No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished           

And that is the mother f-ing truth.

A true story.

Last Friday night, I took my son, ‘D’ to the eye glass place to get his eye glasses fixed.  He had ‘accidentally’ broken them at school and oh yeah, ‘Could I get a different kind?  I don’t like the way these look anymore.’

I’ve only been to this place one other time and that time, my son and I were the only two people in the whole place.  Who knew that Friday night at the Eye Mart Express was like the Post Office at 5pm or the Social Security Office at 8am?

Packed.

With every kind of personality you could ever hope to find, all jammed into a 1200 sq ft. place – trying on eye glasses.  Every five seconds you could hear, ‘What about this pair?’ ‘What about these?’ ‘How do these look?’ ‘Que estas gafas se ven bien?’

‘D’ and I joined in the fun and, thankfully, it takes ‘D’ about as much time to pick out a pair of eye wear as it did for him to decide that the casserole I’m serving for dinner is ‘gross’.

We head to the front to purchase the glasses and have to wait for the sales lady.  She is busy, trying to explain to another couple that even though their Medicaid will cover a pair of eye glasses, it will not cover brands such as ‘Coach’ and ‘Calvin Klein’.  They are able to choose from this lovely little assortment of frames that includes a pair that looks like what the eye doctor gives you to drive home in after your eyes have been dilated.  I laugh internally at that because I guess that’s the government’s way of saying, ‘Sure, I’ll pay for all of your crap, but by God, you aint gonna like what I pick out!’  I think I’ve said something similar to my children before. 

Which I think brings me back to why I am here with my son in the first place and how his glasses ‘accidentally’ broke.

 While we are waiting, I see a couple of elderly women walk in the store.  I guessed by looking at them that they were a ‘mother/daughter’ team and were about 70 and 90 years old respectively.  They shuffle over to the long table where you can sit and try frames on and look at yourself in those round mirrors, that move back and forth and magnify your face so that you look like the Red Queen from ‘Alice In Wonderland’.

The sales lady grabs my attention as she finally comes to check us out and as I am putting my wallet back in my purse, something knocks into my leg, right at my knee actually.  I look down and what do I see?

The 90 year old mother’s chair that had crashed into me and the 90 year old mother as she rolled out of it like a ninja and wiped out face down on the floor.

OMG.

I, of course, drop down to help her up.  I just knew she’d broken a hip at the very least.  I’ve injured myself when I missed a step walking up a flight of stairs.  This lady swan dived off of a roller chair and executed a perfect dive roll before coming to rest on her face; there was no way she was going to come out of this store without being on a gurney.

Apparently when she went to sit down in the chair, she put her hands on the arm rests and of course braced her weight on them so she could gingerly sit down.  The chair had wheels on it and continued to roll back as she continued to sit down.  I’m not sure at what point she realized that the seat was no longer directly under her, but about 6 inches behind her, but in a panic, she tried to shuffle her feet back to try and catch up to the rolling chair – while still hanging on to the arms rests.  I have no idea how that spurned her into a forward roll; I missed that part.  But, in any event, down she went.

So, I’m helping her up and asking her if she is okay and she keeps telling me she’s fine and she’s actually laughing.  I mean, what else can you do?  I had to admire her for that.  I also notice that I am the only one in the store that even tried to help her.  The sales lady didn’t come around to ask her if she was alright, which my jaded-self thought, ‘she should come check on her; if I was her, I would worry about being sued and having to pay for this old lady’s artificial hip!’  Her own daughter didn’t even come over to help her – which in her defense - I don’t think she even knew that her mother wasn’t sitting beside her anymore.  She looked back at us and looked so surprised - like she wanted to ask her mother what the hell she was doing on ground.

It was just dead silence in the store.  I did hear a few gasps when the old lady hit the floor, but then….crickets.  Everyone just sat there staring as I helped her up – which was just f-ing ridiculous.  What was the big deal?!  I mean, my God – I’ve taken worse spills at Henry Hudson’s on a Saturday night after one too many So-Co and lime shots.  Get a grip people!

I get the woman to a sitting position and help her to roll to her knees so she can come up one leg at a time.  When she rolled over – bless her heart – her sweatshirt rode up her back a little and her sweatpants were hanging low on her (as the elderlies’ pants are wont to do) and the entire store got a very wide shot of a very white pair of the granniest panties I have ever seen.  I leaned over to try and cover her a little and she was finally on her knees kind of leaning forward.  So, of course my head and body were kind of close to her back side and…….

She farted right in my face.

She farted loudly right in my face.  In the middle of the f-ing store.

And the whole f-ing store heard her fart in my face.

My son heard her fart in my face.

My son shot a wide-eyed look to me and I had to give him the ‘look’ before he said, ‘Oh, that old lady just farted in your face; did you hear her fart mom?’

I finally got the Golden Girl to her feet and returned her to her daughter who said without pause, ‘So, mom, did you bring your coupon with you?’

I left the store with my son and his glasses and as soon as we cleared the door, he said,

‘Hey, mom did you…..’

‘Shut up, ‘D’.  I don’t want to talk about it.’

Yep, you help an old lady up off the ground and she shits in your face.

No mother f-ing good deed goes unpunished.

It's All In The Genes

It’s All in the Genes

Or rather in my mother’s genes.  Or I guess if you want to get technical – in her mother’s.

A history lesson:

Many, many years ago, my maternal grandmother died from breast/ovarian cancer.  They aren’t really sure where it originated from first because many, many years ago, women did not go to the Dr. regularly and I think my grandmother was one of those ladies who thought that letting a male physician stick his fingers up her who-ha meant that she was a ‘loose woman’.  My mother was pretty young, so she doesn’t recall many of the events surrounding the diagnosis, but ultimately, my mother lost her mother to cancer.  I think my mother was around 14 years old.  Too young to lose her mother.  And obviously, her mother was far too young to lose her life.

I was in the 5^th grade the first time that I realized that the money our family spent on feminine products was solely because of me.  My mother had been complaining that her stomach was hurting and she was feeling bloated and I suddenly shouted out, ‘I know!  You’re pregnant!  That’s got to be it.’   My mother tried to explain to me the divine likelihood of that ever happening, but I wouldn’t listen to her and told her I was 100% sure she was pregnant and I was so excited to be having a little brother or sister. 

