eye, then bends over and farts and says, "Broccoli - 49 cents a pound!"

And now, one of my faves:



Regardless if you think farts are amusing, you have to love that one.

In conclusion, Sam did have to wear the bear gown, but the doc spared touching his genitals. She just took a quick look and then asked about his "toilet habits." Phew.

Another Tidbit

Note: This was not drawn by one of my children.

This is actually supposed to be a picture of a mom who works at Home Depot and is selling a shovel. Yeah, right. The kid who drew this spends way to much time at the Les Bleu Ballz Club.

Intervention Gone Wrong

PB&J In the Round

Would you want this freak working with your Girl Scouts? Sometimes I get so bored at these things, I have to spice it up a bit. On this night the girls were decorating paper bags. Now that's fun for second graders, I'm pretty sure. I, on the other hand, have decorated way too many brown bags in my life. After all, before these fancy insulated lunch bags that have special cubicles for everything from carrot sticks to sushi, I used to bring my lunch to school in one of these non-descript brown bags. It was either that or my hard plaid lunchbox. It never occurred to me or my mom or anyone of that generation that it might be a good idea to put an ice pack in with that egg salad sandwich that sat out all night. I'm not sure if all of those childhood stomach bugs were viruses or from the bacteria found in my egg salad sandwich. The bacteria that was allowed to grow after hours of no refrigeration.

Anyway, have you noticed that kid lunches have gotten pretty fancy these days? And I'm not talking just taking your lunch. But buying your lunch. In my day - if you bought lunch you got what they were serving and that was IT. Rectangle pizza day? Here's your slice. Sloppy Joe Wednesday? Take it or leave it.

Nowadays, if you don't like the pizzata or surf burger (the school's rendition of Filet 'o Fish) then you can opt for a Smuckers PB&J. And it's ROUND with NO CRUST! A child's dream. Also, if you're not interested in the chocolate or strawberry milk (cause no one goes for the white milk anymore), then feel free to spend an extra dollar or two and get in Inta' Juice smoothie that has been delivered from the smoothie shop that day at noon. And pizza Wednesdays? Don't even get me started!! No more rectangular cheese pizza. Dominoes comes in and delivers now.

As far as taking lunch to school, damn - every other article in Family Circle or Family Fun magazine is about how to make your child's lunches more innovative and FUN! Hey parents! Try taking a cheese stick, pulling it apart into strings, wrapping those around a cucumber, taking a decorative toothpick and attaching a piece of tofu? Your child will think this is interesting and neat and won't even consider that it might be healthy too! For another option, boil some cauliflower the night before, use food coloring to die it pink, sprinkle it with Parmesan cheese and voila! You've got a tasty and nutritious treat!

I'm thinking we got slighted as kids. Either that, or we were blessed by living in a much simpler time.

Sorry If You're Itching or Burning

Did you know about this?

Let's suppose you're into one night stands or maybe you just sleep around here and there. Let's say you realize you have an STD, anything from crabs to VD. You think to yourself, "Okay, slut, how shall I be the bearer of bad news to those with whom I've romped?" (That is if the whore in you has a conscious). If you're a man whose been sharing your seed amongst the masses, you might address yourself as "man ho" or simply "womanizer."

The good news is that there is a new service just for people like you. You can now notify up to six partners at once about your given STD. It's simple, you select your ecard image, indicate which STD you're carrying (if you've got more than one you might need to do this twice), choose up to six lucky recipients and voila, done!! You can even send it anonomyously. You chicken shit.

I'm still on the fence. How insensitive! How cold! How impersonal! Then I think, "how funny as a practical joke!" But really, maybe spreading the word cuts down on spreading the funk.

You can check it out: www.inspot.org

Terrorists and "Shorty"

It's a new day. Time for a new/old journal entry. I hope you are enjoying this as much as I am. Some of you may know I was living in Athens, Greece at the time so that explains some of the verbiage:

February 19, 1980

"Today was shitty. "Shorty," the great dog who was a stray and belonged to everyone at the AYC (American Youth Club) was killed by the Greeks. The people tied his paws together and beat him with a stick. What a shame. Some people are so anti-American. You know on Friday a terrorist group was planning to bomb the embassy and my dad was in there. But they caught them.

I broke up with Eugene today because he was gonna break up with me. You see on Base (American Air Base) in back of the teen center, he, Sheila and Jason were dancing and he kissed Kelly and he was makin' out with Sheila. So what does he expect me to do, sit around and take all these nasty rumors? No Way! Plus he thinks I make out with other boys over the weekend, which is such a lie. The bitch. God what has gotten into him? I'm glad I had the pleasure of breaking up with him first.

Thad decided to cut me down again about my tits today but this time it was "Let's get her! - No we don't have a microscope." Oh funny I mean it just makes me real happy. Bitch! Bully (our dog) got hit by a car today but he's okay. God one of these days he'll be dead!"

Obviously, this is a much more serious entry in regards to "Shorty" and the terrorists. There were several times when we lived in Greece that the anti-American sentiment was well known to us. Not long before we got there, there had been a serious bombing at the American Embassy, so we always had to be careful about accepting packages. We also had to scan for car bombs before getting in the car each time. Funny thing is I don't remember this at all. It makes me sad about "Shorty" - so cruel.

I do remember Eugene, but not the specifics of him making out with Sheila and Kelly. I'm sure it happened. Those Air Force Brats were kind of white trash (just kidding).

I always loved Thad. He was my crush for several years. He always gave me a hard time about my flat chest.

Ironically enough, Bully, our dog, was poisoned by the Greek police a year later. The police put out poison on the streets in the form of dog food to kill stray dogs. Both of our dogs were killed this way.

Elvis is a Fox

Going back in time can be painful. It can also be hysterical. I started keeping a journal when I was eight. Some of my early entries (and let's call it a diary, not a journal, because at eight I had a baby blue 4x4" diary that you could only open with that little key), anyway, my entries included things like "Today I had oatmeal," and "I read Nancy Drew after school" to my personal favorite: "Today I was sick so I stayed home and played with myself." (Get your mind out of the gutter). There was also an entry on August 16, 1977 that stated "Today Elvis died. I hated him but some people didn't."

As I got older, my journals got more electric and, shall we say, inappropriate. When I was twelve I had a simple brown book in which I wrote my deepest thoughts. The first page of the book was devoted to my older brother, David, and read "David -Don't go any further or else I'll never speak to you again! That goes for any one else who is a goddamn nosey bitch. Just keep out!"

That pretty much sets the stage for what is to come in this journal that dates from December 1979 to July 1980. It is full of profanities and the voice of someone who thinks she is very cool and very mature and very slick. I cringe when I read it, wondering how did I get to be such a goddamn nosey bitch? How did I learn this crap? How did I rise above eventually to be somewhat normal and well adjusted?

As I write this, I am randomly opening this secret brown journal to a page and I am going to type what it says. This is purely for your enjoyment. It frightens me because it takes me inside the head of a somewhat insane 12 year old. Did I mention my son will be twelve in one year?

