Sexless in the Suburbs. That was just one of the signature lines I considered using in my blog. Although it is a thinly veiled comparison to the wildly interesting life of Sex in the City's Carrie Bradshaw, Sexless in the Suburbs is obviously the antithesis of such a life. It also incorrectly implies that 1) Yakima is a suburb (which it is not) and 2) Sex does not exist here (and that would be a lie). In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it was one of the country's top ten hot beds for breeders. Everybody here is a reproduction specialist. They produce litters. I recently heard that "four" is the "new" two when referring to the number of one's children in terms of family size. Well, this suburban mama is taking my chances on three. This shop is closed.
The bottom line: Yes, there is sex…drama…and friends in the suburbs – it’s just missing the excitement of the city, stilettos, martinis, and fashion - in any form. When I landed in this small, agricultural town smack dab in the center of Washington nearly five years ago, it really was one of the most tumultuous transitions I had ever experienced. But transition aside, I’ve had quite a journey from small town girl to big city gal, smacked back down to even smaller town girl.
Arriving from Chicago with a fresh “French” bikini wax and my swimsuit in hand, I had this overwhelming feeling that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. My husband loved his new job, we loved our new home – which felt like a 2900 square foot mansion compared to our tiny, first-floor condo in the ghetto – and we were embarking on our new life together. My daughter was just turning one, walking all over the place, and pleased as punch to have so much space to explore.
I am a fairly independent soul, so I don’t really NEED friends, and that is a good thing because I didn’t really have any yet. When you’re not in school and you don’t have a job, finding friends can be a little like shopping for a hidden treasure on the disheveled clothing racks at TJ Maxx. I found that my only communication was with a one year old - ALL DAY LONG. And although it is a lot of fun speaking gibberish and making funny faces, I was more than a little deprived of some adult conversation. I realized that if I didn't get out and make some friends soon, I was going to be doomed to a life of referring to myself in third person.
"Mommy wants to wipe your boogie!"
"Let Mommy change your poopy diaper!"
"Mmmm...Mommy LOVES nannas!"
Mayday! Mayday! Call 911! Mommy needs a life or a friend fast!
One day, out of the blue, I received a call from a neighbor inviting me to a local MOPS meeting. I was praying to God that this was not some sort of club for freaky floor cleaners and was relieved to find out that it was not. MOPS stands for “Mothers of Preschoolers.” And before I go further, and risk upsetting other MOPS moms, let me preface this with a disclaimer, an apology, and a request for forgiveness:
MOPS is a very, very good organization and I have met some really amazing mothers there. Your experience probably differs from mine. In fact, I am probably blowing everything out of proportion...because that is what I do. I tend to "dramatize" the situation. So, I am very sorry in advance and I beg your forgiveness!
The MOPS meetings were bi-monthly gatherings held in the basement of a large Church downtown with dingy tables and folding chairs spread out as far as the eye can see. At the stroke of 8 a.m., the parking lot would fill with SUVs and frumpy moms dragging in their whiny, snot-nosed kids where they would trade their child for a sticky name tag and a TGIFriday's beeper, and fly down the stairs like a bird fleeing the coup. As you entered the church, the large, expansive room wreaked of Bisquick sausage casserole, glazed donuts and the best Styrofoam coffee you have ever ingested. It was usually the best meal, and only meal, you had time to eat all week.
Growing up Catholic, I hadn’t been to church in years. I was immediately uncomfortable when our table leader asked me what I needed prayer for that day. Now, I know no body's household is perfect, but I seriously struggled to come up with something that I didn’t mind saying out loud to a bunch of women I did not know. So, I came up with something really lame like “pray for my daughter…she is having trouble going to sleep at night.” God must have known I was insincere because that prayer was not answered.
As I looked around my table, I felt like a complete outsider. Not only was I the only one that did not dress in sweat pants, but it seemed like I was the only one who had ever ENJOYED working outside the household. Yes! I’m guilty! I miss working! There, I said it. And I’m pretty sure everyone thought I was a complete freak. I say this because I soon learned that I was guilty of violating some very basic MOPS rules.
Rule 1: C-Sections are Cop outs
Most MOPS moms will avoid C-sections at all cost. At one point, I was even cornered by a group of V-backers who urged me to reconsider my next birthing experience. To date, I have had 3 c-sections, making me the most unpopular and unsuccessful breeder in the entire world.
Rule 2: Le Leche or Le Loser
I have enormous boobs. And I mean enormous. I did not pay for these bad boys, so believe me, it is not by choice, but rather, mother nature who gave me these 32H ers, and let me just say she is one cruel and vindictive bitch.
I really believed that my longtime affliction of big breasts would be rewarded when it came time to rear children. Surely I would be the world's best breast feeder. They would produce cream for my babies. It makes sense, right? Big boobs should produce lots of life-sustaining breast milk. Well, not mine. I tried everything. I would hook both breasts up to a double pump, get "milked" for 30 minutes, and be devastated by the 3 tiny droplets that barely lined the bottom of the bottle. I tried creams, nipple contraptions, drank yeasty beer, and a few other homeopathic remedies. Zilch. Sorry ladies! My boobies were dry! And if giving my baby a bottle makes me a loser, then slap a big "L" on my forehead and call it a day.
Rule 3: We “Complete” Man – Not “Compete” with Man
When I heard this from the super zen "elder" on the stage, I almost lost my casserole. Having just ditched my career, this one really rubbed me the wrong way. Why did I spend all of this time getting an education and climbing the corporate ladder if I existed only to "complete" man? And what does that really mean anyway? I'm still trying to wrap my little brain around that one.
Rule 4: Pray to your husband, not Jesus.
I will admit that I am a little "bible light" at the moment. And, if I'm going to be totally honest, I have yet to read the bible in its entirety. But I have to ask, is that really in there? Again, super zen "elder" explained to us that women should first take their problems and prayers to their husband. If, and only if, our husband is unable to answer those prayers, are we allowed to take them to God. At this point, I'm pretty sure I am going straight to hell.
Four strikes and I was clearly out of there. I attended semi-regularly for a little over a year. Each time, I would leave in tears feeling like a complete loser. I had failed my children by birthing them through an incision, not a vagina; fed them powdered milk from a Chinese manufacturer; competed with men on a daily basis to advance my career and break through the glass ceiling; and finally, I prayed directly to Jesus himself. God dammit! How was I going to get out of this one?
As it stands, I am not a soccer mom - none of my kids play sports yet. I am not a MOPS mom (no need to expand on that one). And in no way, shape, or form, does my life even remotely compare to that of Carrie Bradshaw or Sex in the City. So, instead of labeling myself as the complete antithesis - Sexless in the Suburbs - I will just settle for "VeryUnCarrie." And I am totally okay with that!
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Pregnancy Prevention
Have you ever had one of those days where you just conquered the world? In all of your superstar glory, you were able to rise up (oh so early before the kids), pack every one's lunch, tidy up the entire house, stay on top of the dishes, and dare I say...shower? Wait! Not JUST shower, but put on some make-up, blow dry your hair AND wear something super cute and slimming? Well, that wasn't my day today.
As it turns out, I had been feeling a little under the weather. My throat was raw and throbbing and I was exhausted beyond belief. Let's just say a few things were falling through the cracks - the house, dishes, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and my "every-other-day" bathing regimen. You know the old saying, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't NOBODY happy."
My sore throat went from the typical "sore" you would normally expect, to excruciating pain as if I had swallowed a mouth full of razorblades. My neck was beyond tender and my ear drums pounded louder than a marching band. This was serious folks.
My husband, being a doctor, is one tough critic. He must see a lot in the operating room, because unless me, or any one of my children, are bleeding out of every orifice, our ailment does not warrant a trip to the physician's office. So, when he took one look down my throat and started calling in favors to all of the ENTs (Ear, Nose &Throat) doctor's he knew, I found myself proud that I was, in fact, actually as sick as I felt, and then, a tad disturbed that HE thought I was as sick as I felt.
After a quick trip to the specialist, he informed me that I would need to head straight to the hospital for a cat scan with contrast dye. Oh joy! Not exactly what I was hoping to hear. Can't you just shove a few antibiotics through my system, put me on "bed rest" and call it a day?
So, here I am, in my own hospital gown, strapped to the CT table, when the technician says, "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" Well, if there is a God out there, and my $600 Mirena is working as it should, I don't think so." But just the thought of being pregnant again scared the crap out of me. It got me thinking about all the pregnancy prevention I had participated in my 38 years of life - and the first time that my prevention efforts failed.