‘S’…….,my mother sighed.  ‘I can’t be pregnant.  I’m fixed.’

‘What do you mean, ‘fixed’?

‘I mean, I don’t have a uterus anymore.  I had to have it removed.’

‘Why?’

And that’s when my mother explained to me that she had pre-cancerous cells in her cervix that would not go away and so to keep her from getting cancer, they gave her a hysterectomy.  She was in her 30s. 

Yeah – her 30s; that meant squat to me when I was 10.  (And yes, before you do the month – I hit puberty waaaay tooooo young.) 

Fast forward to a month or so ago- and now I’m in my 30s and I’m sitting with my mother in a doctor’s office.  It took an act of God to even get her in the room.  My mother hates going to the Dr.  You would think that losing her mother at such a young age from cancer would make her hyper vigilant about her own health, but instead it had the opposite effect.  My mother chose to go the route of the ostrich and stick her head in the sand and simply ignore her family history.  She had not had an annual appointment in forever because, ‘if you don’t even have a uterus, what are they digging around in there for?’, and because ‘I feel fine.’ 

My mother would wait until a tumor was so big, it looked like a third boob before she would go to the doctor’s. 

So, here we are.  My mother, me, and her new doctor.  I did not like her last one.  I mean, come on – you shouldn’t be able to call your doctor up and say, ‘Yeah, I’ve had this cough for a couple of weeks, but I really think it’s just the ‘crud’.  Can you call me in a steroid pack?’ – and the idiot actually do it!

I made my mother a deal.  She would let me come to this appointment and I promised that I wouldn’t shout out, ‘NO – SHE SMOKES A WHOLE PACK A DAY!’ when she claims that she is down to 5.  Fair trade.  So, since it’s the first time he’s ever met my mother, he is asking her for all of her history.  And to give her credit, she gives it.  All of it.

Somehow, the ‘I had pre-cancerous cells and so they removed my uterus’ turned into……

I had pre-cancerous cells and so they removed my uterus.

And then a few years later, they discovered a lump in my breast – which turned out to be pre-cancerous – so they removed that too.

Oh, and my other Dr. (Mr. Idiot) discovered some kind of growth on my ovary.  Well, actually he thought I had an abdominal aneurysm (WTF!) but once he got to looking around in there, he saw that it was actually my ovary and there was a cyst on it.  But, it turned out to be not a big deal.

I’m still reeling over the fact that for the last 30+ years my mother has been going to see some quack who cannot tell the difference between an ovary and an aneurysm. 

How long as it been since he followed up on that?  Hmmm, well, I mean I had a couple of ultrasounds immediately following that, but nothing since then.  I guess that was when I was in my 40s.  (Yeah, you know 20 years ago!)

But, I did make sure to keep up on my mammograms.  I’ve had those yearly……up until about 5 years ago.

I think even the Dr. was not sure what the best way to say, ‘ARE YOU CRAZY?!’ was.

We left an hour or so later with a whole sheaf full of slips for different tests, labs, etc.  And to credit my mother, she kept each and every single appointment for each and every single test.  She had a ‘health check makeover’.  I held my breath for those few weeks until all the results were back.  And do you know what they found?

Not a damn thing!

Well, except for the fact that she smokes and needs to quit because she does have a touch of COPD.

About the time my mother quit congratulating herself, she received a letter in the mail from the physician who did her mammography.

They want her to come in for genetic testing.  To see if she has any of the harmful genetic mutations that put her at an increased risk for breast/ovarian cancer.  An increased risk?  Doesn’t the fact that she’s already had various cancerous things removed assess that?

At this point, I’m even skeptical.  I mean, my God, if the woman has gone this long with the health history she has and has not even bothered to see a real doctor in years, I’m thinking that she should save her money that she would have spent on the damned test and go buy lottery tickets.

The only thing that convinces my mother to have this testing done is that she’s not only doing this for herself, but for me and my daughter.

Oh – yeah, ummm….I forgot my own genetic destiny hanging in the balance over here.

So, tomorrow my mother goes to have her genetic testing done.  Being the ostrich that she is, she will surely tell her friends that she’s off to have the oil changed in her car.  And I can almost hear her say, ‘Ok, well thank you for telling me’, if the tests come back that she does have harmful genetic mutations.

Being the hypochondriac that I am, regardless of whether I, myself, am actually tested, I will surely run right to my Dr. and beg for a double mastectomy and hysterectomy, if the tests come back that she does have harmful genetic mutations.

Genes.  Those pesky little chromosomes. 

Random Observations About Life

I turned 32 a couple of weeks ago. 

32.

Sigh

I know 32 is not old, but it is the oldest I’ve ever been.  J  Plus, I had not even grown accustomed to being 31 yet and had only gotten used to be 30 about 6 months ago – so the years are starting to pile up.

But, as I have been reflecting on my decades on this planet, I have come to notice a few things.  These are not opinions, these are observations.  And there is a difference.  An opinion is attached to an emotion and that emotion is almost always negative.  As soon as you hear someone say, ‘Well, in my opinion….’, you can almost guarantee that what comes next will be something like, ‘she is white trash and a crack whore.’  Usually if it’s not a negative statement, than the person will use the word, ‘believe’. 

‘I believe that Erik from ‘TrueBlood’ would make the best Christian Grey.’

‘What?!  No way! In my opinion, Erik is too old to play Christian Grey.’

‘Well, anyone would be better than Robert Pattinson.  I am sooo tired of him and I think he’s not even cute; he looks creepy.  But, that’s just my opinion.’

See how that works.

So, like I said, I have compiled some observations.  Observations are neutral.  They stand in the middle of Ms. Opinionated and Mr. I Believe.  An observation is just stating the obvious; it is what it is.  Well, at least in my opinion, that’s what it is.  Lol.  Hehe.

Here we go.

-          Grey hair happens long before you are ‘old’.  I always thought that the greys started coming in sometime in your early 50s.  And even though my own dad was already getting salt and peppered in his late twenties, I still had a mini breakdown when I discovered my own silver strands right around the 30 mark.  I think I even said to my husband, “Hey, look!  I’ve been coloring my hair so long, I didn’t even realize that my real color is still blondish.  Look – right here by my temples – my hair is blonder.”  My husband laughed and then pointed out than in addition to going grey, I must also be going blind.