January 11, 1980

"Not too much has really happened. Yesterday I planned that the whole class would cough at 12:45 p.m. in social studies. The plan went through alright but the teacher wasn't exactly thrilled. She threatened to suspend me. I got a 71% on my science test! Oh, shit I've got to straighten up my act, dammit. I took the re-test. I swear Becca is turning into an asshole. In not too long she will be a drug addict. I'm glad she's leaving this summer. Lisa is turning really popular! I mean it! Don't you hate when your very best friend turns popular on you? I do! I mean she has a boyfriend. I don't, and if I don't get one soon I'm going to get very desperate! Bruce E. is a fox. I really wouldn't mind going with him - but then there's Pat C. He is in the 6th grade and a total fox!"

I share this with you to make you feel better. If you have a child who you think might be a fuckup, I'm here to tell you it's okay. I am no worse for the wear today, although I am certain I drove my parents nuts. The funny thing is overall I did get good grades and had lots of friends. Those were some of my favorite years. I can't imagine why anyone would have wanted to hang out with me. I sound like a real drag. Although if I remember correctly, most of my friends were kind of like me, i.e., using the word "fox" on a regular basis. I am still wondering what would have happened if I "got desperate" because I didn't have a boyfriend. Turned into a lesbian? Castrated someone? Forced myself on Bruce E.? The possibilities are endless.

WTF?

Didn't know prostitutes specialized in jellies and other gifts.

I wonder if products include candied pearl necklaces and last chance lap dance pie? I'm sure you can only pay with dollar bills.

Gay PSA

Watch out, there's a new PSA (I'm talking Public Service Announcement, not a prostate related issue) in town from the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network. I suppose that network basically covers everyone on earth but asexauls. This PSA has made me bow my head in shame and wonder what kind of person I really am.



Okay, I don't say "that's so gay" very often. Usually I just say it with Ken or Joie because it reminds us of being in fifth grade and makes us feel young again. It's what I might've said as an eleven year old when someone brought their pet rock to school in a bed they made out of a shoebox or when my brother wore docksiders with his bell bottoms. I also might have said it after watching the Brady Bunch episode 25, season one when Jan received a mysterious locket in the mail with no indication of who sent it and a manhunt began to find the culprit since the only clue was the typewriter used to type the address dropped its ‘y.’ Meanwhile, the locket mysteriously vanished and Peter suggested that they re-enact exactly what they were doing the night it vanished. Peter was SO gay. Because who re-enacts shit like that?

In my mind, and I might be totally inappropriate and politically incorrect (okay, not "might be," I know I am) saying "that shirt is so gay" is absolutely not the same thing as saying "that shirt is so homosexual." I realize that if someone said "that shirt is so Beth," meaning that Beth meant stupid or ugly or ridiculous, I might take offense. So the key here is to use the phrase sparingly and only with those who truly understand that you are not using the term "gay" to compare an ugly shirt to a lesbian. For example, a recent time I said "that's so gay" was when Joie was imitating someone who had a vicious comb over. I felt I had to call her "gay" just because she looked so stupid, funny and ridiculous all at once.

I am not gay, so I do not know how it must feel to overhear someone using the term in an expensive clothing store and to be reprimanded by Hillary Duff. I don't mean to make total light of the subject, but sometimes it just seems we can't say anything anymore. Don't get me wrong. I don't say this in front of my kids (unless one of them were gay, then I definitely would, just kidding) and I don't say it in public. But I do say it on occasion, in the right company. And if you're gay and reading this, feel free to slap me upside the head with a belittling comment.

Is Palin Failin'?

At the risk of being burned at the stake or fed to the dogs, I need to voice my opinion about this Sarah Palin business. I've tried to remain calm and open minded as I do think she brings some new energy to the McCain campaign and has some valuable experience. However...

You've probably noticed, anyone would, that Sarah Palin has granted few interviews. Some say the McCain camp is sequestering her. I wonder why. Are they afraid she can't step up and respond on the spot? Whatever the reason, her absence and the little we truly know about her abilities is astonishing since she could be holding the second most powerful position in the world in a few months. And if John McCain, god forbid, kicks the bucket, Gov'ner Palin would step into The. First. Spot.

The problem is that McCain isn't particularly healthy, has outlived the entire male lineage of his family already, has cancer, and suffered 5 years of torture. And he wants to have the most stressful job in the world. This is a woman who isn't just a "heartbeat away from the presidency", but she will LIKELY need to assume executive power at some point during his term.

This isn't to take anything away from her experience in Alaska where she has apparently been a popular and successful governor. It's just to say that she is in a completely different league now and needs to play with the big boys and girls.

I would expect any candidate running for this office to step up. Remember, we knew nothing about this woman until August 29, that's about thirty days ago. We deserve more so we can make informed decisions about who to vote for. I'm not talking about ganging up on her and I'm certainly not talking about sexism, momism or any of the other bullshit flying around. I'm talking about electing someone at a time in history when we are so messed up as a country that it's do or die.

People like Palin because she is "just like them." Personally, I don't want someone "just like me" to become VP or eventually president. I want someone smarter, better educated, and capable of handling ALL the stresses that the job entails.

Whether you are a Democrat or Republican, you have to agree that we need to know more about how and if this woman can provide impromptu responses and if her knowledge of world affairs, the economy, etc etc is widespread and solid enough to take the number two and possible the number one spot.

In her third interview this week, Governor Palin spoke to Katie Couric. Granted, this is only a speck of the interview, it gives the general gist. I ask you to think critically if she can rule the world:





If you are a real Palin fan, and I know there are many out there, respond and tell me why she floats your boat. I am truly curious.

Is There Something Missing?

http://www.wlky.com/video/17550378/index.html

Check out this video. Penis amputation. Involuntary.

Can you imagine this guy going in for your basic circumcision (at the age of 61 -WTF - I guess it was related to a medical condition like foreskinitis) and coming out dickless? Little did he know that he needed to tell the doc prior to the surgery, "No matter what you do, do not take off my penis." And then there's the issue of the doctor, himself.

Doctor: Nurse, please hand me a bigger cutting tool. I'm going to have to remove the penis.

Nurse: But doctor, I don't think this patient consented to penis removal. Only foreskin.

Doctor: Don't fuck with me, nurse. I see cancer on the penis. I'm lobbing it off. This is my one and only chance. You know if I wake up the bastard and ask for his consent, he'll never agree. It's now or never.

I'm thinking, w/out a biopsy, how do you know there's cancer on the penis? Is this doctor so good that he can actually detect cancer with the naked eye on a naked penis? This isn't like doing surgery, finding cancer on a tonsil and taking it off. This is a penis, for god's sake! A love tool! A carrier of seeds to make a baby! A wrinkly white worm in this case of this gentleman! Really, my heart goes out to him. If I ever join an African tribe and opt for a labiaplasty, I will absolutely remember to specify "leave the clitoris."

Seven Years Ago

Nine-eleven.

It's hard to not wake up today and vividly remember what you were doing on this morning seven years ago. I still get chills thinking about it. I saw a brief clip on the news last night of the towers on fire, about to fall. I am still in disbelief that this. really. happened.