Flashback about six years ago. My husband and I were not exactly "ready" when "we" ended up pregnant for the first time. In fact, I was the textbook definition of pregnancy prevention - 32 years to be exact. I was a well oiled machine. Never once did I skip a beat. Never! So, I was a few days late it seemed. But it felt like I was going to start my period any day. I had all the signs – my boobs hurt…I was crampy…starving and bitchy. It just never came.
At the time I was working in downtown Chicago on Michigan Avenue. I marched right into the Walgreen's drugstore below our offices and snuck back to the aisle that contained pregnancy tests. I felt like a teenager on the cusp of being caught by her parents. This was extremely foreign to me…and a little bit comical. I bought the cheapest test I could find because the whole thought that I might actually be pregnant was completely laughable.
I found the prospect of purchasing this pregnancy test more embarrassing than buying condoms, vagisil, or sexual lubricant. I was sure that my boss would end up in line behind me and fire me on the spot for even contemplating starting a family. After all, who would he call in the middle of the night for all of his perceived marketing emergencies? I even asked the clerk to put it in a brown paper bag as opposed to the transparent plastic one she was about to hand me. I mean, I had to be careful. I had to transport this precious cargo up 44 floors. That can be a painfully long elevator ride, and crowded too.
After a successful elevator ride, I took my paper bag and my test and hunkered down in the first stall nearest my office. Trying to rip open the box and pee on a stick – inconspicuously of course – was quite a task. As I prepared to sit and wait out the 90 seconds, or however long it’s supposed to take – I was shocked and a little bit horrified that two blazing bright blue lines appeared almost instantaneously. There was no hesitation. It didn’t need to fully bake…it was just dripping with blue. If the stick could speak, it would have slapped me across the face and shouted, “YOU ARE PREGNANT YOU IGNORANT DUMB ASS!”
So, I did what any normal 32 year old woman would do in this circumstance – I marched right back down to Walgreen's and bought 3 more tests – each progressively more expensive. Strangely, the cost didn’t seem to change or alter the results. They all spoke the same language. They all labeled me as pregnant.
"Holy crap! I am pregnant!" A flood of emotions ran through me in an instant – complete shock, disbelief, and strangely, a tinge of utter amazement. Dare I say a drop of excitement??? Just unbelievable. I was not sure how I was going to break this to my husband, but just so you can understand the implications of his reaction…let me give you some background on our relationship.
I met this man – or boy, I should say – in 1989 when we started dating in high school. So we had dated for 11 years, and been married for 4 by the time I took this pregnancy test. You would have thought I was telling my 14 year old boyfriend by the way he reacted. “What? Pregnant? We can’t have a baby! We can’t afford or support a baby!"
Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. I mean I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant. Clearly I had successfully prevented such a horrifying event from occurring during the last 14 years – but I didn’t think it was so ridiculous and inconceivable that this could actually be happening and maybe even be a good thing? Then he even insinuated I had “trapped” him. Well…if it takes 14 years of being together – not to mention – MARRIED – than he had fallen victim to my prey.
This might appear to be an unlikely response, but then again, you don’t know my husband. Let’s just say he doesn’t take major life changes lightly. He’s a thinker. He went to a well-known Liberal Arts school, not just a state school like me. He actually learned things and is super smart. He reads and retains. He likes to weigh every single possibility with the weight of the world. He explores every avenue and then backtracks to what he believes is the perfect choice. Nothing is left for chance.
So, pregnancy really rocked our world to say the least - initially anyway. By the next morning, we were able to wrap our heads around this concept that we were going to have a precious little baby! And although we didn't even know it ourselves at the time - we concluded that we were ready. Sure, we were a little nervous and unsure of ourselves, but I would have to say we were excited, overjoyed, and optimistic.
We started talking about the baby's room. What would we name a baby boy or girl? All of the stuff that is so new and exciting to talk about when you find out you are having your very first baby. I remember strutting down Michigan Avenue on my lunch break feeling like I had this precious "secret" nobody else new about. We emailed ultrasound photographs to our parents and closest friends.
Unfortunately, at our 12 week appointment - you know, the one you are waiting for because it's perfectly "safe" to tell the world about your impending parenthood - we found out that there was no longer a heartbeat. I have never felt so empty, devastated and completely blindsided in all my life. The glass quickly went from half full to half empty in a split second. In fact, I think the moon may have eclipsed the sun and the sky went completely dark at that very moment. You spend so many months, years trying to prevent getting pregnant before you are ready. You just assume that it is going to happen. Slam. Bam. Thank Ya M'am!
But that just wasn't in the cards for us. Had we known that this miscarriage was just the first in a long series of miscarriages, I wonder if we would have worried a little less about pregnancy prevention.
As it turns out, I had been feeling a little under the weather. My throat was raw and throbbing and I was exhausted beyond belief. Let's just say a few things were falling through the cracks - the house, dishes, laundry, cooking, cleaning, and my "every-other-day" bathing regimen. You know the old saying, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't NOBODY happy."
My sore throat went from the typical "sore" you would normally expect, to excruciating pain as if I had swallowed a mouth full of razorblades. My neck was beyond tender and my ear drums pounded louder than a marching band. This was serious folks.
My husband, being a doctor, is one tough critic. He must see a lot in the operating room, because unless me, or any one of my children, are bleeding out of every orifice, our ailment does not warrant a trip to the physician's office. So, when he took one look down my throat and started calling in favors to all of the ENTs (Ear, Nose &Throat) doctor's he knew, I found myself proud that I was, in fact, actually as sick as I felt, and then, a tad disturbed that HE thought I was as sick as I felt.
After a quick trip to the specialist, he informed me that I would need to head straight to the hospital for a cat scan with contrast dye. Oh joy! Not exactly what I was hoping to hear. Can't you just shove a few antibiotics through my system, put me on "bed rest" and call it a day?
So, here I am, in my own hospital gown, strapped to the CT table, when the technician says, "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" Well, if there is a God out there, and my $600 Mirena is working as it should, I don't think so." But just the thought of being pregnant again scared the crap out of me. It got me thinking about all the pregnancy prevention I had participated in my 38 years of life - and the first time that my prevention efforts failed.
Flashback about six years ago. My husband and I were not exactly "ready" when "we" ended up pregnant for the first time. In fact, I was the textbook definition of pregnancy prevention - 32 years to be exact. I was a well oiled machine. Never once did I skip a beat. Never! So, I was a few days late it seemed. But it felt like I was going to start my period any day. I had all the signs – my boobs hurt…I was crampy…starving and bitchy. It just never came.
At the time I was working in downtown Chicago on Michigan Avenue. I marched right into the Walgreen's drugstore below our offices and snuck back to the aisle that contained pregnancy tests. I felt like a teenager on the cusp of being caught by her parents. This was extremely foreign to me…and a little bit comical. I bought the cheapest test I could find because the whole thought that I might actually be pregnant was completely laughable.
I found the prospect of purchasing this pregnancy test more embarrassing than buying condoms, vagisil, or sexual lubricant. I was sure that my boss would end up in line behind me and fire me on the spot for even contemplating starting a family. After all, who would he call in the middle of the night for all of his perceived marketing emergencies? I even asked the clerk to put it in a brown paper bag as opposed to the transparent plastic one she was about to hand me. I mean, I had to be careful. I had to transport this precious cargo up 44 floors. That can be a painfully long elevator ride, and crowded too.
After a successful elevator ride, I took my paper bag and my test and hunkered down in the first stall nearest my office. Trying to rip open the box and pee on a stick – inconspicuously of course – was quite a task. As I prepared to sit and wait out the 90 seconds, or however long it’s supposed to take – I was shocked and a little bit horrified that two blazing bright blue lines appeared almost instantaneously. There was no hesitation. It didn’t need to fully bake…it was just dripping with blue. If the stick could speak, it would have slapped me across the face and shouted, “YOU ARE PREGNANT YOU IGNORANT DUMB ASS!”
So, I did what any normal 32 year old woman would do in this circumstance – I marched right back down to Walgreen's and bought 3 more tests – each progressively more expensive. Strangely, the cost didn’t seem to change or alter the results. They all spoke the same language. They all labeled me as pregnant.