-          Pimples happen long after you are no longer ‘young’.  In fact, I think I get more pimples now that I’m older than I did when I was younger.  But someone explain this to me.  How is it that you can have pimples covering your chin – but then your cheeks be so dry that nothing, short of mayonnaise will bring moisture back into them?  Maybe because, just like everything else on your body, the slowing down of your oil production is a very gradual thing.  Maybe in regards to your face, it starts at your scalp and works its way down?  I don’t know.  I used to believe that old adage that if you had pimples as an adult, than your face would probably retain its youthful elasticity.  I estimated – based on that – that I shouldn’t see my first wrinkle till right about the time I saw my first grey hair.  Early 50s.  I spent last Friday night getting my grey colored and sitting on the couch with a Biore strip covering my chin, anti-aging cream around my eyes, and mayonnaise on my cheeks.

-          People will tell you that life isn’t easy…..but they won’t tell you it sucks ass a lot of the time either.  Someone might say their life sucks (which you then attribute to something they have personally done to themselves) or someone might say that, ‘life isn’t fair’.  The problem with that statement is that you can’t help but recall being a child and whining because your brother’s piece of cake had more confetti sprinkles on it than yours did.  It’s just not the same as whining because your insurance company won’t pay for your prescription medicine and you have to decide between being able to go to the bathroom without pain or your daughter being able to attend cheer classes.  And in the end, it doesn’t matter anyways because one way or the other, you are going to suffer your decision.  If your bladder doesn’t kill you, your daughter will.

-          If someone does tell you that life sucks ass (for everyone, in general), they usually won’t tell you why.  Maybe it’s because it’s different for everyone and my bladder could be another woman’s handicapped child, or sexist boss.  It’s all relative, right?  Or maybe it’s because there are white elephants that no one wants to mention.  Maybe the term ‘marriages go through cycles’ is really code for, ‘I go through cycles where I want to back over my husband with my car.’  But, you can’t really say that of course.  Actually, I think I did say something to that affect one time, but my mother-in-law failed to see the humor in it.

-          And speaking of those ‘elephants’….’raising children is hard.’  Code:  There are days that I do not like my children – at all.  Go ahead and gasp, but there are days that the only thing that’s keeping me from packing a bag and moving to the beach all by my lonesome is the fear of what others might say.  Ironic.  I’m not worried about the irreparable damage to my children, but the irreparable damage to my reputation from the ladies of the PTA.  I’m sure when I was a child, there were days when I ‘hated’ my mother and imagined running away and finding a new mother.  That’s normal.  Everyone says so.  So, I don’t take it personal when my son, ‘D’ packs his baseball bag with all of his toys and marches out the front door screaming, ‘SEE!  THIS IS WHY I WANT TO GO LIVE WITH MY DAD!’ Likewise, my son shouldn’t take it personal when I grab my purse and march out the front door screaming, ‘SEE!  THIS IS WHY I WANT TO GO TO THE BAR!’

-          ‘Being Happy’ is over-rated.  Or, I guess I should say it’s over-emphasized.  Happiness is just like any other emotion.  It comes and goes.  You can be happy one day and sad the next or both all in the same day.  You can go through weeks being in a pleasant mood or a whole year in your doldrums.  It’s like the weather and in as really the only thing you can do when it rains is to grab your umbrella or stay inside – but you cannot make it stop raining.   Happiness like all the other emotions is affected by so many variables.  Sometimes, it comes down to the simple fact that a certain hormone has shat on your parade and even though it was sunny the day before, you are going to have a shit storm that day.  I guess the prevailing thought is that overall you should be happy.  As, in you should have more happy days than sad ones.  But, what about all the other emotions out there?  I know I’m not limited to just two.  I’ve had days where I was anxious and days where I was giddy, days where I was a woman on a mission, and days when all I thought about was going home and holing up in the bedroom with my husband for the whole night.  To me, horny is a whole lot better than happy.  J  Maybe, instead of happy and sad, it can be broken down into positive and negative.  Your life should be positive overall.  But, if your life isn’t positive overall – does that mean your life has less value?  I’m not an overly religious person, but I’ve read the bible and it seemed to me that many of the great men in the bible did not have ‘positive lives’.  Men that were sainted and revered by us today were beheaded, tortured, enslaved, crucified….  I wouldn’t necessarily call that a positive experience.  I don’t tell my children, ‘All I want is for you to be happy.’  For starters, my son, ‘D’ would be most happy sitting naked on the couch, surrounded by all of his toy guns, and eating candy.  Every day – all day.  And that’s not what I want for him.  I don’t want him to grow up and have a singular goal of being happy and doing whatever he wants to achieve that goal.  It’s perfectly ok to just be ‘marginal’ sometimes.

I hope my ‘observations’ do not cause any one to have a ‘negative’ day today.  To end on an enlightened note, here are some observations that are very random and really don’t make a whit of sense.

-For the most part if you eat a cheeseburger and then eat another one, someone will almost certainly comment on it.  ‘Wow!  You must be hungry!’  But, if you eat two or three pieces of pizza, usually no one will notice.  And I find that to be true, no matter how big or small the slices or burgers might be.

- The same is true for soda.  If you drink a can of soda or a bottle of soda (8-16oz), then you usually feel kind of bad if you reach for another.  At least, I do.  I hear myself say, ‘I can’t believe I just drank 3 cans of Dr. Pepper.’  However, when I’m at a restaurant or I get a fountain drink from 7-Eleven, I think nothing of getting the ‘Big Gulp’.  That’s 46oz of Dr. Pepper and 0% remorse.

- I don’t know why, but I always have these little impulses to do something shocking in totally inappropriate places.  If it’s a place where I’m supposed to be quiet (like church or the library), I totally want to just start singing and dancing around.  If it’s a meeting with my boss, than I want to just blurt out something crazy while he’s talking.  ‘And my little nipples do the cha-cha…cha-cha…..cha-cha’ – Bruce Almighty.  I’m constantly afraid that one day I might actually do something like that.  Hopefully it’s when I’m old and then people will just say, ‘Don’t mind her; she’s old.’