Sam was three years old, Emma was five months. Ken had left for work. It was the one morning when I did not have the news on because we were buying a new dresser and had the TV on the floor, unplugged. I was getting Sam ready for preschool, nursing Emma. Ken called and told me to turn on the TV. Watching the horrific events unfold, I remember wanting desperately to reconnect with everyone I loved. My mom and dad had not yet moved to Colorado and while I always missed them, I especially missed them this day. They were in France at the time, and I had no way of contacting them. I was sick for the families who lost someone and for the fear the victims must have felt in those last moments. It is incomprehensible. I just kept thinking: all of these people got up today and got ready for work and didn't expect to die.

In the days and weeks that followed, I wondered if life would ever be the same, if we would ever feel completely safe. I remember embracing life in a different way - the pesky and mundane problems took a back seat. Morbid as it is - I thought, "today is the day I could die." Only in this thought could I take hold of what was truly important in its most raw form.

We all watched endless coverage of what happened. Of all I saw, this video was the thing that touched me the most that day. I remember sitting with Sam, watching this and just sobbing. I am glad I could find it and share it with you. The song is "Fallen Embers" by Enya.


Time has a way of softening the tragedy, of lessening the blow. I want to always remember in full force what took place. I hope you do too.

Dirty Old Lady

This picture was in our paper several years ago when Bush was running for president. Check out the little old lady and her sign. It caught my eye for obvious reasons, and I saved it.

Show Them to Me

I've never understood the male fascination with women's boobs. Men love them. Live for them. Want to see, fondle, taste, smell them. They even like to put things attached to their bodies between them and do a lot of rubbing. Silver dollar areolas, eraser nipples, it's all good. And the bigger the better.

BTW, it doesn't matter if the boobs are fake. Men can just as easily fall in love with and be made horny by the sac of silicon or saline under the skin as they can by the actual and real fat deposits that make up a woman's breasts. In fact, I think some men prefer the fake boobs because they are so perfectly round and perky. Those men of the desperate variety might even get turned on by watching the "Biggest Loser" when those overweight guys take off their shirts for the weigh-in and they have man-tits hanging down to their sagging stomachs.

Me, I have always been a member of the IBTC. I even had the shirt when I was in middle school. No one cared about my little breasts or even gave them a second look unless it was to make fun of me. It didn't really bother me. After all, I could run without getting banged in the eye by my boobs and I didn't have to wear a bra until I was sixteen. I probably could have waited until eighteen. So it's funny that my breasts would have caused such a stir on a boat in the Chesapeake Bay in 1985.

You see, it was July 4th. My boyfriend at the time, Michael, had invited me to go out on his family's boat. Michael and I had only been dating since May, so my interaction with his family was minimal. So here we are on the boat with Michael and ten of his relatives. It is ghastly hot. Michael asks if I want to be pulled behind the boat by a rope. Sure, why not. So we both jump in and do that little lover thing you do where you wrap your legs around one another in the water. We're holding onto the rope, feeling the cool water on our bodies. We are in love. This is great. Suddenly Michael's uncle yells over the boat - "Get out! There are millions of jellyfish surrounding you!" So Michael, being the stud and man he is, ditches me and climbs on the boat. I am gasping, struggling to get out of the water. I am being stung again and again. All I care about is getting the hell onto the boat. Michael being the stud and man he is, is already on the boat, just observing my struggle. I finally manage to pull myself up on the boat. My body is pulsing with the stings of many jellyfish. I am trying to catch my breath. I am standing there breathing loudly and checking out my stings when I notice it is very quiet. I look up. All ten relatives are silent - staring at me. I have lost my bikini top in the bay. I am naked from the waist up. Michael, being the stud and man he is, stands there chuckling. So even members of the IBTC get attention sometimes.

On the subject, Bev sent me this priceless video today. I laughed out loud.

It's a Testicle, It's a Plane

Get your mind out of the gutter:

It's All About the Penis

Ah, yes. I know. It's been a few days, since my last post. Nine to be exact. There've been lots of excuses. School starting. Obama being in town. Sick kids. Season premier of "The Hills," Eating. Sleeping. Dumping.

Mostly, I just haven't had that many irreverent thoughts the last nine days. I know, I know. That is unusual for me.

Don't get me wrong. I continue to have irreverent thoughts internally. Crude thoughts. Disgusting thoughts. But are these blog-worthy? I'm not sure.

One thing that has caught my attention is that no matter what the subject, it all has to go back to the cock. The penis. The dick.

I was fortunate enough to attend the Obama speech at the Bronco's stadium in Denver on Thursday. I am a big Obama fan. Always have been. Going to this event was a big deal for me. I felt fortunate, elated, excited. When I feel this way, I usually want a t-shirt to show the rest of the world that "I care about something." Look at me! I am making a statement about being a lesbian, liking Bon Jovi, caring about global warming, adoring Little Kitty, or being a member of the Little Itty Bitty Titty Committee by wearing this shirt. Well, I'm not really a lesbian and don't care for Little Kitty, but you get the point.

So naturally, at the Obama event, I NEEDED A SHIRT.

Well, all the shirts to be found were dumb, unoriginal: Obama/Biden '08 (boring), Obama for Change (no duh!), I am Black and Love Obama (well, you should but I'm not so I can't wear that), Obama is my Homeboy (yeah, if I wore that I would be the uncoolest mom at school trying to look cool). So, I didn't buy one at the event. But I came home with the intention of buying the coolest t-shirt EVER on line. Turns out Cafepress has a killer t-shirt collection. There are "My Mama Loves Obama" shirts, "Barack the Vote" shirts, even "Joe'Bama '08" shirts. What I didn't expect was that the shirts would embrace the "cock" theme. I was surprised to see this:
























I'm thinking to myself: Why? Why do you need to make a Barack Obama t-shirt or a McCain t-shirt or any political t-shirt about having your cock out? I mean, what does it mean anyway to "Barack with your cock out?" Certainly it's a play on your words meaning to "Rock with your cock out." So given that, does that mean when you wear this shirt you have to unzip your fly, pull out your penis, and start rocking? Only you're not really "rocking," you're "Baracking," which I guess means you must be doing some cool, groovy black man dance with your cock out. I don't know. It just seems it would take a very special person to wear that shirt. And I don't have no cock, so I am not the person for that shirt.

I finally settled on the very boring "Yes We Can" shirt. I probably should have gone for the "Disco Dance with Your Vagina Out of Your Pants," but I passed on that one.

Topless in Colorado

My very informed husband has just let me know that Saturday August 23 is "go topless" day throughout the U.S. The go-topless society is encouraging women to organize events in their cities and to remove their shirts and bras at about noon. We, in Colorado, are lucky that the Democratic National Convention is starting because it has been suggested that we go topless "at the doors of the convention." The motivation behind this movement is to prove that women are equal to men in this arena, i.e., we should be able to go shirtless just as men do, especially in the case of the above scenario (see pictures).

I, for one, am planning on starting my day by removing the t-shirt I sleep in every night (thereby leaving me topless), going to the farmer's market, getting my hair cut, visiting the local nursing home, having my kids' friends over for a play date, then wrapping up my day at a Rockie's game. Anyone who knows me knows that my double-A cup size is certain to shock and excite any bystanders.