"Holy crap! I am pregnant!" A flood of emotions ran through me in an instant – complete shock, disbelief, and strangely, a tinge of utter amazement. Dare I say a drop of excitement??? Just unbelievable. I was not sure how I was going to break this to my husband, but just so you can understand the implications of his reaction…let me give you some background on our relationship.
I met this man – or boy, I should say – in 1989 when we started dating in high school. So we had dated for 11 years, and been married for 4 by the time I took this pregnancy test. You would have thought I was telling my 14 year old boyfriend by the way he reacted. “What? Pregnant? We can’t have a baby! We can’t afford or support a baby!"
Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. I mean I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant. Clearly I had successfully prevented such a horrifying event from occurring during the last 14 years – but I didn’t think it was so ridiculous and inconceivable that this could actually be happening and maybe even be a good thing? Then he even insinuated I had “trapped” him. Well…if it takes 14 years of being together – not to mention – MARRIED – than he had fallen victim to my prey.
This might appear to be an unlikely response, but then again, you don’t know my husband. Let’s just say he doesn’t take major life changes lightly. He’s a thinker. He went to a well-known Liberal Arts school, not just a state school like me. He actually learned things and is super smart. He reads and retains. He likes to weigh every single possibility with the weight of the world. He explores every avenue and then backtracks to what he believes is the perfect choice. Nothing is left for chance.
So, pregnancy really rocked our world to say the least - initially anyway. By the next morning, we were able to wrap our heads around this concept that we were going to have a precious little baby! And although we didn't even know it ourselves at the time - we concluded that we were ready. Sure, we were a little nervous and unsure of ourselves, but I would have to say we were excited, overjoyed, and optimistic.
We started talking about the baby's room. What would we name a baby boy or girl? All of the stuff that is so new and exciting to talk about when you find out you are having your very first baby. I remember strutting down Michigan Avenue on my lunch break feeling like I had this precious "secret" nobody else new about. We emailed ultrasound photographs to our parents and closest friends.
Unfortunately, at our 12 week appointment - you know, the one you are waiting for because it's perfectly "safe" to tell the world about your impending parenthood - we found out that there was no longer a heartbeat. I have never felt so empty, devastated and completely blindsided in all my life. The glass quickly went from half full to half empty in a split second. In fact, I think the moon may have eclipsed the sun and the sky went completely dark at that very moment. You spend so many months, years trying to prevent getting pregnant before you are ready. You just assume that it is going to happen. Slam. Bam. Thank Ya M'am!
But that just wasn't in the cards for us. Had we known that this miscarriage was just the first in a long series of miscarriages, I wonder if we would have worried a little less about pregnancy prevention.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Driving Miss Sanda
This week I had the pleasure of spending an entire day with my 89 year-old grandma. No, we didn't go shopping or share laughs while preparing family recipes in the kitchen that I loved so much as a child. Rather, I got to participate in an event that may haunt me for years to come - I escorted her to the gynecologist's office for her yearly exam. I'm a little confused as to why a woman in her "season of life" needs to have her cervix scraped. Okay. Sure. I understand the concept of preventative medicine, but I'm not too optimistic that she has that many more years of "prevention" in her. At 89, she appears to have prevention down. Leave the poor woman's vagina alone already!
So, as we sat in the incredibly crowded waiting room, I had to giggle at her childlike commentary. It very much reminded me of the embarrassment you feel when your child publicly asks you about the legless woman in the wheelchair, or why that man is wearing a towel on his head? It usually comes from such an innocent and pure place but it still makes you want to crawl under your chair and die. I'm not sure who that child belongs to...
Being extremely hard of hearing, my grandmother likes to make off color comments while "whispering." I can assure you her version of whispering can be heard by patients and passersby throughout the building and in the surrounding offices.
"Why the hell is that guy wearing a mask over his mouth? What kind of disease does he have?" As the man in the mask looks away in complete horror, I answer with a smile, "Oh, he probably just has the flu. It prevents him from spreading germs." Then, looking right at him she yells, "Well, how's that working for you?" The entire office is now staring at this poor man and his germ infested mask and I'm sure he was waiting to be ostracized from the community at a moments notice. "Um. I think it's working fine, thank you. I don't know why they are making me wear it, I'm only here because of my allergies."
Everyone else in the room breathes a sigh of relief, but because my grandmother can't hear, and the mask is preventing her from reading his lips, she just nods her head while flashing this forced grin that screams, "I don't know what you are saying, but I still think you are gross."
I have never been so excited to see that it was our turn to see the physician. In hindsight, this turned out to be a short-lived victory. You see, my mother had sent me there with this list of questions for the doctor. Grandma is getting a little more forgetful and her poor hearing makes it impossible for her to communicate one-on-one with the physician. So, after the nurse weighed her and strapped on her blood pressure cuff, she handed me this very tiny paper gown and told me to get her COMPLETELY undressed with the gown open in the front.
My pulse started racing, I began to sweat, and I completely lost my appetite. And for those of you who know me, that NEVER happens. With my back to my grandma, and my list of questions in hand for the doctor, I turned around to see that my grandma was standing before me in all of her nakedness. I thought to myself, "Oh No She Di'nt! (Insert black girl finger wave). She didn't just strip down to nothing right in front of me!" The last time I checked, her generation was known for their modesty.
Oh, yes she did. I opened up the paper gown and helped her slip her arms through - leaving it open in the front. Is there no mercy? I also had to "boost" her tiny 4'11'' frame onto the ominous table and quickly draped the paper sheet over her legs. Um, AWKWARD! I had to chant to myself, "Eyes averted down! Keep looking down!" I clicked my ruby red heels three times. "There's no place like home. There's no place like home."
After more than 30 or so minutes of small talk, the doctor made her appearance and I was able to perform my duties as the family fact gatherer.
Soon, the appointment was finished and my grandma was ready to go home. It was just about lunch time which was the perfect scenario to force her to eat. This is something she doesn't do when she is all alone. She agreed to do so on one condition - that I let her pay. Reluctantly, I agreed to her demands - somewhat amused that her craving for the day included one of the largest KFC chicken sandwiches I have ever seen and nearly twice her weight in coleslaw. I guess when you don't get out that often KFC sounds like fried chicken heaven!
We had a great conversation over lunch and I was thrilled to know that she had some sustenance in her system - albeit greasy and gross. What I didn't know is that apparently KFC has the same effect on my grandma as spinach does to Popeye. Her persona changed. She got a little ballsy. There was a little skip in her step. Well, not really. She's had hip replacement and now walks with a cane. But she walked with more confidence. And as I gathered my coat, purse and keys to make my way to the door she asks, "How about we go for a ride around the block?"
"Okay. Sure! I'll drive you wherever you want to go!" Nope. That is not what she wanted at all. You see, she had not driven in more than two years. Not since my grandpa died. Common sense would tell you that it's probably not a good idea. There's deafness, extremely short legs, occasional dizziness, and waning eye sight issues. The list goes on and on. But I must have been in some grease induced fast food trance because before I knew it, I replied, "Let's do this. Where are your keys?"
Backing out of the narrow carport in a big blue Buick proved to be challenging for grandma. Half on the pavement and half on the grass, we finally made our way to the public streets unscathed. And after circling around the block not once, but twice, she was content to head back to the comforts and safety of her home. She emerged from the car a new woman with a new found confidence that surely reminded her of the independence she once had. It felt so good to give my grandma that moment - she was confident, smiling and proud.
So when I say that my grandma has "been around the block" - I really mean it. Literally. And under these circumstances, that is not such a bad thing!
So, as we sat in the incredibly crowded waiting room, I had to giggle at her childlike commentary. It very much reminded me of the embarrassment you feel when your child publicly asks you about the legless woman in the wheelchair, or why that man is wearing a towel on his head? It usually comes from such an innocent and pure place but it still makes you want to crawl under your chair and die. I'm not sure who that child belongs to...
Being extremely hard of hearing, my grandmother likes to make off color comments while "whispering." I can assure you her version of whispering can be heard by patients and passersby throughout the building and in the surrounding offices.
"Why the hell is that guy wearing a mask over his mouth? What kind of disease does he have?" As the man in the mask looks away in complete horror, I answer with a smile, "Oh, he probably just has the flu. It prevents him from spreading germs." Then, looking right at him she yells, "Well, how's that working for you?" The entire office is now staring at this poor man and his germ infested mask and I'm sure he was waiting to be ostracized from the community at a moments notice. "Um. I think it's working fine, thank you. I don't know why they are making me wear it, I'm only here because of my allergies."