- I’m convinced that the ‘middle’ is the devil.  In any equation, the middle is always up to no good.  Think about it.  When you’re young you can say crazy things and people will just blame it on your youth.  When you’re old you can say crazy things and people will just blame it on your Alzheimers.  But, all those years in between – you better just shut the F-up!  There’s Medicaid for when you’re young and Medicare for when you’re old.  And uninsured for the rest of us – if you can’t afford insurance.  Welfare for the poor and nanny’s for the rich.   And poverty for the middle class.  Beauty in your youth and wisdom in old age.  Maternity jeans and anti-depressants for your time in between the two.  Your first born received all the attention before the siblings came along and the baby is cherished because he’s the last.  The middle child is almost certain to have ADHD.  And of course if either the young, old, rich, or poor is in need – it will be up to the middle to provide.  God said he was the Alpha and the Omega.  First and Last.  Even God wanted no part with this wretched piece of the pie!

- I’m so glad the Nook came along because I felt so guilty buying books.  I love to read and it would usually take me 1 to 2 nights to finish a book.  But, then what was I supposed to do with it?  I don’t have any book shelves to display my books and even if I did, I just don’t think I want ‘Virile Rogue’ to grace it.

- Greeting cards and photo Christmas cards confuse me.  Like the books I used to buy, I don’t know what to do with them after I’ve read them.  Obviously I want to keep some of them for sentimental reasons, but the b-day card from the office where I worked 5 years ago does not bring a tear of nostalgia to my eye.  I display the photo Christmas cards during the holiday season, but then what do you do after?  I know I’m going to get another one next year from the same family – so am I supposed to bring out the old one to display alongside the new one?  Will I have wreaths hung up displaying all the photos throughout the years?  One for each family?  ‘Here’s the Smith Family Wreath.  They are my parent’s next door neighbors.  You can see in the first one that Kate was about 16 and in this most recent one, here is Kate with her brand new grandbaby.’  I do like receiving cards and photo Christmas cards; they just confuse me.

That’s enough observations for now.  It was probably more than enough three observations ago….but that’s just my opinion.  J 

‘South to drop off, north to pick up moron!’ – Mr. Mom

Thursday, August 16th was the first day of school.  The first day of 2^nd, 3^rd, and 6^th grade for ‘D’, ‘A’, and ‘M’.

Moose is still navigating life in the 1 & 2 year old room at his daycare.

I had been really looking forward to school starting again.  Really looking forward to it.

This past summer was rough.  The boys are a little too old to go to daycare in the summer; not to mention finding one that had available spots just for the summertime.  We enrolled them in some summer camps for some of the weeks, had my parents watch them a couple of days here and there and had my daughter keep an eye on them at the house when she was at home.  (I have joint custody with her dad and she does week on/week off.)  My husband is at home during the day, but he sleeps – so he is basically only useful if the house catches on fire. 

The boys weren’t home many days, but the days they were…..SUCKED!

I was almost guaranteed to receive a call from one of them by 9:00am and it usually went something like this:

ME: Hello.

SON:  Umm, mom – it’s [whichever son was calling].

ME: Yes, what’s going on?

SON:  Umm, I think I broke my head.

ME:  You broke your head?

SON:  Yeah. 

ME:  How did that happen?

SON:  Well, see I opened the cabinet door to get some instant oatmeal for breakfast and the cookie box fell down and hit me on the head and now I think I have a concussion.  I’m pretty sure I was dead for about 30 minutes.

ME:  Wow – really?

SON:  Yeah, and also mom, umm, when you get home, don’t get mad because I didn’t eat the cookies.  When the box hit the floor, it exploded and all the cookies busted up and I picked them all up, but that’s why there’s crumbs all over the floor.

Translation:  My son bi-passed the mythical instant oatmeal in the cabinet (we haven’t had any for a month) and was standing on the counter, trying to reach the cookie box on the top shelf.  On his way down, he accidentally knocked his head on the cabinet and dropped the box on the floor – which probably did result in some crumbs getting on the floor.  He then proceeded to eat most of the cookies and then as he was trying to put the box (the empty box) back in the cabinet, he was busted by the other brother.  Because there were no more cookies left in which to bribe the other brother with, my son had to think of a lie so he wouldn’t get in trouble after his brother told on him. 

The rest of the day, I was sure to get at least three or four more calls.  And if it wasn’t one son tattling on the other, then it was always a call about something random; like letting me know that ‘Harry and the Hendersons’ was on TV – or that a telemarketer called.

I felt even more sorry for my husband.  He had to listen to them wrestle and fight in the living room and hear one of them shout, “QUIT IT; YOU’RE GOING TO WAKE DAD UP!”

Or – my son ‘A’ who is a tad OCD would wake him up no less than three times and say, “Dad, it’s 3:00pm.  Do you think you should wake up and go get the baby from daycare?”

School could not come quick enough this year.

The Tuesday before school started was ‘Back To School Night’ at their schools.  Basically, we heaved all of their supplies up to their classrooms and met their teachers, filled out whatever information forms they had for us, etc.  Additionally, I had to reassure ‘D’s teacher that he is in fact taking his medication and has made great strides in his behavior over the summer.  (All the teachers at the boys’ school either know or have heard about my son, ‘D’.)  Actually, I’m not entirely sure he has made great strides in his behavior and it wouldn’t matter if he had, because his teacher probably didn’t believe me, but we all smiled and put on our happy faces and pretended that the public school system is just and kids are given the benefit of the doubt and a second chance.  (Can you tell I’m just a tad bitter?  Oh well, another soap box for another day.)

Going to my daughter’s school for her ‘Back To School Night’ was emotional for me this year.  Last year when I walked her down the 5^th grade hall, we passed the 6^th grade hall and she told me that she couldn’t wait to be in 6^th grade because the 6^th graders got lockers.  As we walked by, I saw the row of lockers and all the little 6^th grade girls putting their things in them.  You could tell they really thought they were big time.  I wonder if I stick a set of lockers in the hallway at my house, will the kids finally pick up their crap?  I didn’t even get to walk her into her class on the first day of school last year.  She had me drop her off at the front of the school. 

And now she’s in 6^th grade.  She has a locker.  She is big time. 