I think what would be most exciting on this day is if all lactating mothers could participate. No breast pads allowed. That way, we could add some dripping to the whole scene. This is also a good day for those with silver dollar sized areolas to come out of hiding as well as those with unsightly nipple hair and those who have had major breast augmentation. It should be a time of self expression as well as people-gawking, don't you think?

Indulge Me...

Okay. I know someone is reading this blog because it has had over 700 hits since I started recording hits back in June. Granted 200 of those hits are from me and Ken (just trying to beef up that number, you know) - there are still 500 of you have have visited.



You may look at my counter and see that there have been 1200 hits, but my secret is that I started the counter at 500 to make myself look cool. That may seem deceitful (kind of like the Chinese gymnastic's team not really being 16), but I could have set it to start at 2,000 and then I would have looked even cooler than I do now.



My point is, and listen carefully - the whole reason I started this blog, aside from wanting to have an outlet for my sickness, is to connect with you all.



Please!! If you are reading this blog and find yourself having any reaction at all, be it disgust, pleasure, pain, humor - please leave me a comment. I feel as if I'm writing in a vacuum!!



Also - my curiosity wants to know who is visiting - where are you from? how old are you?



Leaving a comment is so easy. If you choose the anonymous option, you don't even have to sign in.

Let's connect!!

Pugs Cover Penis

Found this gem of the Hoff:

What Makes Me, Me

Having irritable bowel syndrome sure makes things interesting. I have crapped at the spur of the moment in the most unique of places.

Today, after ingesting a breakfast of grease, lard and oil at the Village Coffee Shop, I told Ken to stop by Whole Foods so I could take a crap and maybe pick up some organic edamame. I was pretty laid back at first, but then informed him he had better run the yellow lights because the turd was peaking.

It then occurred to me that one of these days in the probably not so distant future I will crap my pants. It is inevitable. Usually when the urge strikes I am either at home or in five minutes distance of a Target or grocery store bathroom. I am guessing that one day I will be on the highway with no shoulder and no exits in sight. I will be sweating, cramping and clenching my sphincter. I will be doing my best to hold it all in, knowing that the clean up will be horrendous. I will hold it and hold it for ten miles until a see an exit for Micky Dee's. I will be ecstactic and relieved all at once. I will hold it some more and as I get off of the exit and turns towards the big "M" I will start to fantasize about how good this will feel once I am alone in the stall. I will be in the home stretch when I approach a railroad crossing. And there will be a train and I will be forced to stop and the train will be five miles long and it will be going five miles per hour and there will be cars ahead of me and behind me and we will be at a standstill and I will know. I will know that there is no escape and I am going to shit myself.

This is what I see in my future. Some people see going skydiving one day or swimming with the sharks. I see sitting in my Ford Explorer in my own waste.

And this brings me to another story - one I like to call my MEM (Most Embarrassing Moment). It was my first experience with my irritable bowel problem. I was just an unsuspecting young thing at the time and had no clue what was coming. But if you want to read that story, you'll have to tune in next time. I have to go to the bathroom.

Weighing in at 68 Pounds

Yes the Chinese have been great hosts so far in these Olympics. Or so it seems. The more I learn about the behind the scenes stuff, the more turned off I am by the Chinese need to deceitfully appear "perfect."

To the viewer, the opening ceremonies were incredible - beyond anything we had seen before. Just the fireworks alone were stunning, too amazing to be true - but, wait! You mean many of those fireworks, those seen around the city of Beijing were computer generated?? As a viewer, I am let down and feel gypped.

Then there was the sweetest little girl singing "Ode to the Motherland" while many other precious children walked into the stadium. It was enough to make you tear up and want to go hug a Chinese child - but wait! You mean that little girl was lip syncing? Could it really be true that the voice behind the lip syncing was one of Yang Peiyi, 7 years old, who has the voice of an angel but did not look the part. Apparently her buck teeth had something to do with it. So instead Lin Miaoke, age 9, got to play the part. Boy that Communist Party must really be feeling the pressure.

Moving onto the competition. I love gymnastics. With a passion. I was a gymnast myself. I know that Asians are typically of smaller stature than Americans. But have you seen the women's Chinese team? I would be shocked if any of them had one strand of pubic hair or even a nipple. Supposedly you must be 16 years old to compete. These kids are babies. Seriously, they can't be more than 12-14 years old, tops. Yet their passports would likely say they were 16 or older. Their passports are conveniently issued by the Chinese government. None of these "women" is over 4' 11". They all weigh less than 80 lbs with the lightest weighing in at 68 lbs. The Chinese are very motivated to get the gold. And they did.

To what extent should a people, a government go to impress and to win? Is it worth the deceit? Is it worth telling a 7 year old she's not cute or pretty enough to sing in front of millions? I've always been impressed by the competitive spirit, endurance and perseverance of the Chinese. These Olympic shenanigans, however, are not be admired. I'd rather get the real thing, faults and all.

No Class

I realize not everyone who reads this is an Obama fan. I, however, have been on board with Obama since the get go. I won't go into all of my reasons for thinking he could do good for our country, but I really do think he could do good for our country. I don't think McCain is a bad guy. He's experienced, he's been through it (POW and all that). Mostly I'm afraid he will simply continue the policies of the Bush-era with some minor tweaking. Kind of like Johnny Depp's version of the movie "Willy Wonka." It was jazzier, more modern and more interesting than the original, but it was basically the same underneath.


So we're at the parade to kick off the Boulder County Fair the other day. The Obama team marches by. Some hippie ass stands up and starts booing. Is it just me or is this tacky? I tell H.A. (kind of under my breath) that he doesn't have any class. Then the McCain folks come by and I tell Hippie Ass that I could boo too but I won't. Then I got my ass kicked. Well, not really, but it could have happened.

My point is - regardless of who you want to win for president, the parade route isn't "America's Got Talent" or the Rockie's game. It's a family parade and booing is not allowed (although this is an unspoken rule, it's a rule nonetheless). Would you boo the Jews for Jesus who dance by in the parade because you are a Lutheran? Would you boo the Tres Margaritas horses because you don't like tacos? I think not.

Glad I got that off my chest.

Dance Off

I saw this on Dooce, one of my fave fellow female bloggers (FFFB). Damn! This is true white-boy-funky. If he had an overbite, we'd be set. Be sure to watch the splits.

Sucky Birthday

We celebrated dear friend Erika's 40th birthday last night. What would a good 40th birthday party be without some penis humor? I'm not sure why the penis had to be a part of things, after all that might be more for a bachelorette party or a coming out party for a gay friend, but the penis always seems to bring a laugh, no matter what the occasion.


I had contemplated trying to make the penis cake that actually ejaculates a milky substance (not sperm, of course, I actually think it is milk) - I saw this on youtube. You make a cake shaped like a penis (erect) and put some tubing in it and attach a turkey baster. Basically when your friend blows out the candles, you pump the secret turkey baster and voila! a penis in action. Well, I ran out of time to figure out how to not only make this contraption but to actually bring it to the bar. So, Julie and I settled on a cake from our favorite erotic bakery "Le Bakery Sensual" in Denver. I, myself, have received several cakes from this place over the years. My favorite is the vagina cake. It is very anatomically correct. I know this because I have a vagina. When I got the vagina cake when I turned twenty-something, it was so perfect and artistic that I stored it in my freezer for years. You can see it at the website. So here is the cake we settled on for E:




















And of course we couldn't just look at the cake, laugh at the cake, take pictures of the cake and talk about the cake, we had to remove the whole package and pass it around so everyone could get their picture taken with it. I believe this shot of Erika was after consuming her fifth shot of tequila. How old are we? I don't care; it was fun.

