Everyone else in the room breathes a sigh of relief, but because my grandmother can't hear, and the mask is preventing her from reading his lips, she just nods her head while flashing this forced grin that screams, "I don't know what you are saying, but I still think you are gross."
I have never been so excited to see that it was our turn to see the physician. In hindsight, this turned out to be a short-lived victory. You see, my mother had sent me there with this list of questions for the doctor. Grandma is getting a little more forgetful and her poor hearing makes it impossible for her to communicate one-on-one with the physician. So, after the nurse weighed her and strapped on her blood pressure cuff, she handed me this very tiny paper gown and told me to get her COMPLETELY undressed with the gown open in the front.
My pulse started racing, I began to sweat, and I completely lost my appetite. And for those of you who know me, that NEVER happens. With my back to my grandma, and my list of questions in hand for the doctor, I turned around to see that my grandma was standing before me in all of her nakedness. I thought to myself, "Oh No She Di'nt! (Insert black girl finger wave). She didn't just strip down to nothing right in front of me!" The last time I checked, her generation was known for their modesty.
Oh, yes she did. I opened up the paper gown and helped her slip her arms through - leaving it open in the front. Is there no mercy? I also had to "boost" her tiny 4'11'' frame onto the ominous table and quickly draped the paper sheet over her legs. Um, AWKWARD! I had to chant to myself, "Eyes averted down! Keep looking down!" I clicked my ruby red heels three times. "There's no place like home. There's no place like home."
After more than 30 or so minutes of small talk, the doctor made her appearance and I was able to perform my duties as the family fact gatherer.
- Grandma thinks she has wax build up in her ears because her hearing is worse than ever.
- Can you check this spot on her ankle?
- Her boobs are touching her belly button, is a boob job out of the question?
Soon, the appointment was finished and my grandma was ready to go home. It was just about lunch time which was the perfect scenario to force her to eat. This is something she doesn't do when she is all alone. She agreed to do so on one condition - that I let her pay. Reluctantly, I agreed to her demands - somewhat amused that her craving for the day included one of the largest KFC chicken sandwiches I have ever seen and nearly twice her weight in coleslaw. I guess when you don't get out that often KFC sounds like fried chicken heaven!
We had a great conversation over lunch and I was thrilled to know that she had some sustenance in her system - albeit greasy and gross. What I didn't know is that apparently KFC has the same effect on my grandma as spinach does to Popeye. Her persona changed. She got a little ballsy. There was a little skip in her step. Well, not really. She's had hip replacement and now walks with a cane. But she walked with more confidence. And as I gathered my coat, purse and keys to make my way to the door she asks, "How about we go for a ride around the block?"
"Okay. Sure! I'll drive you wherever you want to go!" Nope. That is not what she wanted at all. You see, she had not driven in more than two years. Not since my grandpa died. Common sense would tell you that it's probably not a good idea. There's deafness, extremely short legs, occasional dizziness, and waning eye sight issues. The list goes on and on. But I must have been in some grease induced fast food trance because before I knew it, I replied, "Let's do this. Where are your keys?"
Backing out of the narrow carport in a big blue Buick proved to be challenging for grandma. Half on the pavement and half on the grass, we finally made our way to the public streets unscathed. And after circling around the block not once, but twice, she was content to head back to the comforts and safety of her home. She emerged from the car a new woman with a new found confidence that surely reminded her of the independence she once had. It felt so good to give my grandma that moment - she was confident, smiling and proud.
So when I say that my grandma has "been around the block" - I really mean it. Literally. And under these circumstances, that is not such a bad thing!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Another One Bites the Dust
Like most other New Year's Resolutions that I've made in the past, I'm sad to report that this one was no different. Despite my best efforts and optimistic intentions, it appears as though I have already fallen off the wagon. It seemed simple enough. Take the time to write each and every day. How hard can that be? Apparently it fell into the same category as losing 20 lbs in 10 days and peace on earth.
Unlike other resolutions that have been carelessly thrown by the wayside, I am not giving up on this one. In fact, I never really wanted to stop. Let's just say the shop was temporarily closed when somebody close to me read the blog and felt compelled to tell me that it was disturbingly "raw, dark and distasteful." Hmmm...for those of you know me, I have ALWAYS been borderline raw and distasteful, so that should come as no surprise. But dark? That sounds a little spooky. Dark, to me, implies that I am without hope. That, at any moment, I could go off the deep end.
Well, I am far from that. I guess I could entertain the possibility of being out of touch with reality or my own self awareness. After all, I went much too long with a higher self esteem and body image than should have been necessary. I think I might have fallen victim to a "skinny" full length mirror in my bedroom because I near died one day when I saw my reflection in a store window. And another. And another.
It is quite obvious that I am an open book. Maybe some are very uncomfortable with that. Maybe I should be more uncomfortable with it too. It is true that if you call my house on any given day, I will tell you exactly how I feel and what is going on at that particular time. It might be good, it might be bad, or it could be ugly - you just never know! But I can assure you that it will be "real."
I think the "realness" comes from my father. To give you a better idea of what I'm talking about, let me paint you a picture.
I was born and raised in Kennewick, Washington, and if you haven't heard of it, you are not missing much. It was there that my entire family resided including both sets of grandparents, a handful of aunts and uncles and too many cousins to count. My father, Mike, is probably the most colorful character of the bunch. A towering 5 feet tall, his machismo, hot Italian temper, one pierced ear and potty mouth makes him larger than life. Although he is crude, rude, abrasive, and offensive, he comes across as strangely likable. I often describe him as a cross between Andrew Dice Clay and Al Bundy. Probably safe to say he’s not your “average” father figure.
Usually people are too embarrassed to fight or yell in front of others. Not my dad. It didn't matter if you had 20 family members sitting in the living room, or if you were in the middle of a crowded restaurant. If something pissed him off - you knew about it. Let me clarify that one step further. EVERYONE knew about it. And as a kid, that was pretty embarrassing to say the least. As an adult, however, I am learning to appreciate that quality a little more although I am probably a wee bit more reserved in social settings. And I do mean just a "wee bit."
So, as I sit here and try to get a little more insight into my inner psyche, I want to be clear that it has never been my intention to hurt any one's feelings or "over expose" the characters in my life. I just think it is more comical and therapeutic to write about the "not so good" stuff. Do you want to hear that my heart melted when my son tells me he loves me more than "candy, hearts, and barbies" - he learned that from his sister? Or that I caught my kid eating the dog's poop...more than once? I don't know. I 'm sure there is room for both types of stories, right?
So, who cares about New Year's Resolutions. They were made to be broken. What's important is that we try to do what makes us happy and fulfilled each and every day - even if we take a brief sabbatical here and there. Here's to writing a few more stories, observations and deep thoughts whenever I feel compelled to do so. And I'll try with all my might to keep things a little less dark, a little less distasteful, but always 100 percent real. Peace out!
Unlike other resolutions that have been carelessly thrown by the wayside, I am not giving up on this one. In fact, I never really wanted to stop. Let's just say the shop was temporarily closed when somebody close to me read the blog and felt compelled to tell me that it was disturbingly "raw, dark and distasteful." Hmmm...for those of you know me, I have ALWAYS been borderline raw and distasteful, so that should come as no surprise. But dark? That sounds a little spooky. Dark, to me, implies that I am without hope. That, at any moment, I could go off the deep end.
Well, I am far from that. I guess I could entertain the possibility of being out of touch with reality or my own self awareness. After all, I went much too long with a higher self esteem and body image than should have been necessary. I think I might have fallen victim to a "skinny" full length mirror in my bedroom because I near died one day when I saw my reflection in a store window. And another. And another.
It is quite obvious that I am an open book. Maybe some are very uncomfortable with that. Maybe I should be more uncomfortable with it too. It is true that if you call my house on any given day, I will tell you exactly how I feel and what is going on at that particular time. It might be good, it might be bad, or it could be ugly - you just never know! But I can assure you that it will be "real."
I think the "realness" comes from my father. To give you a better idea of what I'm talking about, let me paint you a picture.
I was born and raised in Kennewick, Washington, and if you haven't heard of it, you are not missing much. It was there that my entire family resided including both sets of grandparents, a handful of aunts and uncles and too many cousins to count. My father, Mike, is probably the most colorful character of the bunch. A towering 5 feet tall, his machismo, hot Italian temper, one pierced ear and potty mouth makes him larger than life. Although he is crude, rude, abrasive, and offensive, he comes across as strangely likable. I often describe him as a cross between Andrew Dice Clay and Al Bundy. Probably safe to say he’s not your “average” father figure.