So, school has started and has been in session for about two weeks now.  And of course I already had a meeting with ‘D’s teacher, principal, speech therapist, and the special Ed teacher to discuss the ‘plan’ for ‘D’ this year.  His teacher gave me a detailed account of what their day consists of and I’m supposed to come up with ideas/tricks on how we can help ‘D’ learn what he needs to learn each day and disturb the classroom as little as possible.  As of right now, I’ve stalled out on what idea/trick to use to keep ‘D’ from saying the word, ‘buttocks’ out loud every five minutes.  Honestly, I have no idea why he loves that word so much.  I think maybe it’s because it’s one of the few words he can pronounce very crisp and fluently.  He says it very precisely and enunciates it very clearly.  Plus, I think he considers it a ‘grown up’ word and therefore he must be very smart to say it.  I suppose it is much better than ‘ass’ for instance.  Maybe I should teach him the word, ‘gluteus Maximus’ just so he can have some variety.

Last week kicked off ‘Howdy Week’ at the kids’ school.  Howdy Week is usually the first full week after school starts (heck, I had it when I was a kid) and basically everyday has a different theme and the kids dress accordingly. For instance the 1^st day was Hawaiian Day at the boys’ school and they could dress Hawaiian. 

Now, I do realize when I chose to have 3 kids with 3 different dads and inherited a step-child that there would be times when the dads would be making the decisions regarding certain things and that sometimes they might even make decisions that were not only different from what I would choose, but of course different from what the other dads would choose.  As much as I would love to have a monthly ‘parent meeting’ where all the dads and new wives/new husbands and myself get together to agree on all the ways we wish to timeshare our children, I realize that is never going to happen.  And so I find myself with two boys going to one school and a daughter going to another.  The baby, of course, had to go to a daycare, so no one really had much choice in that.  My kids are spread out all over the city we live in.  (And I thank God every day we at least all live in the same area.)

So, back to Howdy Week.  You would think that the entire school district (luckily all the kids are also in the same school district) would get together and decide on the theme for the week and they would all have the same themes.  Nope.

So, the 1^st day was Hawaiian Day for the boys and Hat day for my daughter.   And then Moose’s daycare – not wanting to miss out on all of that school fun – decided to do their own ‘Howdy Week’.  And of course, it was completely different than the other kids’.  So, the 1^st day of ‘Howdy Week’ for Moose was favorite T-shirt day.

Then it was PJ day for the boy’s, Red, White, and Blue day for my daughter , and funky hat day for Moose.

And of course, ‘D’ sleeps practically naked so he wanted to strut off to school wearing his ‘Shrek’ boxer briefs and a wife beater.

‘A’ (who has this weird thing about climate changes) sleeps in old man PJs.  Seriously.  It’s the end of August and 100 degrees outside and he still sleeps in flannel PJs with a long-sleeved top.  I think he likes to maintain a constant 98 degrees on the inside and the outside of his body.   And they’re Christmas PJs at that.  That’s what he wanted to wear.

‘M’ looked cute – but she always does. 

Moose had no clothes that morning because all of his where dirty.  (I hate laundry.)  So, he wore only a onesie to daycare with long socks and his tennis shoes…….and a winter snow hat with a Mohawk on top -  that he hated and kept trying to throw out the car window on the way.

I swear I could not have a job and my kids could still be in school and daycare and it would still be a full-time job; managing their school careers.

Oh yes, let’s not forget what a typical morning for me is like when the kids are in school.

The baby wakes me up.  Sometimes, it’s at 4:30am, sometimes it’s at 6:00am.  Sometimes I have to wake him up; he likes to keep me on my toes.

I wake the boys up.

I tell the boys what they need to do.  It’s usually about 4 or 5 things.

I have to physically put my hands on ‘D’ shoulders and turn him towards me and re-tell him the 4 or 5 things a second time just to make sure he’s paying attention.

I have to physically walk with ‘A’ through the 4 or 5 things because he cannot remember more than 1 thing at a time.

I have to physically separate both boys because there will almost certainly be a fight over who stole the other one’s underwear.

I have to go find ‘M’ and apologize to her because she’s been trying to ask me ever since she got up if she can borrow my flat iron and I haven’t been paying attention; I’ve been investigating the case of the stolen underwear.

‘M’ grudgingly says, “That’s ok”, but I’m given the silent treatment for the remainder of the morning.

I’m ready to walk out the door….and realize I’ve almost forgotten about the baby, who either is still sleeping, or awake – but walking around the house in either a wet diaper, or naked.

Make it out the door with baby and daughter in tow.  ‘T’ takes the boys to school.

There are variations to that of course, but that is pretty much how my morning always goes.  The boys will have a fight, ‘M’ will get mad at me for some tween-hormone reason, and Moose will barely make it out the door dressed.

Oh yes – school is definitely in session!

Shooot - I'd Rather Be A Lesbian

I am a f-ing genius.

I am.

I have solved a riddle that has caused much controversy within our society for years.  The question of nature vs. lifestyle.....genetics vs. choice.....right vs. wrong, blah, blah, blah has been answered!!!!

Lesbians.  They neither were born that way or chose to be that way.

They simply ran out of other options.

No shit.

This past Saturday I went out with my friend *Anastasia.  Anastasia met her husband in high school, married him soon after, stayed unhappily married through most of her twenties, and today is a single mother learning to window shop for men.  She is just browsing - not interested in buying.  Curious about what's out there; what updates have been added to the newest version of men available on the market.

Unfortunately...it's less like 'Williams and Sonoma' and more like your local thrift store.  You end up poking through what others have 'weeded through and gotten rid of' and hope to find that rare vintage piece that the previous owner dropped off in a box alongside three pairs of women's orthopedic shoes.  You hope he's worth a million dollars and only cost a penny.  Just imagine yourself showing off your new man at the next BBQ and telling all your friends, "Yep - I was just looking through 'housewares' and there he was.  Barely used.  He came with a job and his own home and everything.  I swooped him right up.  You just never see one that's used in that good of a condition.  Got a few minor dents - ex-wife and child every other weekend - but just couldn't pass him up for the price they were asking."