Happy 40th dear friend!

Strangers

Why is it that sometimes people takes such liberties in telling you their opinions, like you really care? It's one thing for a goodhearted friend to offer a tidbit of advice (i.e., you might not want to wear white shorts when you're on the rag). It's entirely another thing for a complete stranger to take it upon themselves to comment on your life when you haven't even solicited their input.

So I'm at the grocery store the other day. The bagger woman is filling my bags. She's probably in her late twenties. Typically my conversation with the bagging person is limited to "is plastic okay?" me: "yes." Or "how's your day going?" me: "fine." On this particular day I was wearing my Bolder Boulder tshirt from when I ran the 10K two years ago. The bagger was all, "Have you ever run that race?" me: "Yeah, it's really fun." Bagger: "But it's not even for charity or anything is it?" me: "No, but it's really fun." Bagger: "But I mean, why would someone run something that's not even for charity?" me: "Because it's really fun." Bagger: "So how far is it?" me: "It's a 10K; 6.2 miles." Bagger: "And you don't mind running 6.2 miles for NOTHIN'???" Me: "Look bitch. Lay off. I said it was for fun. Go take your menial close minded opinions and stick them up your ass" (that's what I wanted to say) what I really said was: "NO I DON'T MIND BECAUSE IT'S FUN." Now put that gorgonzola cheese and triscuits into my bag so I can be on my way.

Gushing and Squirting

Female ejaculation. Ever experience it?

I was female-ejaculation-ignorant until last weekend. Don't go getting all excited. I didn't ejaculate. I merely learned that FE was even possible.

Here's the back story - my friend Clair was visiting from Richmond, VA. Her speech is splattered with ya'alls and references to vacations spent at the "rivah." She still sometimes dresses up when she's flying on a plane and only recently started to fart in front of me. In sum, she is truly a Southern girl (much like our guinea pig, Betty Sue).

Here's the thing - one would not expect little ol' Clair to be the one to introduce me to the concept of FE. But come to think of it, she has introduced me to a lot of things over the years. That Clair can surprise you. Once she told me about going on a date with a guy who had Tourettes. When she got into the car he started uncontrollably calling her "clitface, clitface." She by far wins the prize for best worst first date (even topping my flying story). I won't even go into her story about orgasming in the restaurant. Let's just say it involved a big toe.

So over wine and tapas the other night Clair proceeds to tell me that her husband was all excited because he thought she FE'd one night during sex. The story goes that they were getting it on, she in a squat position when the FE supposedly took place. Clair, however, doesn't think it was a true FE, but thinks she peed. This sent me into gales of her laughter. Her husband, on the other hand, saw the wet spot on the sheet and declared that this was something to celebrate. More laughter. Clair didn't have the heart to tell him she's sure it was urine.

How can she be so sure?

Wikipedia says that squirting and or gushing is involved during the FE. And this happens while having an orgasm. Clair thinks if it was the legendary FE, she would have flown through the roof in ecstasy. Not the case. She just needed to wipe.

So if you see her husband on the street, let's not ruin it for him. He is the MAN in his own eyes, having brought his wife to this rare state that is only rumored to be true on Sex and the City and other fictionalized shows.

I ask you - any experience with this? Is it an urban legend, or can this really occur?

What's in a name?

Emma started swimming lessons yesterday. At the last minute a new boy was added to the class. The mother, rather pushy and emphatic in my opinion, said, "This is David-Walter. David hyphen Walter. He goes by David-Walter." I, like the swim instructor, was thinking David has to be his first name, Walter his last. So the swim teacher refers to him as "David." But DW does not respond to "David," does not even bat an eye or look in her direction when called "David" without the "Walter." The mother yells "It's DAVID-WALTER! That's DAVID HYPHEN WALTER! He will not respond to anything else!"

And that is fine. I guess if my name was Mike-Hunt (Mike hyphen Hunt) or Seymore-Butts or Mike-Hawk or Hugh G. Rection I would only respond to the name in total.

My point is, kid names have gotten so out of hand. What was once Joe, Dick (my favorite), Bob, Mary and Sue has become Apple (Gwyneth Paltrow), Sunday, Liquisha, T'nisa, etc. Emma had a little girl named "Cutter" in her camp last week. I hope this isn't what her parents want her to be when she grows up. My theory is that parents want so badly for their kid to be *unique* to *stand out* in the crowd, that Betty is just not going to cut it anymore.

Everyone knows some kid from childhood that had the weird name. But they were one in a hundred. My story is that I went to Young Life camp with two sisters: Cheddar and Swiss. No kidding. Those were their birth certificate names. And, no, I don't think the last name was cheese. A friend of mine knew two twins (or this could be an urban legend) named Lemonjello (prounounced Lemahnjello) and Orangejello (Or-anggjello). You put a french sound twist to the name and you can make lemonjello sound very chic.

I personally like the game where you can make your own god-given name a porn star name. You can do one of two things. Either go to Tim's Web Porn Star Name Generator, select if you want to be a "Pimp" or a "Ho" and enter your name. For example, husband Ken's PS name is "Cockney Velvet" and my dad would be "George Dicks." It is way fun to do this. The other way to get your authentic porn star name is to use this basic formula: take the name of your first pet + the name of the street you live on. So I am Duncan Purdue. That's pretty lame, but I'm sure there are some good one's out there.

What's yours?

Do Southern Belles Poop?

My son's fish, Sharky, died on the Fourth of July. Wasn't that a movie? Anyway, I always thought goldfish lived nice short lives. As in, maybe they would die before you had to clean their tank. And then you could tell your kids, "Well, we tried the fish thing. Sorry." Not Sharky. That damn fish lived on and on. Three years and nine months to be exact. We got to the point where we wouldn't even have any one take care of him when we went on a trip.



The last trip we took to Boston, it was *HOT* here. Our house was all closed up, no A/C. So for Sharky that meant no food and a hot tub for a home. I'm pretty sure he wiggled up to the air hole, mermaid-style, and reached around for tidbit of food that had dropped on the lid. He probably did this with his fins. He also somehow turned on the A/C. There is no other explanation why such a neglected fish could have survived. I don't think anyone from PETA reads this blog, but please don't email me about how abusive I am. I am fully aware and have full disclosure as you have read.



So, with the patriotic death of Sharky, it was time to try a new pet. Ken said no to any cats. We went the rodent route and came home from Petco with a guinea pig. Back in the car, the kids and I were trying to find the perfect name. Emma said, how about "Sunday?" I had never heard of that name for a person or a guinea pig. Turns out, on that same day, Nicole Kidman had her baby and named her "Sunday." I'm not sure what this means but I'm pretty sure Emma has a telepathic relationship going with Nicole.



While the name "Sunday" is perfect for a movie star's baby, it was not good enough for our guinea pig. Sam suggested "Betty Sue," and Betty Sue it was.