Usually people are too embarrassed to fight or yell in front of others. Not my dad. It didn't matter if you had 20 family members sitting in the living room, or if you were in the middle of a crowded restaurant. If something pissed him off - you knew about it. Let me clarify that one step further. EVERYONE knew about it. And as a kid, that was pretty embarrassing to say the least. As an adult, however, I am learning to appreciate that quality a little more although I am probably a wee bit more reserved in social settings. And I do mean just a "wee bit."
So, as I sit here and try to get a little more insight into my inner psyche, I want to be clear that it has never been my intention to hurt any one's feelings or "over expose" the characters in my life. I just think it is more comical and therapeutic to write about the "not so good" stuff. Do you want to hear that my heart melted when my son tells me he loves me more than "candy, hearts, and barbies" - he learned that from his sister? Or that I caught my kid eating the dog's poop...more than once? I don't know. I 'm sure there is room for both types of stories, right?
So, who cares about New Year's Resolutions. They were made to be broken. What's important is that we try to do what makes us happy and fulfilled each and every day - even if we take a brief sabbatical here and there. Here's to writing a few more stories, observations and deep thoughts whenever I feel compelled to do so. And I'll try with all my might to keep things a little less dark, a little less distasteful, but always 100 percent real. Peace out!
Undomestic Goddess
This is the first Saturday I find myself sitting at home trying to think of something to write on this blog. I'm starting to feel some pressure now. I am thrilled to get so many emails, posts and Facebook messages that some of you are enjoying my little stories. It has been wonderful to feel the dust slowly clearing from my mind and I'm actually beginning to "think" again. Who knew this could be so cathartic?
But somehow, someway, my brain must know it is the weekend. I'm having a hard time staying motivated and focused despite a pretty good start to my day. First, before my husband left for work this morning, he wrote me a one page letter on the computer detailing all of the reasons why he loves me. And although it was a therapist-mandated request that he do so, I have to say the words were extremely touching considering we've been together since I sported big bangs, shoulder pads, and a perfectly permed mullet.
My two oldest kids are with their adoring grandparents, my youngest is napping, and I've watched Dr. Drew's Rehab, Marley & Me, and a re-run of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. (As if watching it the first time wasn't bad enough!). I had a great visit, albeit a quick one, with one of my favorite friends as I munched on sushi at 10:30 a.m. Mmmm...Left-over sushi. And I am mildly concerned about this sharp piercing pain that keeps radiating throughout my uterus like I am about to vaginally birth a metal instrument at any second. (No, I do not believe it is in any way related to the leftover sushi!).
Good day aside, I feel somewhat guilty for writing on this blog when I should be cleaning the house, tackling the heaping stack of two-day old dishes crusting over in the kitchen sink, or washing at least 10 of the 20 loads of dirty laundry sitting on the floor. Gee. I'm not sure why I am avoiding those tantalizing tasks! It made me think about all the reasons why I am not the successful domestic goddess I had always hoped to be. On the other hand, if I want to look on the brighter side of things, let's just say I have a lot of room for improvement.
- Are there any other "undomestic goddesses" out there?
- Have you ever washed and/or dried the same load of clothes more than once? Twice? Three times? Okay, maybe even for an entire week!?
- Have you gone from perfecting the perfect batch of stove top Kraft macaroni and cheese to the even better 3 minute microwavable single-serving packages?
- When discovering the last milk carton is empty, have you ever ordered 4 Venti milks from the Starbucks drive-thru just to avoid going in to the grocery store with your children?
- Has your husband ever come home two hours after the cleaning lady and asked, "When does the cleaning lady come?"
- Have you ever determined that it's time for your kids to take a bath because their hands smelled like butt?
- Have you ever accidentally put a dirty diaper or a nice red tube of lipstick through the washing machine cycle?
- Have you ever tried to pawn off New York Teriaki's beef teriaki as "homemade" in your kids lunch?
Ode to Eddie
It’s true. I think a woman’s first real mommy moment occurs when she gets her very first pet. Usually in the form of a cute little kitten or puppy dog, her maternal instincts kick in and this new precious animal takes on the persona of the “first child” almost instantly.
My first child was a pug named Eddie – or if you prefer - Eduardo. My husband and I picked him up one very cold snowy day in Chicago and after trekking to some far off suburb via public transportation we arrived only to discover he was the last puppy left in the litter.
Even Eddie’s pug parents sported this look on their fat faces like, “Get this asshole out of here! He is driving us crazy!” We thought, “Wow…nobody else wanted him. What’s wrong with this little guy?” We hadn’t gone all that way to come home empty handed so after a long walk around the block, we decided to take him home with us.
Oh, Eddie quickly became our first child. He slept in bed with us, his sausage-like body wedged right in the middle. We bought him little outfits and snow booties because he couldn’t possibly put his little puppy paws on the snowy sidewalks of Chicago. When we could, we would take him on vacations across the country in planes, trains and automobiles. And when we had to leave him at home with a babysitter, we pained over who was going to care for this sweet precious puppy. Would they love him as much as we did? Would he simply miss us too much while we were gone? We left long, detailed letters for the caregivers and even made frequent calls to check in on his mental health and general well-being.
Like any other “real” child, you learn to love your pet despite all of their little quirks – and Eddie has a few. His smashed pug snout makes it almost impossible for him to breathe. He snorts and sneezes like a pig splattering snot on your face, shirt and floor. When traveling in the car, he actually screams like a throaty, deep-voiced elderly woman and anyone in the near vicinity looks around in complete horror. And although we have hardwood floors throughout our entire house, he likes to hack up thick pukey food regurgitation on the only 8x10 area rug we have in the place. He can't see very well, but he sure has a nose for carpet. He’s gassy, obese, missing a handful of front teeth, and has this unusually large, somewhat protruding butt hole (quite unique for pugs) that regularly sports dingle berries after he uses the “restroom.”
Then, like any other kid, a new sibling comes along and the harsh reality sets in like a new coat of fast drying nail polish – you’re not the "only child" anymore – and even worse, your rank has been officially reclassified as the “family pet.” It’s hard to compete with that, and at some point, after three kids, Eddie stopped trying.
In fact, I hate to say it, but Eddie has a tendency to get overlooked – a lot. He has figured out all sorts of creative ways to ask for water. His first attempt included sitting by the shower or bathtub frantically licking at any leftover droplets that collected in the basin. But, eventually, that wasn’t good enough. I even found myself missing those clues.
His next was even less ambiguous. He would sit by his water bowl and chirp like a bird. Believe it or not, he has trained his bark to mimic a chirping bird. Amazing! But, sometimes that doesn’t even get my attention anymore.
Eddie has now discovered the only way he is sure to get his precious life-sustaining water supply is to simply hit me on the back, pull my hair, drag my ass to his water bowl and say, “aqua por favor.” Unfortunately, he’s just not that fluent in Spanish yet.
My first child was a pug named Eddie – or if you prefer - Eduardo. My husband and I picked him up one very cold snowy day in Chicago and after trekking to some far off suburb via public transportation we arrived only to discover he was the last puppy left in the litter.
Even Eddie’s pug parents sported this look on their fat faces like, “Get this asshole out of here! He is driving us crazy!” We thought, “Wow…nobody else wanted him. What’s wrong with this little guy?” We hadn’t gone all that way to come home empty handed so after a long walk around the block, we decided to take him home with us.
Oh, Eddie quickly became our first child. He slept in bed with us, his sausage-like body wedged right in the middle. We bought him little outfits and snow booties because he couldn’t possibly put his little puppy paws on the snowy sidewalks of Chicago. When we could, we would take him on vacations across the country in planes, trains and automobiles. And when we had to leave him at home with a babysitter, we pained over who was going to care for this sweet precious puppy. Would they love him as much as we did? Would he simply miss us too much while we were gone? We left long, detailed letters for the caregivers and even made frequent calls to check in on his mental health and general well-being.