So, Anastasia, my husband, and I go out last Saturday night.  We were going to a local bar where a band was going to be covering 90s rock songs; think Matchbox 20 and Candlebox.  My husband was going to invite some of his friends and cohorts from work in an attempt to pull together some kind of Saturday night awesomeness.  I say 'attempt' because after 3 years of marriage and 4 kids, our version of Saturday night awesomeness is still being awake after all the kids have fallen asleep and getting to watch 'Real Sex' on HBO.  Yee haw.

So, there we are - the three of us, plus three cohorts - jamming out to psuedo-Pantera.  My husband and his friend are talking about either boobs or going in on a deer lease and Anastasia and I are scoping out the latest and greatest that men have to offer as they sit perched atop their bar stools.  I go down my checklist that I had when I was single.  Eyes, teeth, nails, brains.

For me - the eyes must be dark.  Or, rather the eyebrows must be.  Blue eyes are fine, but sometimes blond hair comes with blue eyes and then comes blond eyebrows....blond hair on the legs.....you get my drift.  Dark eyes almost always mean dark hair.  Teeth must be nice and straight.  I'm fortunate in that my teeth are naturally straight and I didn't require braces growing up, but I do love a man with perfect, straight, only achieved with braces, teeth.  For some reason, every time I notice that a man has perfect teeth I can't help but think he must be a good kisser.....and good at kissing other things....you get my drift.  Nails must be short - and CLEAN!  I don't think any explanation is necessary there.  And then finally brains.  I love, love, love smart men.  In high school I always had a thing for the nerds.  Give me a dark headed boy with braces on his teeth and a calculus book under his arm and I will show you a woman in love!

My husband has dark brown hair, brown eyes, works on airplanes and had braces the first time I met him.  :)

So, I'm scanning through the crowd - going through my checklist - and I get nada.  Well not, quite true; I did find some dark eyes.  Couldn't really tell about the teeth though; hard to see hidden under the full beard.  Of course, not all the men with dark eyes had a full beard.  I might have been able to check out those grills when they opened their mouths, but the cigarettes hanging out of their mouths - bobbing up and down - was kind of a distraction.  (Even now, I must admit I am fascinated by the ability that some smokers have to talk, inhale, and exhale with the cigarette in their mouths the whole time.  And without the use of hands!  Just amazing!) And, I know it's not always possible to judge the intelligence of someone in the first five minutes without ever having met the person.....but when a guy who weighs about 350.....and is bald....and is wearing a shirt that says F.B.I. Female Body Inspector.....watches a less than supermodel woman walk by and says to his friend, 'Man - look at that ugly bitch'......well, I have a pretty good idea as to the level of intelligence residing there.  I'm going to go out on a whim and guess that man did not ever carry a calculus book in school.  Just a hunch.

Man - the pickens are looking slim for my friend.  At this point we're just looking for a guy....who probably has hair.......most of his teeth.......and a waist under 40 inches.  Eye color is optional.

I glance back at my husband - who is no longer talking about a deer lease, but is now admiring his friend's lifetime hunting and fishing license.

There is no way in hell I would want to be single again.  Fuck that.

As I'm watching the band I start thinking back to my single days (after my divorce and before I met my present husband) and have to admit that things were bleak back then.  I remember some of the bozos I dated.

Let's see.....

There was the douche that told me he didn't want to date anyone but wanted to be my friend and 'hang out'. 'Hanging out' involved 'hanging' at his house and eventually 'humping' at his house.  Oh, I told myself that even though he didn't want a relationship he must surely care about me.  I mean, he did want me to stay the night.  Yes -  he wouldn't let me sleep in his room in his bed; we always slept on the living room floor, but still....I knew he loved me.  And I loved him in return.  In fact, one day he did call me and tell me he was ready to be in a relationship......only not with me.  With the other girl he had also been 'hanging out' with.

Next came the guy who was from Alaska.  He was in the military and had a son from a previous relationship.  His friends would always tease him about how much he loved kids.  I thought, 'What could be better than a guy who is also a great dad to his young son!'  I'll tell you what's better.  A guy who is a great dad to his young son....and a dad to another son by another ex-girlfriend that he didn't tell you about....and also a dad or rather possibly a dad (DNA results pending) to his latest ex-girlfriend who was still pregnant and due to deliver anytime.  Now, being the understanding woman that I am, I forgave him for those little lies of omission.  Especially after the DNA test came back and it turned out he only had two kids and not three. But I could not forgive him when he went MIA on me for a week and then called to tell me that the reason he would not return my calls was because he had woken up one morning with sores all over his junk and freaked out, thinking he had an STD.  He had to go to the Dr. and get the sores swabbed and sent off.  It took a week before he found out that he didn't have an STD, but did in fact have some type of skin infection.  At that point he decided that since I obviously hadn't given him an STD he should give me a call and fill me in on what was going on.  Oh, and could he also come over that weekend and 'hang'?  Real winner there.

Moving on.

There was the guy who was a seemingly nice and was even going to college and trying to get into Pharmacy school.  Yes, he was over 30 and still lived with his mother and her 15 cats (I counted them) but I thought he had potential.  I just couldn't used to having to sneak out of his room in the morning before his mother woke up.

And of course, who couldn't forget the guy that I discovered was actually my friend's ex husband.  I had never met him when I was with my friend.  I told him that I couldn't go out with him and that it would be best for us to not even be friends.  He was persistent though and told me that his ex was crazy and that eventually she would go crazy in front of me and then I would know she was nuts and would not want to hang out with her anymore.  He said when that happened he would be waiting for me.  Yeah....um....okay.  You want to know what happened with that guy?

I married him.

But that's a crazy story for another time that deserves a lot more explanation.

Poor Anastasia.  Her dating pool freakin sucks.

Towards the end of the night I started to notice the drummer of the band.  What I noticed first was that he was drinking water the whole night.  The other guys in the band would do a shot with the crowd every now and then, but the drummer just kept on drinking his water.  I like things that are not easily predicted.  He also had a great smile - with great teeth.  His mother spent thousands of dollars on that smile, I can tell you that.  He just had a really friendly approachable look about him and kind of resembled Ryan Reynolds.  I pointed him out to Anastasia.  "That is your man."  I said.  "You should buy him a drink after the show."

During the last song of their set, Anastasia and I got up and stood in front of the band - dancing and swaying along.  There was some pretty significant eye contact made between my friend and the drummer.  She was looking, he was noticing.....he was smiling back, she was flirting.  So far so good.

