May 31, 2012

Whiteneck Humor

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We’re preparing to travel to The South.  Not the deep south, but like my friend A says, “If you’re below the Mason-Dixon line, you’re in The South.”  As soon as the plane gets close, my kids see green acres, wildlife, and a chance to be free.   Big Poppa and I still see the questioning looks of strangers… “What’s she doing with him?”  ”What’s he doing with her?”  ”Whose kids are they?  They all look so different from each other.”  The last one only from white folks.  Black folks know more about genetics.  Honest.  I’m so grateful my husband’s family embraces me and doesn’t care that I’m white.  We have had our share of funny moments, though…

 

On our first trip to The South, Big Poppa looked over my shoulder while I was stuffing my running shoes into the suitcase.  ”You can’t RUN while we’re there!” he said, like I’d gone mad.  ”If you run where I’m from, people will think you’re running FROM something.  People. Don’t.  Run.”

 

On another visit, my brother-in-law pulled up to the family home in his pickup truck.   My previous experience with pickup trucks in The South had taught me that they hold the key to getting a buzz at any family function.  You see, the older folks believe alcohol consumption is a sin.  They also believe in near constant family reunions and some cousin or other is always getting married.  Can you imagine… family functions without alcohol?!?  It’s the only thing that keeps my family from killing each other at weddings and funerals.  We get too drunk to pick up the steak knives.  Anyways, at my husband’s family functions, there is no drinking allowed!  So… you have to look for the pickup truck, parked a little ways off to the side, and go drink your beer with guys named Bug, Skeeter, and Four Eyes.  They’re your cousins by marriage, so it’s okay.  Really.  Anyways, back to my brother-in-law pulling up.  He gets out and says, “Youwannaseesomebeer?”  I can’t believe we’re going to drink right in the middle of the driveway, but I hop skip to it, and that’s when I realize my mistake.  It’s not beer.  It’s a fucking deer.  Dead.  Shot.  Lying in the bed of the truck.  My brother-in-law had a good laugh on that one.

 

Another visit I was sitting at the table with two of my sisters-in-law.  I love how there’s so much sitting around tables talking.  It’s one of my favorite parts of being in The South.  Time and good company are more abundant there.  So are homemade cakes and pies.  We were talking about my pregnancy and they asked about my weight gain. I was honest.  I told them I gained seventy pounds and I almost cried when the doctor told me I was closing in on 200.  My sisters-in-law both started laughing and one said, “Girrrrrl, I’m happy when I see 200 on my scale!”

 

I need to think about packing but I have so many stories!  I’ll tell you more another time.  

 

One more…  

 