Like any other “real” child, you learn to love your pet despite all of their little quirks – and Eddie has a few. His smashed pug snout makes it almost impossible for him to breathe. He snorts and sneezes like a pig splattering snot on your face, shirt and floor. When traveling in the car, he actually screams like a throaty, deep-voiced elderly woman and anyone in the near vicinity looks around in complete horror. And although we have hardwood floors throughout our entire house, he likes to hack up thick pukey food regurgitation on the only 8x10 area rug we have in the place. He can't see very well, but he sure has a nose for carpet. He’s gassy, obese, missing a handful of front teeth, and has this unusually large, somewhat protruding butt hole (quite unique for pugs) that regularly sports dingle berries after he uses the “restroom.”
Then, like any other kid, a new sibling comes along and the harsh reality sets in like a new coat of fast drying nail polish – you’re not the "only child" anymore – and even worse, your rank has been officially reclassified as the “family pet.” It’s hard to compete with that, and at some point, after three kids, Eddie stopped trying.
In fact, I hate to say it, but Eddie has a tendency to get overlooked – a lot. He has figured out all sorts of creative ways to ask for water. His first attempt included sitting by the shower or bathtub frantically licking at any leftover droplets that collected in the basin. But, eventually, that wasn’t good enough. I even found myself missing those clues.
His next was even less ambiguous. He would sit by his water bowl and chirp like a bird. Believe it or not, he has trained his bark to mimic a chirping bird. Amazing! But, sometimes that doesn’t even get my attention anymore.
Eddie has now discovered the only way he is sure to get his precious life-sustaining water supply is to simply hit me on the back, pull my hair, drag my ass to his water bowl and say, “aqua por favor.” Unfortunately, he’s just not that fluent in Spanish yet.
30, Flirty and Thriving
I often wonder how life's journey gets you where you are today. It is crazy when you think about it. How do you go from birth to feeling old in the blink of an eye? Who knew life would just pass by so quickly? I suddenly find myself living in a small town, married to a great guy, who, just happened to be my high school sweetheart, paying bills, raising three kids (all under five), with way too many wrinkles on my forehead and chest. Yes, I said chest! Perhaps it’s just sun damage, but they certainly resemble wrinkles when you look really close. What's next? Gray pubic hair? God I hope not.
I think I really started dwelling on how fast life passes you by when my grandfather passed away. He had been really sick for some time and we knew he wasn't going to make it much longer. After spending a few days in the hospital with him, my husband and I decided to take the kids to Seattle for the week. It had been very sad and stressful and we needed a little break to decompress. Our first night there, my daughter and I rented the movie 13 going on 30. If you haven't seen it, you should. If nothing else, it will shock you to know that you can still bust out all of the dance moves to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and hearing "Crazy for You" will remind you of "not" dancing, but rather standing against the wall with all of your girlfriends "wishing" you had danced at your smelly middle school sock hop.
Anyway, this show was just what I needed. In it, this 13 year old girl, filled with angst, whole-heartedly wishes that she could be 30, flirty and thriving. Because when you are 13, 30 sounds so much more appealing! Life should be really good by then, right? I mean, you should have some pretty major success, right? You've got this thang figured out!
It reminded me of an 8th grade teacher I had and this particular assignment she gave us. Being about 13 at the time, she had requested that we each write ourselves a letter. In this letter, we would sort of predict our future and the things we thought we would achieve in adulthood. Who, at the age of 13, could have any idea what they would or would not achieve in life? I think I had only a couple of things on my mind at that time that were of paramount importance. Should or shouldn’t I break up with Ricky Bobby? Was I going to become an official member of the Duran Duran fan club? I mean, I had written “Duran Duran” on spiral notebook paper about a thousand times! Those seemed to be long term goals at the time. I was committed!
Anyway, I digress. Our teacher, Ms. Hand, this insanely obese teacher whose breath reeked of sour coffee and whose perfectly plump feet and grotesquely uncut toenails burst out of her worn out Birkenstock sandals, would mail these letters back to us in what seemed to be the VERY distant future. At the time, it seemed absurd and meaningless, until...
I received this letter in the mail. It had large bubble-like print on the front, it was addressed to me, but oddly sported my maiden name. I carefully opened the letter and read “Dear Me…” I instantly realized this was the letter I had written myself. It became abundantly clear that my 8th grade self would be highly disappointed with my 38 year old self. No, I was not a news anchor/super model. (I had a lot of confidence at that time despite being 5 feet tall). I did not marry Ricky Bobby. And, I certainly did not drive a convertible red corvette.
And although I am very happy with the life I have now, it gave me a good laugh reliving what my 13 year old self would have predicted as being successful. Had I known that 3 car seats would not fit in the back of a convertible, I would have nipped that in the bud immediately.
So, I ended up with a career in marketing - I was horrible in front of a camera. I married my high school sweetheart - which was a much better choice than my 8th grade boyfriend (you really need to be at least 16 before you select your lifelong partner). And I drive a very large SUV, not a red corvette. And the best news is, at 38, I still have a couple of more years to be 30, flirty, and thriving...it's turning 40 that I'm worried about!
I think I really started dwelling on how fast life passes you by when my grandfather passed away. He had been really sick for some time and we knew he wasn't going to make it much longer. After spending a few days in the hospital with him, my husband and I decided to take the kids to Seattle for the week. It had been very sad and stressful and we needed a little break to decompress. Our first night there, my daughter and I rented the movie 13 going on 30. If you haven't seen it, you should. If nothing else, it will shock you to know that you can still bust out all of the dance moves to Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and hearing "Crazy for You" will remind you of "not" dancing, but rather standing against the wall with all of your girlfriends "wishing" you had danced at your smelly middle school sock hop.
Anyway, this show was just what I needed. In it, this 13 year old girl, filled with angst, whole-heartedly wishes that she could be 30, flirty and thriving. Because when you are 13, 30 sounds so much more appealing! Life should be really good by then, right? I mean, you should have some pretty major success, right? You've got this thang figured out!
It reminded me of an 8th grade teacher I had and this particular assignment she gave us. Being about 13 at the time, she had requested that we each write ourselves a letter. In this letter, we would sort of predict our future and the things we thought we would achieve in adulthood. Who, at the age of 13, could have any idea what they would or would not achieve in life? I think I had only a couple of things on my mind at that time that were of paramount importance. Should or shouldn’t I break up with Ricky Bobby? Was I going to become an official member of the Duran Duran fan club? I mean, I had written “Duran Duran” on spiral notebook paper about a thousand times! Those seemed to be long term goals at the time. I was committed!
Anyway, I digress. Our teacher, Ms. Hand, this insanely obese teacher whose breath reeked of sour coffee and whose perfectly plump feet and grotesquely uncut toenails burst out of her worn out Birkenstock sandals, would mail these letters back to us in what seemed to be the VERY distant future. At the time, it seemed absurd and meaningless, until...
I received this letter in the mail. It had large bubble-like print on the front, it was addressed to me, but oddly sported my maiden name. I carefully opened the letter and read “Dear Me…” I instantly realized this was the letter I had written myself. It became abundantly clear that my 8th grade self would be highly disappointed with my 38 year old self. No, I was not a news anchor/super model. (I had a lot of confidence at that time despite being 5 feet tall). I did not marry Ricky Bobby. And, I certainly did not drive a convertible red corvette.
And although I am very happy with the life I have now, it gave me a good laugh reliving what my 13 year old self would have predicted as being successful. Had I known that 3 car seats would not fit in the back of a convertible, I would have nipped that in the bud immediately.
So, I ended up with a career in marketing - I was horrible in front of a camera. I married my high school sweetheart - which was a much better choice than my 8th grade boyfriend (you really need to be at least 16 before you select your lifelong partner). And I drive a very large SUV, not a red corvette. And the best news is, at 38, I still have a couple of more years to be 30, flirty, and thriving...it's turning 40 that I'm worried about!
Everything is Better in Brazil
I don't care if you are 25 or 65, apparently it is common knowledge that certain things are just better in Brazil - or at least things having to do with hair or hair removal.
It was just a couple of weeks ago when I was sitting at lunch with one of my favorite friends who just so happens to be in her 60s. We are in the process of planning a trip to the British Virgin Islands this March, so in discussing our upcoming plans, she informs me that we really should get "Brazilians" before we go. At first I was taken a little off guard. I thought to myself, "I don't know about you, but I'm not planning on wearing a thong on this trip...my thongs have been permanently retired thank you!"
So, after replying, "Gross," she asks, "Gross? Haven't you had one before?" "Well, yes I have as a matter of fact and I can't say that I enjoyed it!" She then proceeds to tell me how smooth and manageable her hair is after she has one and that it lasts for more than 2 or 3 weeks. Not only did I find that even more perplexing, I also found that it left me with a visual image that I wasn't prepared for. Smooth and manageable? Isn't the whole point to remove all of the hair involved in that area?