The set ended.

This drummer got up and walked right up to my friend and started talking to her; just like that.  I turned my attention elsewhere, but kept one eye on their conversation.

Now - having only one ear on their conversation....and that ear being slightly deaf from listening to loud psuedo-Pantera all night, I thought I had to be mistaken when I heard Drummer Boy say:

"If you really liked the show, you'll show me your boob."

WTF!

No - I really couldn't have heard that.  What he probably said was, 'If you really liked the show, recommend us on YouTube.'

I look at Anastasia and she gave a laugh and tried to brush the comment aside but I could tell she was thinking, 'He wants to see my boob; I just met him.  Is this how things are done now?  Is showing one boob acceptable, but showing both boobs slutty?  Wait - did I even hear him right?  Should I clarify that we are in fact discussing my boobs and if we are, does he have a preference on which boob?'  Do I slap his face or grab it and motorboat him?'

She ended up laughing like he was being sarcastic and pulled her dress strap down on her shoulder just barely to show she was playing along.  Both boobs firmly contained and a possible misunderstanding avoided.  They continued their conversation and I wandered over to my husband to tell him that I either wanted to go get some fries with mustard or go home and have sex.  Either one was fine with me.  I walked back over to Anastasia to let her know we were leaving and hear Drummer Boy say:

"You know what's really hot?  When two girls kiss."  (Looking back and forth between me and Anastasia.)

WTF!

Now, I have no doubt what he said this time.

I look at Anastasia and she gave a laugh and tried to brush the comment aside but I could tell she was thinking, 'Two women kissing; is he sharing his opinion or making a request?  Does he think I'm a lesbian?  Is it because I didn't show him a boob; maybe he throws this out there to see which way I swing?  Wait - did he specifically mean my friend or just me and some other girl in general?  Should I clarify that and ask him if he has someone else in mind?'

She ended up having to do nothing - because right after that a girl walked up to him and made a point of asking him (right in front of us):

"Hey!  I didn't even get a chance to say hi to you.  Where is Tisla at?"

To which Drummer Boy replied:

"Oh, she's at home with the kids."

To which Anastasia and I turned right around and left.

I just could not believe that guy!  I felt so sorry for poor Tisla waiting at home...with the kids.

On the way home, I told my husband what had happened.  My husband just couldn't understand why Anastasia kept meeting losers.  Anastasia is smart, funny, pretty, has a great job and a great pair of boobs.  All the single guys that me and my husband know are unemployed couch potatoes who still live at home with either their parents or no less than four roomates and are always getting their cell phones turned off.  And it's not just the guys you meet in bars.  Out of all the idiots I dated when I was single, only one I met at a bar.  Losers are everywhere.

And that's when it hit me.

There is no rare vintage piece out there.  They're all gone.  All that's left are orthopedic shoes.  The good ones really are taken.  I am so glad I manged to find my husband.  (Ironically - he really was the good thing that his ex threw out.  True - she didn't exactly offer him to me after she decided she didn't want him....but I didn't exactly rifle him out of her garbage either.  I prefer to think of it like his ex and I went to a rummage sale together and I found him.  How was I supposed to know she was the one who donated him?)

But, like I said, I am lucky to have my husband.  I can't imagine being single and trying to date now.

Shooot - I'd Rather Be A Lesbian.
 

Boudoir Shoot 2012

Yes, I'm a litte late with this.

Sunday, May 6^th, 2012 was my first boudoir shoot.  I have been preparing for this for the last few months.  The photographer who did my shoot was Joanne Olsen. (Shameless plug)  

On the day that I committed to doing to the shoot, I weighed 169.  On the day of the shoot I weighed 143.  Although that is not my ultimate goal weight, it did give me the confidence to go forward with the shoot.  I approached this shoot like I did my wedding.  I made hair appointments and spray tan appointments, manicures and eyebrow waxings.  I even made a playlist of sexy music that I put on my I-Phone to take with me. 

Scratch that – I didn’t approach this like my wedding.  I approached this like any girl does before she goes on a date with a guy and knows that night is going to be the night that they have sex for the first time.

Shaved legs – check.  Shaved pits – check.  Shaved lady business – check. 

My photo shoot wasn’t until 5:30pm and my hair appointment wasn’t until 4:00pm, so that gave me the whole morning and afternoon to just be the mommy that I am; cleaning up the house, doing laundry for the upcoming week……things like that.  Around 2:45pm, I hit the play button on my playlist and stepped into the shower.  I washed all the ‘mommy smell’ off of me when ‘Dirty’ by Christina Aguilara came blasting on my I-Phone, I came busting out of the shower…….”let’s get dirty; it’s about time for my arrival.” 

I knew I was going straight from getting my hair styled to the shoot, so I knew I would have to take my outfit and all of my other things with me.  For funzy, I decided after I did my makeup, I would put on my outfit, chicken cutlets, and hooker heels and see how I looked (sans hair fixed).

My outfit by the way was a baby doll-looking thing.  It was sheer white with the tiniest ruffle at the bottom, covered by a layer of white silk, and then covered by black lace.  In the middle of my cleavage was a teeny, tiny white bow.  It was pretty and sexy and showed off just enough while covering up just enough.  It was perfect.

I am so glad that I did put everything on.  I realized that I needed to do some minor adjustments, tweaking here and there – and then I was glad that I didn’t discover all of this when I was at the shoot and didn’t have anything handy to tweak or adjust with.  I paused as I was going to take everything off and wondered if I should just leave everything on and just put a cover up on over it.  I mean, it took me a while to get everything situated just right and it was as perfect as I could get it; why chance having to do it again at the shoot?  I looked in my full-length mirror as I was pondering this and standing there 26lbs lighter, tan, and appearing to have monstrous cleavage, I decided that I really just did not want to take it off.  Heck, I was so proud of how I looked, I seriously would have strutted myself on down to the club just like that – if showing bare ass cheeks was something you would not be arrested for. 

So, decision made, I went into my closet for a cover up and about the only thing I could find that would not totally wrinkle or runch my ensemble was this short, blue cotton robe that I have.  I put it on and rolled up the sleeves and tied it at the side and it actually looked like a wrap dress. 

Good enough.  Outfit on and ready to go – check.