While I was pregnant with my second son, and we were visiting, we decided to save some money and not rent a car.  It was the only time we’ve gone and not rented a car.  Big Poppa was driving his mother’s car, I was in the passenger seat, and his mother and our two year-old were in the back.  We had an accident.  A lady decided to stop completely, in the passing lane of the freeway, instead of turning into the median/crossing lane to go over the other side of the freeway onto a country road.  If you’re from California, don’t even try to picture it!  Big Poppa’s choices were to drive into the ditch/median, collide with an 18 wheeler in the slow lane, or hit the stopped car.  Thank God he was driving.  It’s the reason we’re all alive.  He slowed as much as possible and hit her.  We were all fine, including the lady and her children that she was giving snacks to, that’s what she had stopped to do!  Since I was pregnant, I was nervous.  The responding police officer called for an ambulance.  I think he just wanted to get rid of me.  He had written it up as a ‘no fault’ accident and I screamed holy hell/ racism.  The lady was stopped IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FREEWAY AND THERE WAS NO WAY AROUND HER BY THE TIME IT BECAME APPARENT THAT SHE WAS STOPPED!!!  I think he called the ambulance so they would take me away.  Anyways, I started trying to see the positive.  I’d be riding to the hospital with the Rescue Squad.  Maybe there’d be two cute paramedics?  The ambulance arrived with lights blazing.  Two eighty year old volunteers got out, and loaded me into the ambulance.  I wasn’t quite pushing two hundred pounds with that pregnancy, but they were a little shaky on the upswing.  That’s when I remembered. I wasn’t wearing panties.  And, my mother-in-law was climbing into the passenger seat.  I’ve already told you these people don’t drink alcohol, you can bet your sweet ass they wear panties.  I couldn’t believe it.   The one day I didn’t wear underwear, it was more about pregnancy related hemorrhoids than sexiness, but picture it as you wish, and my mother-in-law was going to bear witness, along with two old pops.  They were incredible gentlemen and took good care of me.  One told me how his daughter married a black man, too.  That black man didn’t have a job, didn’t do no good, and them and their kids were all living with he and his wife, but still.  We bonded.  When we got to the hospital, I was put up in the hallway.  I just wanted an ultrasound to make sure my baby was okay, because the seat belt had buckled and binded me and I had some pain.  It was nothing compared to the pain, when the nurse came over with paperwork.  She said, “Are ya a hooooomemaker, honey?”  A what?!?  I was merely weeks past resigning from my professional position, and in no way ready to label myself a ‘homemaker’.  We had to move on.  I let her put it on my chart.  I had the ultrasound.  The baby’s heartbeat was strong.  He was healthy.  His mother-to-be was an official homemaker.  Everything turned out fine.  Except just the other day, I didn’t wear panties, and I spent my whole car ride praying and driving in the slow lane.  

I can’t wait to get to The South.  To sit.  To laugh.  To eat my sister-in-law’s cakes and my mother-in-law’s macaroni and cheese and biscuits.  And no, I will not be getting on any scales.  And yes, I will be wearing panties.  Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

May 27, 2012

Ohhhh…. Larry!

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I don’t think a $48 bra should wear out when its only job is to prevent headlights.  So, I was chagrined to find myself, wearing a bra with twisting wires and flesh cutting lace,  in Victoria’s Secret this morning.  

I searched the store high and low for bras without sequins in not-neon colors.  It took forever because I couldn’t stop reading the panties with captions.  So many of them are SO super funny when you’re a mother of three with a fluctuating libido (‘you wish’, ‘I’m on vacation’, ‘taken’, ‘not tonight’.)  When I got to the dressing room, I decided to whip off my shirt and ask my old friend, a.k.a. the woman who helped me the last time I bought bras (three years ago), if I was wearing the right size.  She looked, without unholstering her tape measure, and said, “Oh my God, NO.”  So… turns out I’ll be letting my bra band out this summer.  For a second, I was excited, like my boobs were growing, then I realized the truth… I’m just getting wider.  Whatever.

Sadly, my ‘friend’ recommended the ‘look two sizes bigger’ bra, which led me into a traumatic flashback…   Junior year of college I was on my third date with Ken-Doll (His name wasn’t really Ken-Doll but I swear to God he looked just like Barbie’s boyfriend and who wants to say, “Ohhhhh…. Larry!” in the heat of the moment?  From the moment he introduced himself, I decided I’d call him Ken.)  Anyway, we were sitting on the classy part of Seabrook Beach, after a classy dinner at Margaritas, when he reached up my shirt.  A 29 year-old man, reaching up a young lady’s shirt on a seedy beach, should have been a red flag, but my standards were low.  He had a car!  He bought me dinner!  He was GORgeous!  This second base in slow motion moment was the beginning of the end.  He shrieked, “I didn’t know you were wearing a Miracle Bra!”, like I’d committed a war crime.  He discovered my Barbie proportions were only waist to hip ratio and he drove me back to my sorority house in silence.  That was our last date.  AND, the last time I wore a ‘miracle’ bra.  Oh, Larry!

From that day forward, traumatized, I committed to truth in advertising.  I converted to mesh Calvin Klein bras and men with brains.  Actually, that’s probably not true, about the men, anyway.  