And she is a Betty Sue. Sort of a Southern belle with a genteel, sweet personality. She's already referring to our house as "the plantation," and requesting mint juleps with her pellets and lettuce. I think she called Sam a "yankee" last night.

We found out yesterday that Betty Sue doesn't like bananas. We tried putting one by her food bowl. How do we know she didn't like the banana? She shit on it. That's right. We found a nice, perfect turd lying on top of the banana. I'm not sure how she got it up there, cause I did not witness her putting her ass on the top of the fruit. Maybe she crapped, then managed to roll the turd up there with her delicate Southern claws. Anyway, I did not think that was very ladylike of her. What would they say at the country club?

Let Us Pray

On my family-style blog (the "other" blog) where I refrain from cussing and being crass (http://www.risdonnews.blogspot.com/), I gave the following account of a conversation in our house today:

Sam (bouncing while he's talking): "Mom can I play some Playstation?"
Me: "Maybe after breakfast. But STOP bouncing."
Sam: "I only bounce when I'm asking a question and I want the answer to be yes."
Emma: "Oh, like when you ask 'am I a poop?'"
Sam: "What I meant is when I want the answer to be good. OK fartface?"

I wrote at the end: "Is fartface a bad word?"

Immediately the grandparents wrote back and said that, yes, fartface was in fact a bad word and that perhaps it was time for the kids to start going to Sunday School.

As if Sunday School is the answer to everything. Admittedly, we don't go to church and never have as a family. I grew up Unitarian with ultra liberal parents. We celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah. My parents taught a sex ed class in our living room to my brother and his 7th grade friends. I came down one night to see a slide of a big, hairy penis covering the entire living room wall. My friends and I stuffed the question box with queries like, "what is a fetish?" My brother and I travelled to Israel alone with a priest named Father Paul when I was 15 so we could do a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and learn about the three big religions that have created such unrest in that part of the world.

My point is - my parents were all about openness and deciding for yourself. I think that's wonderful. I also think that it can be confusing. When you are left up to your own devices to figure out the world because you are basically told it's yours to figure out without any guidebook (i.e., Bible) it can be overwhelming.

I've tried many churches - Catholic, Unity, Unitarian, Methodist, United Church of Christ to name a few. I've never taken communion. One time I went to the UC of Christ and was the only one there not taking communion. Someone actually came up to me and asked if I was physically unable to walk and needed help. I never went back.

I have tried for so long to figure it all out. That is, where I fit, what I believe. Every time I decide, I can do this, I can just be Christian because then I will know what to believe and I will belong somewhere, I just can't fully do it. Maybe I am trying too hard to want to believe every little part instead of just taking the ideas as a whole.

Don't get me wrong. I would consider myself a spiritual person. I believe in God in a less traditional way that might be a subject for a future blog. I meditate, I pray sometimes. I see goodness in the world and have gratitude for the gifts and blessings in my life.

So it's not like we want our kids to grow up immoral and messed up. Hopefully saying "fartface" isn't an indication that they'll go to hell. In fact, Emma said to me the other day that if she had three wishes, one of them would be that people would not start wars because they believe different things about God. Rock on sister!

Back to the idea that Sunday School/church is a panacea. Don't we all know many the messed up person who went to Sunday School? Certainly this may be a place to learn and to grow spiritually. But to say that without church you can't be a good person, cannot have the proper guidance, cannot live a solid life in which you are doing the right thing and espousing values of compassion, gratitude, civility, and kindness is just untrue.

Fartface, fartface, fartface, fartface, fartface, fartface.

Buried in the Sand

I was watching Matt Lauer on the "Today" show this a.m. I have noticed a trend the past few days (although it has been going on for much longer, I'm sure). Everything and I mean EVERYTHING that was once fun or just "everyday" has now become extremely dangerous. Today's hazard was digging holes at the beach and getting in them. What kid hasn't done this? You bury your friend up to their eyeballs and while they're totally incapacitated you can flick boogers at them or worse (I'm sure someone has peed or defecated on their friend). The best is when the tide comes in.

Who knew that once you were in the hole and burried up to your neck, the sides of the hole could collapse, thereby causing severe injury or death. In my 41 years of living I have never heard this happening to anyone. I think Matt and Meredith just make this crap up to have something to say while Al and Ann are barbequing on the Plaza.

The joy is being taken out of every little thing. It seems the only way to not be in danger is to lock the doors and stay in bed all day. But then I'm sure there's some major risk of bed bugs or atrophy or Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Holy cow, I think of all of the stuff I did that actually WAS dangerous, and I am still living to tell about it. I'm cringing. God or someone must really want me here and alive.

-Swimming in the raging Atlantic, alone, after a major storm and being carried out by the undertow (defintiely the closest I've ever come to death).

-Driving while under the influence several times (many years ago, but still).

-Having a one-night stand with a complete stranger (as in didn't even know his name)

-Jumping off of 50' cliffs in Greece into waters of unknown depths

-Rappelling off of my college dorm building with ROTC (10 floors high)

And those are just the few that come to find at this moment. WWMLS?? (What Would Matt Lauer Say).

This subject brings back a memory from my more daring and carefree days. I was in college - a sophomore going into junior year, I think. I was home for the summer, working at the Chesapeake Bay Seafood House. A dumpy, greasy, and dark all-you-can-eat establishment frequented by the obese. First course - fried hushpuppies, followed by bowls of fried shrimp, fried scallops and to drink - Stroh's beer, or Stroh's light if you were on a diet. It was one classy spot.

My parents, being chain-hating, deep fried food-opposed people wouldn't get near the place. One night, unbeknownst to me, they came in with my brother and asked to sit in my section. They were all dressed in hideous clothes. Someone wore a pair of those rainbow suspenders. My brother had one of those cylinder looking things that "moo-ed" like a cow when you turned it over. They kept yelling at me "Ma'am!!! Ma'am!!! We need some more fried crap over here."

But that's not the point of the story. The point is that while working at the CBSH, I met this guy Scott. He was a pretty serious and stiff type. Obviously not my style. But he did ask me out on a date and I was bored that summer, so I accepted. He showed up at my parents' house the night of our rendez-vous.

Dad: Hi Scott, nice to meet you. Where are you and Beth going tonight?

Scott: (Looking my dad in the eye) - I think we'll go to the Inner Harbor in Baltimore and get some dinner. It's a nice night

No sooner had Mr. Stiff and I gotten in the car, when he said, "You want to go flying? I'm trying to get my pilot's license and need to put in some more hours." I was all, "Sure, why not?" (which is funny, because I now HATE flying, am terrified of it, even when I'm flying on a commercial airline under the influence of Xanax and vodka with pilots who are not only licensed, but have hundreds of years under their belts. I guess getting older has made me more uptight. I would still dig a hole at the beach, though).