I headed to my friend’s house (who is also a hair dresser) to have her do my hair.  I had told her to make my hair look like I had just spent an evening with the Dothraki Lord from Game of Thrones (see the 1^st season, episodes 1 & 2 – I highly recommend it).  So, we’re talking as she’s curling and scrunching and spraying and I couldn’t really tell how it was going to look, but I just hoped that her definition of ‘sex hair’ was not the same as my definition of ‘hung over – slept with my head smashed up against a wall after skinny dipping in the lake hair’.

So, she finishes and I go to look in her full-length mirror and thought, ‘Ok – that’s it; I am going to strut myself on down to the club just like this – I don’t care if showing bare ass cheeks is something you can be arrested for.’

I looked H-O-T.  Hair styled – check.

Off in my mini-van (I’m so caught up in all of this, I almost wished I had rented a flashy sports car), I go.  I, again, turn on my sexy playlist and head to the shoot.  At every light or every car I pass, I smile to myself and wonder what their expression would be if I just ditched the robe.  I almost felt like I was sneaking over to a lover’s house (I DON’T HAVE A LOVER) and surprising him with the ole ‘nothing underneath the trench coat’ routine.   “Pour Some Sugar On Me” came on my playlist and I laughed out loud at the irony of it.  I AM MY SEX DRIVE!  SERIOUSLY! (*See my post, ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’.) 

A light caught my attention and I notice that my gas light has come on.  Well, that’s a little awkward.  At some point, I’m going to have to get out and get gas.  I guess the next time I decide to drive across town in lingerie, I need to make sure I have a full tank.  Then another thought comes to me as I remember that my tag on my van is actually expired.  It expired a few days ago and I just hadn’t made it to the tag agency yet.  Oh goodie.  I had joked in a previous post about getting pulled over on the way to the shoot half naked, but that was in reference to getting drunk before the photo shoot.  I wasn’t really intending on getting pulled over half naked because of an expired tag.  And don’t ask me why, but for some reason having an expired tag seems a little white trash to me; I know, I don’t get it either.  So, I’m going to be pulled over, driving a mini-van, because I have an expired tag…..and I will be half naked.  CALASSSY!

Wearing this outfit to the shoot was a bad idea…….or was it?  Getting pulled over while looking totally hot, flirting with the cop while showing him small glimpses of cleavage, and getting to cross that off my bucket list – check.

I do stop to get gas (which the gas station was deserted) and arrive at my shoot, which was actually taking place at a hotel.  I strut right into that lobby, wearing a short robe, sex hair, and 6 inch come-fuck-me-heels……. and carrying no luggage.  I look like a hooker.  It was straight out of ‘Pretty Woman’. 

In the elevator I picture walking into the room – where there is a smoke machine and wind machine going – and I throw off my robe, hop up on the bed and boom; I’m already in the perfect pose.  The lights are low and all the other girls who did their shoots are there (standing around naked) and everyone is drinking champagne and the photographer says, ‘Oh, there’s been a change of plans; I decided that the shoot needed a little something, so I brought a friend.’  And out of the bathroom steps the Dothraki Lord from Game of Thrones (see the 1st season, episodes 1 & 2 – I highly recommend it).

Now, let me say that I knew it was not going to be anything like that.

I go into the room and the only two people there were the photographer and my friend (who organized this).  Well, I guess there were actually 2 and ½ people there.  The photographer brought her baby with her.   Let me just say I have to give that photographer/mother props.  My baby is only just a year old and I remember what it was like when I was nursing him and pretty much had to take him everywhere with me.  Not only did she travel from out of town with this young baby by herself, but she also managed to do a boudoir shoot and keep an eye on her baby at the same time.  At one point, she strapped the baby in a snuggly to her back and stood on top of the bed to shoot a photo from above.  The baby never even made a peep.  It totally gave me new respect for women of the bush who deliver their babies and then the very next day are out in the field shucking corn with their infants strapped to their boobs.

The room is also…….very bright.  All of the curtains on the windows are open. (Thank God we were on the 3^rd floor!)  I was not expecting that.  I should have; I mean, I get that you have to have light to take pictures and natural light is the best.  But I couldn’t help but think, ‘I do not believe that I should be wearing lingerie with this much light.  I don’t even have sex with my husband with this much light.’  I started to feel a little less confident.  I did not just throw off my robe as I had intended.  I waited until I was already on the bed and the photographer was ready to start shooting before I shyly peeled it off and tossed it in the corner.

Yep – this reminded me exactly of how it was when I would go on a date with a guy and knew that night was going to be the night that we had sex for the first time.

Wondering if your weird moles are noticeable – check.

Wanting to hide under the covers – check.

Feeling awkward – check, check.

The photographer and my friend saved the day though.  They just kept talking to me like we were just hanging out – like I wasn’t sitting on the edge of the bed caressing my own boob.  They also told me exactly how to pose – I didn’t have to wing it or anything.  For some reason, I had it in my head that the photographer was going to say something like, ‘Ok, show me what you got – come on, work it, work it.  Ok, give me sexy…..you’ve just came home from work and feeling naughty – very naughty.’  It was all very matter-of-fact though, like ‘Ok, scoot down here – closer to the edge, bring your knees here, and smile.’  Kind of like the gynecologist – well, except for the ‘smile’ part.

The photographer did one other thing that helped me tremendously.  After the first shot I took that was pretty good – she showed it to me.  I couldn’t believe that was me!  I looked great!  That was all I needed for my confidence to come back in full force and to start really getting into it.

Before I knew it – the shoot was over.  It was so much fun.

I strutted right back through that lobby, wearing a short robe, sex hair, and 6 inch come-fuck-me-heels…….exactly one hour after I had arrived.  The front desk clerk had no doubts that I was a hooker.  It was straight out of ‘Pretty Woman’.    

I was on such a high that the whole drive home, I just couldn’t wait to walk into my house and pounce on my hubby.

Of course when I walked into my house, the only pouncing was done by my four kids – all jumping on me at the same time.  And then after they had all gone to bed, my husband had to go to work. Sigh.

Oh well, another night.

Sitting on your couch –all four kids asleep – with the TV completely to yourself and watching the Dothraki Lord from Game of Thrones (the 1st season, episodes 1 & 2)……..

Check, check.