Call me slow, but I soon figured out that she was referring to a Brazilian Blow Dry - for the hair on your head, not the hair in your pubic region. I had never heard of that before, but it quickly put the conversation into an entirely different perspective - Thank God!
Now, I haven't had the "Brazilian Blow Dry" - yet. But I have had the experience of a Brazilian Bikini Wax. What a torturous phenomenon that occurs behind closed doors between two virtual strangers.
It wasn’t until I moved to Chicago that I realized how very neglected my vaginal region had been. I mean, I have had a bikini wax here and there…but never with any real consistency. And, being Italian, I can admit that I have a lot to work with. Let’s just say there are times when it can look a little like the subject of a national geographic pictorial.
Anyway, the bikini wax ritual became as mundane as brushing my teeth. However, there is nothing “mundane” about the “Brazillian.” You don’t even have to say anything more than that. The word “Brazillian” stands alone. And if you don’t know what it means – you don’t know what you are missing! And you might find yourself thankful for not knowing.
Oh, I’ll never forget my first one. My girlfriends talked me into it. They said it not only would change my life, but it would change my husband’s - and I'm all about positive changes.
After finishing a couple of martinis after work, we headed to the waxing studio. A studio that exists solely to remove pubic hair – strange, right? Laying naked on the table felt strangely similar to being at the gynecologist’s office – only a little bit worse actually. As the first waxy strip ripped from my pubic area I immediately wondered what had I gotten myself into. And let’s face it, there are some pretty delicate places down there. Thankfully I couldn’t see what was going on, but what I felt was red, raw and throbbing. Clearly the martinis had worn off, or failed to mask the pain. And just when I thought I had survived the excruciating procedure, I heard words that I hoped I would never hear again. “Roll over.” What? “You need to roll over.” Why on earth do I need to rollover? My heart was racing and other things were still throbbing, and then she explained, “I need to remove all the hairs around your anus.”
Holy Jesus. Let me explain something to you that I had wished had been explained to me before I signed up for this horrifying ritual. A Brazilian wax removes all of your pubic hair down there. All of it. Lips and assholes included. If you’re anything like me, I didn’t know that hair grew on assholes. That’s pretty gross. Finding out your asshole has hair on it is pretty devastating for sure. And since she was down there with wax in hand, I hesitantly decided to go for it. Wow. What a mistake. I couldn’t tell you if it burned, itched, or just plain felt wrong, but all I know is that it was the worst pain my asshole has ever felt.
When I finally emerged from the death chamber, I found my girlfriends giggling just waiting for me. Oh yes, they had their laughs and eventually I laughed too. But I can honestly say, I have NEVER had another Brazilian. Now I just ask for a “French” bikini wax – trust me. That’s all the waxing your vagina needs.
It was just a couple of weeks ago when I was sitting at lunch with one of my favorite friends who just so happens to be in her 60s. We are in the process of planning a trip to the British Virgin Islands this March, so in discussing our upcoming plans, she informs me that we really should get "Brazilians" before we go. At first I was taken a little off guard. I thought to myself, "I don't know about you, but I'm not planning on wearing a thong on this trip...my thongs have been permanently retired thank you!"
So, after replying, "Gross," she asks, "Gross? Haven't you had one before?" "Well, yes I have as a matter of fact and I can't say that I enjoyed it!" She then proceeds to tell me how smooth and manageable her hair is after she has one and that it lasts for more than 2 or 3 weeks. Not only did I find that even more perplexing, I also found that it left me with a visual image that I wasn't prepared for. Smooth and manageable? Isn't the whole point to remove all of the hair involved in that area?
Call me slow, but I soon figured out that she was referring to a Brazilian Blow Dry - for the hair on your head, not the hair in your pubic region. I had never heard of that before, but it quickly put the conversation into an entirely different perspective - Thank God!
Now, I haven't had the "Brazilian Blow Dry" - yet. But I have had the experience of a Brazilian Bikini Wax. What a torturous phenomenon that occurs behind closed doors between two virtual strangers.
It wasn’t until I moved to Chicago that I realized how very neglected my vaginal region had been. I mean, I have had a bikini wax here and there…but never with any real consistency. And, being Italian, I can admit that I have a lot to work with. Let’s just say there are times when it can look a little like the subject of a national geographic pictorial.
Anyway, the bikini wax ritual became as mundane as brushing my teeth. However, there is nothing “mundane” about the “Brazillian.” You don’t even have to say anything more than that. The word “Brazillian” stands alone. And if you don’t know what it means – you don’t know what you are missing! And you might find yourself thankful for not knowing.
Oh, I’ll never forget my first one. My girlfriends talked me into it. They said it not only would change my life, but it would change my husband’s - and I'm all about positive changes.
After finishing a couple of martinis after work, we headed to the waxing studio. A studio that exists solely to remove pubic hair – strange, right? Laying naked on the table felt strangely similar to being at the gynecologist’s office – only a little bit worse actually. As the first waxy strip ripped from my pubic area I immediately wondered what had I gotten myself into. And let’s face it, there are some pretty delicate places down there. Thankfully I couldn’t see what was going on, but what I felt was red, raw and throbbing. Clearly the martinis had worn off, or failed to mask the pain. And just when I thought I had survived the excruciating procedure, I heard words that I hoped I would never hear again. “Roll over.” What? “You need to roll over.” Why on earth do I need to rollover? My heart was racing and other things were still throbbing, and then she explained, “I need to remove all the hairs around your anus.”
Holy Jesus. Let me explain something to you that I had wished had been explained to me before I signed up for this horrifying ritual. A Brazilian wax removes all of your pubic hair down there. All of it. Lips and assholes included. If you’re anything like me, I didn’t know that hair grew on assholes. That’s pretty gross. Finding out your asshole has hair on it is pretty devastating for sure. And since she was down there with wax in hand, I hesitantly decided to go for it. Wow. What a mistake. I couldn’t tell you if it burned, itched, or just plain felt wrong, but all I know is that it was the worst pain my asshole has ever felt.
When I finally emerged from the death chamber, I found my girlfriends giggling just waiting for me. Oh yes, they had their laughs and eventually I laughed too. But I can honestly say, I have NEVER had another Brazilian. Now I just ask for a “French” bikini wax – trust me. That’s all the waxing your vagina needs.
Lost in Transition
Confucius once said, "If therapy was fun, everyone would do it." Well, maybe it wasn't Confucius, but rather my best friend who said it, although I'm sure he would agree if given the opportunity. And while I am certain therapy is not "fun" I am uncertain as to whether or not most people are not doing it. In fact, I have come to the conclusion that therapists are strangely similar to miscarriages. Translation: You don't always know that someone has had one unless you talk about your own.
Of course I cannot speak for everyone, but I can speak from my own personal experience. So, if you're going to keep track, the official record is:
Therapists - 1
Miscarriages - 11
Neither of which is something to be proud of - it just is what it is. So, at my very first "private" session today I was prodded to ponder "Who the hell am I?" Because somewhere, somehow, over the last five years, I have lost what it means to be me.
Does every mother have that pivotal event when they realize their previous identity has been completely hijacked and their life has been reduced to a mundane, zombie-like routine that repeats over and over and over - a little like Groundhog Day?
Oh, I had my event. I am certain of that! I distinctly remember driving my daughter to preschool – not even real school yet – preschool. All three kids were in the car and I was trying to find that perfect song to jam out to - you know like something from 50 cent or Sir Mix A Lot. I’m not sure why we “jam” to anything, after all, my kids are 5, 3, and 18 months! But that is besides the point. I think we had settled on “Boom Boom Pow” when my daughter starts in on one of her, “Tell me everything you know about…” diatribes.
It usually starts simple enough. “Tell me everything you know about veins.” As I wracked my brain trying to decide what I was going to tell my daughter about veins, I instantly said, “Maybe we should ask your dad when he gets home tonight. He’s a doctor. He knows a lot about veins.”
I glanced back at her sitting in her car seat and I could see her little mind working a mile a minute. “OK mommy. Then tell me everything you know about the planets.”
Crap. I really didn’t know that much about the planets. I mean, I had been to a planetarium and that’s about it. And let’s be honest, I guess I never cared too much about the planets. They’re just super bright stars a million miles away and I don’t even like to fly.