Next, we're off to some municipal airport. Scott gets some teeny single engine plane from a hangar. We climb into the two seater. I'm calm. It was getting dark, so Scott pulls out his flying instructions, i.e., the steps he needs to complete before taking off. I have this vivid memory of him holding a flashlight in his mouth and reading the guidelines from some book. I'm calm. We take off, and all seems to be going well. We fly from Baltimore to the eastern shore of Maryland. It was beautiful at night. I'm calm. We land at some small airport and have what should have been a romantic dinner if I had any attraction whatsoever to Mr. Stiff. I think I had Coquiles St. Jacques. We got back in the plane and headed back towards Baltimore. I had completely lost track of time, but it had to have been at least midnight. We're airborne, thousands of feet up when Mr. Stiff reveals that we're almost out of gas and that we'll have to land at some tiny landing strip by someone's house to refuel. I'm calm. We land and it is completely dark, no one in sight. We bang on some house and wake up Mr. Fuel Guy. He refuels us and we take off for Baltimore. We land safely, Mr. Stiff drives me home. I'm pretty sure I didn't kiss him, or else it was completely not memorable. He probably deserved at least a touch of tongue after all of that, but I wasn't giving it up. I had standards.

I'll never forget walking into my parents' house. I figured they'd be long asleep. Instead, all the lights are on, they're both awake and they start screaming at me. "Do you know what time it is? It's 3 o'clock in the morning! Where the hell have you been? We were just about to call the police. Do you have any idea how worried we were?? " I calmly said, "We went flying." "YOU WHAT? Who the hell do you think you are? Don't you have any respect for anyone but yourself..." Yada, yada. It's now a humorous story to tell around our dinner table, but back then, I was in the doghouse for quite some time.

And no second date with Scott. I don't remember if he didn't ask, if my parents forbade me, or if I simply said, "no."

So - Matt Lauer, how does that compare to your pussy sand hole?

Some Thoughts

My mood's been heavier the past few days. Does this ever happen to you?

It started as I read "Comfort" by Ann Hood. It was all I could do to make it through this memoir about a mother whose six year old daughter, Grace, died suddenly from a virulent form of strep. There were several moments when I wanted to quit the book entirely; it was just too disturbing and hit a bit too close to home. After all, I have a daughter, Emma Grace, who is seven. In the book, Grace had an older brother, Sam. My Emma also has an older brother, Sam. And the parallels didn't stop there.


When hearing about this kind of tragedy, it is human nature to separate oneself from those experiencing the tragedy by playing out all the ways that it could not be you; could not be your child. In this case, I could not do that. There was no earthly reason for this little girl to die. She did not die from some obscure disease in some far away country. Nor did she die from the neglect of her parents. The fact is, that could be my daughter. Any of our daughters.


And I kept reading...when I would read this book at night, I would have to go lay with Emma for awhile, just to assure myself that she was safe in her bed, and breathing.

And I kept reading. It was compelling. And I knew there would be something to get out of it.

And I kept reading and through my own tears realized that what I could get out of it was seeing my own children through different eyes and relating to them in different ways. I remember one quote of the book that I kept re-reading. I don't still have the book for the exact quote, but the gist of it was that the afternoon of the night that Grace died, her mother was carrying her and smelling her hair. She did not know that would be the last time she ever did that. And it was. And I learned that every chance to listen to, smell, watch, or engage with my kids or my husband or my mom or my dad or my best friend might be it. We all know this to be true, intellectually, but living it moment to moment is an entirely different way of living and of seeing the world.

After reading "Comfort," it wasn't long before Tim Russert died suddenly. His story was so haunting because, again, it could be any of us. If this family-oriented man who had money, success and the best doctors could drop dead, so could I. Or my dad. Or anyone.

This week, I learned that the 13 year old sister of a friend of Sam's had been diagnosed with cancer. One day she was playing in a soccer tournament and had back pain. Within the next week she was hospitalized with a rare form of cancer and had 13 months of chemo ahead of her.

There are a million of these stories going on at any time. I know that. Mostly I exist knowing the reality of suffering and death, but not carrying it around with me like a companion. Like all of us, I move in and out of the denial surrounding death. When I am particularly death and suffering-conscious, I always come back to the same places of comfort and realization:

1. This moment is all there is. Truly. Notice, accept, appreciate.
2. I will be okay if tragedy strikes. I have the strength and the support.
3. Amazing growth comes from suffering.

This week I have an ultra sound on my liver because I have high bilirubin levels. I am sure this is contributing to a feeling of things being out of control. I do better when I accept that life is uncertain and that suffering is an inevitability. The resistance and need to control all aspects of one's life is often what causes so much heartache and stress. It is amazing what happens to you internally when you surrender to the moment and to your current circumstances.

Sorry for the heaviness. I guess a blog reflects the many different moods and places you find yourself in on a daily basis. So this has been today's mood. Tomorrow might be farts.

Ghosts

Look how Photo Booth turned my kids into ghostly creatures. Freaky, to say the least.

Karma

I'm not sure how I feel about karma - does it really come back to bite you in the butt if you do something less than stoic?





Karma bit me in the butt - literally - while we were in Boston. Remember a couple of posts ago when I talked about the perky woman at the pool with the tampon string hanging out? And remember how I said I don't wear tampons? Well, maybe I should start wearing them and risk getting toxic shock again.





Here's the story. So we go to Boston. I get my period the day before. Our first day in Boston is spent touring the city. I wear white shorts. What in God's name was I thinking. We traipse all over the city, come back to my aunt's house, have cocktails, eat some take-out, stay up late talking. It is not until the next day when I going to get more clothes from my suitcase that I spot my white shorts. And they look like this:

No shit. So I fear I walked the city, rode the subway, and hung out with the relatives for a good 12 hours in these shorts. Who knew the pad wasn't holding up? I find myself asking how I could have missed this? It's not as if I'm in tenth grade again (yes, I was a late bloomer) getting it for the first time. It's also not as if I am an extremely heavy bleeder who soaks through pads by the hour. This was preventable, yet there it is. And it must have happened when I was sitting down because it is on the very obvious back of the shorts, not so much in the crotch.

Other than blood soaked shorts, the trip was great.

Our family is heading to Boston tomorrow to visit relatives. I have a prediction that I just might return with some blog material. You never know who you'll meet on the plane or what freaky sites you might see on the streets of a big city. I will NEVER forget visiting Boston several years ago. My brother and I were in Harvard square. I looked across the street just in time to see a bum with a humongous beer belly projectile vomit all over the stairs leading down to the subway.

Another recent travel escapade was when Erika and I visited Las Vegas last month. We decided to get a substantial drink at the Mirage hotel bar before starting our gambling for the evening. While I downed a dirty martini the size of a fish bowl, Erika kept calling over "Jose" the bartender to give her more shots of tequila. We began talking to some hoodlum from L.A., Chris, and his gangster friend, "Six." We finished our drinks and in my martini-haze I gave out Erika's phone number to Chris. At the time, this seemed completely hilarious to me.

You have to understand, Erika and I travel to Vegas one or two times a year together. We are very protective of each other and always stick together. For me to give our her number was a complete change in character for me and a no-no in the friendship department. On our way to the casino I was rolling with laughter telling Erika that I gave out her number. She kept staring at me silently, as if to say "how could you?" I take it back - she wasn't silent. She yelled, "How could you???"

I failed to mention a little detail. In my drunken stupor I had asked Chris, "So, have you ever done a threesome?". I threw this into the conversation not because I wanted to do a threesome with Chris and Erika (Egads! I love Erika, but the combination of doing my best friend and some gangsta doesn't appeal). I like to be provocative especially when I am drunk. I get a thrill from shocking people. So you can only imagine that when I gave Chris Erika's number he thought FOR SURE he was going to get a little menage-a-trois action later that night. So he kept a-callin' and callin'. BTW, Chris had done a threesome before. Big shocker. He called at 11:30 p.m., 1:30 a.m., 3:30 a.m.....

So skipping ahead twelve hours after a long night of losing at playing blackjack - I am sick as a dog. Hanging with the porcelain. I had a raging headache. I reached in my toiletry bag for some Advil. It made me sicker. Later on when I was actually able to walk I saw the Advil wrapper on the table. I had taken Advil PM. Jesus. Just what my early morning hangover needed. And, no, we never saw Chris again.

So let's hope I can return with some material. No threesomes, I promise.

Mustache

I couldn't resist sending this on. It came from my friend, Vanessa. It is so crude. But by now you all should know that I don't shy away from crude.

How the Mustache Was Invented:

I Think I Have a Piece of Thong in My Eye

Did you hear the story about the woman who is suing Victoria's Secret because she was injured by her thong?

I'm not making this up. It was on Fox News.com this a.m.

Apparently, back in 2007 a 52 year old Los Angeles woman was putting on the skimpy underwear and a metallic piece popped off and hit her in the eye. She can sue me, too, for saying this, but she must be retarded. Otherwise, how does a metallic piece get from your ass to your eye, and what made it pop off in the first place? Does she have a particularly tight pair of butt cheeks whose intense pressure on the thong caused the the piece to pop off?

I have some other issues with this story:

-What is a 52 year old doing wearing a thong in the first place?

-What is a 52 year old doing wearing a thong with metallic pieces on it in the first place?

-If you are stupid enough to hit yourself in the eye with something while putting on your thong, why would you want to publicly acknowledge this by suing the company that made the thong?

This brings up another issue for me with thongs. I don't like them. I understand their purpose - to not show pantylines and all that. Personally, I would rather go commando than have a thong up my ass. The one time I tried wearing a thong, it irritated my inner crack so much I had to remove it in the middle of a party.

I also don't like the idea of anything being up any one's ass crack for a long period of time. If I were the inventor of thongs, they would all be disposable. You would buy a pack of 30 to last you a month. Because in my opinion, you can never really get that little g-string thing clean after it has been up there all day.

Another problem I have with the thong is that people wear them when they are on the rag. Did you know they actually make special pads just for thongs? I am not kidding. What is the point? Is it possible to really catch anything in the thumbnail crotch part of a thong? Isn't this just a recipe for disaster? Anyone who wears a pad in their thong almost deserves the drip drip that they might get down their leg.


A few minutes later:

Well, this is interesting. Stayfree, the makers of the thong pad, have discontinued the product. Imagine that. There is a small population of women out there who are outraged. They have contacted Stayfree to complain. Here is one comment made by a devastated pad-thong lover:

"My experience with the thong maxi seemed to be the answer to one of my many monthly gripes. I bought this product because I only wear thong underwear and regular pads didn't fit correctly. The sticky underside would wrap around the thong, sticking to itself, making removal a chore, sometimes a messy chore."

I find myself wondering what her other "monthly gripes" are. Toilet paper not soft enough? Belly button lint gets in the way of her piercing?

To conclude, I am not cruel-hearted. I hope Ms. Patterson, whose thong injured her, was not badly hurt. And I hope that she won't give up on the thong or on Victoria's Secret just because of this one minor incident. Who knows, she might make a nice chunk of change from VS and be able to buy a plethora of new thongs, preferably ones without metallic pieces on them. I am really glad she wasn't wearing a thong with rocks or BBs on it. That could have taken her whole eye out.

Gotcha By the Nuts

My ten year old, Sam, went to a camp all week at our local Humane Society. He hated it. Not that he doesn't like animals, he does, but the camp was mostly girls and he probably would have rather have been out hitting golf balls or finding snakes.

Yesterday, however, was "surgery" day where the campers get to watch an actual animal operation - one that spays or neuters a cat. Lots of the kids were queasy, saying they wouldn't watch the surgery. Even one kid fainted last week. Sam said he would be willing to observe, and I was psyched that maybe this would be the "thing" that suckered him in to liking the camp.

So when I picked him up yesterday, this is how it went:

Me: "So, Sam. Did you get to see the surgery?"

Sam: "Yeah."

Me: "How was it?"

Sam (smirking): "Great! I held a cat's balls."

Me: "What do you mean? Like you held the balls while they did the surgery?"

Sam: "No, I held them after they took them out of the nut sac and removed them from the cat."

Me: "Oh. Did you wear gloves?"

Of course they wore gloves.

While he didn't love the camp, I don't think he'll soon be forgetting the feeling of the cats nuts in his palm.

Bloody Costume!!

In connection with my last post - this is what I'm going to be for Halloween next year:

What Would You Do?

The kids and I went to the pool last evening for a dip. It was hot, Ken was going to be home late - it seemed a swell way to pass the time.

Admittedly, I am one of those moms who typically takes her kids places like the pool and the park, but I prefer to sit on the sidelines reading "People" or a good book rather than playing with the kids. I do get pangs of guilt about this, feeling as if I should be frolicking in the pool playing "Marco/Polo," but then I think back to my childhood and can barely remember a time when my mom or dad played tag with me on the school playground or did a tea party with me underwater. I think I turned out okay, and haven't talked to my therapist lately about their lack of participation in these things. I'm sure it probably scarred me somehow.

To my credit, I do occasionally play "Groundies" with the kids at the playground, mostly because this game is totally fun. And last evening, I did pick my butt off of the lounge chair for a minute to go down the fast slide with Sam. Oh, and I also timed Emma about 150 times to see how long she could hold her breath under water (the record was nine seconds, BTW). So maybe I am really not that lame.

But I digress. My point in saying all that is that between timing Emma and reading a paragraph here and there of my book, I like to people-watch. Longmont, CO has an interesting range of people, particularly at this public pool. There are many tattoos and piercings and enough cellulite to give Richard Simmons a boner. There are also many boob jobs, and nicely toned bodies. Last night, I picked out this one woman to observe. She was about my age, 40s, in good shape, blond and pretty perky. I'm not sure why I was watching her, but I was. I think I liked her bathing suit, and she looked familiar and I was trying to figure out where I knew her from. Or maybe I'm a lesbian trying to get out of the closet.

Time passes and when the kids and I get up to leave, I see Miss Perky leaning over to get something from her bag. Her suit was red, so it wasn't hard to notice a little white thing hanging down between her legs. Then it dawns on me - IT'S HER TAMPON STRING. I had a split second of wondering if I should tell her that her string was obviously hanging out the back, or if that would be too humiliating. But then it's probably even more humiliating to have the string hanging for hours and no one has told you. What would you do? Would you want a stranger to tell you? I, for one, can't wear tampons as I am the one person who actually got Toxic Shock Syndrome back in the 80s. I just swim with a diaper-sized pad and hope no one notices.

I got home and told Ken the story. He thought it was nice that this woman was "swimming with her friend."