So, I answered, “I bet your daddy would know a lot more about the planets. He was super into science. I bet he can answer some of your questions.”
“Well, then tell me everything you know about dinosaurs.” I’m sure you know where this one is going to end up. “Your daddy knows a lot more about dinosaurs than I do, let’s ask him tonight when he gets home.”
I tried to be sly and throw her off guard by turning the radio up a little louder, but she didn’t seem to fall for it. Here it comes…I can sense she’s about to deliver the zinger. “Well then mommy, why don’t you tell me everything you know about SOMETHING that you know.”
You may have just put a fork in me and called me “done.” I couldn’t believe a five year old was stumping me with this kind of question! And the more I thought about it, the more stumped I became. For the life of me, I simply could not think of ONE thing that I knew ANYTHING about.
Seriously? Who the hell am I? Has my former self simply vanished into thin air? Has my whole life been reduced to dressing up a sweatsuit, kid boogers, changing diapers, and dictating timeouts? No, I don't think so. I really hope not. But how is it that I can't really remember any shred of my former self? I have the utmost confidence that I can in fact balance being a mom AND an individual...Why can't I be a model, a mother and a mogul? Kimora Lee Simmons does it.
I'm really hoping that over the next 361 days I can rediscover who it is that I am, and who I want to be, because right now I think I'm still searching. I think I am lost in transition.
Of course I cannot speak for everyone, but I can speak from my own personal experience. So, if you're going to keep track, the official record is:
Therapists - 1
Miscarriages - 11
Neither of which is something to be proud of - it just is what it is. So, at my very first "private" session today I was prodded to ponder "Who the hell am I?" Because somewhere, somehow, over the last five years, I have lost what it means to be me.
Does every mother have that pivotal event when they realize their previous identity has been completely hijacked and their life has been reduced to a mundane, zombie-like routine that repeats over and over and over - a little like Groundhog Day?
Oh, I had my event. I am certain of that! I distinctly remember driving my daughter to preschool – not even real school yet – preschool. All three kids were in the car and I was trying to find that perfect song to jam out to - you know like something from 50 cent or Sir Mix A Lot. I’m not sure why we “jam” to anything, after all, my kids are 5, 3, and 18 months! But that is besides the point. I think we had settled on “Boom Boom Pow” when my daughter starts in on one of her, “Tell me everything you know about…” diatribes.
It usually starts simple enough. “Tell me everything you know about veins.” As I wracked my brain trying to decide what I was going to tell my daughter about veins, I instantly said, “Maybe we should ask your dad when he gets home tonight. He’s a doctor. He knows a lot about veins.”
I glanced back at her sitting in her car seat and I could see her little mind working a mile a minute. “OK mommy. Then tell me everything you know about the planets.”
Crap. I really didn’t know that much about the planets. I mean, I had been to a planetarium and that’s about it. And let’s be honest, I guess I never cared too much about the planets. They’re just super bright stars a million miles away and I don’t even like to fly.
So, I answered, “I bet your daddy would know a lot more about the planets. He was super into science. I bet he can answer some of your questions.”
“Well, then tell me everything you know about dinosaurs.” I’m sure you know where this one is going to end up. “Your daddy knows a lot more about dinosaurs than I do, let’s ask him tonight when he gets home.”
I tried to be sly and throw her off guard by turning the radio up a little louder, but she didn’t seem to fall for it. Here it comes…I can sense she’s about to deliver the zinger. “Well then mommy, why don’t you tell me everything you know about SOMETHING that you know.”
You may have just put a fork in me and called me “done.” I couldn’t believe a five year old was stumping me with this kind of question! And the more I thought about it, the more stumped I became. For the life of me, I simply could not think of ONE thing that I knew ANYTHING about.
Seriously? Who the hell am I? Has my former self simply vanished into thin air? Has my whole life been reduced to dressing up a sweatsuit, kid boogers, changing diapers, and dictating timeouts? No, I don't think so. I really hope not. But how is it that I can't really remember any shred of my former self? I have the utmost confidence that I can in fact balance being a mom AND an individual...Why can't I be a model, a mother and a mogul? Kimora Lee Simmons does it.
I'm really hoping that over the next 361 days I can rediscover who it is that I am, and who I want to be, because right now I think I'm still searching. I think I am lost in transition.
3 Days Late and a Dollar Short
I can't believe another year has come and gone. Where does the time go? I'm not much of the New Year's Resolution type, but I thought I'd try something new this year. I'm going to take the time to write about my life each and every day. Not just the "glossed over, everything is great" stuff, but the real deal - the good, the bad and the indifferent.
What prompted me to start this journey is the stack of holiday cards I received this holiday season from friends and family. It forced me to contemplate my life - Where have I been? Where am I going? Where will life take me next? And of course I would be lying if I didn't say that on some level I wonder how my life compares to everyone else's.
It is amazing that a simple holiday card can conjure so many emotions. For the most part, I really enjoy seeing pictures of everyone and reading the personalized notes. Below is a smattering of the inner dialogue that went through my mind as I ripped through the pile of cheery red envelopes:
Wow, the kids have really grown!
Holy Smokes! She looks so much older than me!
Skinny bitch looks better now than she did in high school!
Crap! They ALL went to Europe? Plumbers must make bank!
But, for some reason, the ones that really annoy me are the extremely detailed letters that people send out. I have one friend in particular who sends out a typed, single-spaced, front and back letter that details in wondrous splendor how perfect life is. Really? Did not ONE bad thing happen to you guys this year? Just once, I would like to receive a holiday "update" that says:
Hello Friends!
I am sure glad 2010 is almost behind us because it sucked balls! Me and the hubs were on the brink of divorce but luckily stumbled upon this amazing therapist. Stay tuned for 2011! As we work through our issues - ones we knew about and others we didn't even know we had - I will be sure to keep you posted. Also, it was a real drag staying home with the kids this year. I have NEVER scraped so many cheerios off of the hardwoods in all of my life! Who knew a college degree could come in so handy! Johnny continues to wet the bed and Bobby continues to bite his classmates. On a brighter note, we are one of the few Americans who are not in foreclosure. Happy Holidays to you and yours!
Love, The Smith Family
I guess the "real" letters aren't as fun to write - given the longevity of the written word. Perhaps it's better to focus on the fluff that occurs in one's life rather than the harsh reality of life uncensored. So, there you go. The subject of this blog. I hope you will enjoy this daily journey I'll be taking throughout 2011 - albeit 3 days late. Stay tuned and enjoy the ride!
What prompted me to start this journey is the stack of holiday cards I received this holiday season from friends and family. It forced me to contemplate my life - Where have I been? Where am I going? Where will life take me next? And of course I would be lying if I didn't say that on some level I wonder how my life compares to everyone else's.
It is amazing that a simple holiday card can conjure so many emotions. For the most part, I really enjoy seeing pictures of everyone and reading the personalized notes. Below is a smattering of the inner dialogue that went through my mind as I ripped through the pile of cheery red envelopes:
Wow, the kids have really grown!
Holy Smokes! She looks so much older than me!
Skinny bitch looks better now than she did in high school!
Crap! They ALL went to Europe? Plumbers must make bank!
But, for some reason, the ones that really annoy me are the extremely detailed letters that people send out. I have one friend in particular who sends out a typed, single-spaced, front and back letter that details in wondrous splendor how perfect life is. Really? Did not ONE bad thing happen to you guys this year? Just once, I would like to receive a holiday "update" that says:
Hello Friends!
I am sure glad 2010 is almost behind us because it sucked balls! Me and the hubs were on the brink of divorce but luckily stumbled upon this amazing therapist. Stay tuned for 2011! As we work through our issues - ones we knew about and others we didn't even know we had - I will be sure to keep you posted. Also, it was a real drag staying home with the kids this year. I have NEVER scraped so many cheerios off of the hardwoods in all of my life! Who knew a college degree could come in so handy! Johnny continues to wet the bed and Bobby continues to bite his classmates. On a brighter note, we are one of the few Americans who are not in foreclosure. Happy Holidays to you and yours!
Love, The Smith Family
I guess the "real" letters aren't as fun to write - given the longevity of the written word. Perhaps it's better to focus on the fluff that occurs in one's life rather than the harsh reality of life uncensored. So, there you go. The subject of this blog. I hope you will enjoy this daily journey I'll be taking throughout 2011 - albeit 3 days late. Stay tuned and enjoy the ride!
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