Today, with my friend’s help, my breasts are decked out in an as requested nude bra, albeit with leopard trim and looking two sizes bigger.   When I got home and showed Big Poppa, he said it looked good.  When I asked, “My boobs or the bra?”  He said, “Both.”  I love that man.  I feel okay about the public deception, knowing the only surprise here will be the bra’s hot pink lining.   If I’m not too tired.  

 

 

May 15, 2012

Revitalized

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Today I chose ‘revitalizing’ over ‘firming’.  

I’d heard all the bullshit about the self-love that comes with turning 40, but now I’m feeling it.

I wanted to pick up a plain old tube of Jergen’s Natural Glow self tanner today, but Big Poppa said they sold out at our Target because I’ve told every fair to medium skin toned stranger on the street to buy it.  Somewhere between having abnormal cells cut out of my chest and having precancerous cells blasted off of my forehead, I’ve covered my body and started proselytizing. Make an appointment with a dermatologist! Stop tanning! Buy Jergen’s Natural Glow! Let me see that mole! (gross but true)  

Anyways, the only self tanner choices on the shelf were ‘revitalizing’ and ‘firming’.  I decided I didn’t have anything that needed to be firmed, so I went with revitalizing.  Nothing to firm?!? This from a woman who has spent the last twelve years gazing at her navel and sucking her stomach in!  Full crazy disclosure… I spent six years before that thinking I had a fat ass.  I cured myself by going off to the big, multi-cultural land of a Division 1 college and discovering that some men will worship a big ass like a lily-white frat boy will worship the porcelain goddess during pledging.   I learned to like my junk in the trunk, but the crazy’s gotta go somewhere, and it went to my stomach.  

I turned 40 a few weeks ago and I looked in the mirror. I decided to celebrate what I’ve got.  Junk in the trunk. Rounded tummy. Revitalized.  

p.s. You should see the DVF bikini Big Poppa bought me for my birthday. It’s gorgeous. And teeny tiny. I searched the box to see if it came with a Brazilian wax. It didn’t. Lord knows, if I keep celebrating my newfound acceptance and revitalization, I may actually wear it… and post pictures.

p.p.s. Shout out to my neighbor-friend who celebrates her curves. It’s a beautiful thing, especially in La La Land. She inspires me to see more in the mirror. xoxo

 

May 7, 2012

The Ultimate Pocket Fart and Jenny Lawson

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I didn’t think anything could make me laugh as hard, in bed, as the ultimate pocket fart. I’ll tell you about it in a minute. Stop reading after the next paragraph if you’re potentially horrified.

I was reading Ladies Home Journal (I thought it was a magazine for old homemakers, but I LOVE it! Go figure.) a few months back, when I came across a story by Jenny Lawson. I enjoyed it so much that I remembered the name of her mentioned blog AND remembered to look it up later. Amazing! When her first book came out a couple of weeks ago, it was the first purchase on my birthday Kindle. Let’s Pretend This Never Happened is the absolute funniest book I’ve ever read. I burst out laughing every time I read a chapter. The only thing that kept me from reading it start to finish was that I wanted to savor it, and I wanted to let my husband sleep. My only criticism, that I’ll immediately retract, is that I kept thinking Ms. Lawson was overusing the word ‘vagina’. She uses it A LOT. Then I remembered that people always say, or politely imply, that I overuse the word ‘fuck’ and God doesn’t want people who live in glass houses to throw stones. It’s scripture. So, fuck the criticism. Vagina, vagina, vagina!!! Or, as I wrote on my pre-Kindergarten bedroom wall to impress the neighborhood boys… Bagina, bagina, bagina!!! I’m telling all my friends to read her book. You will never have laughed harder in bed, unless you’re a horrible person…

One day, my darling children were chasing each other around smooshing cupped hands to each others’ faces. When I calmly and patiently asked in an even tone yelled, “WHAT are you doing?!?” They explained the fine art of pocket farting to me. I explained how cupping your gas and holding it to someone’s face was not funny at all. They stopped, and that was the end of it. For them.

Big Poppa and I got into bed. I was in repose, like Marie Antoinette, when he dramatically swooped himself completely under the covers. You know what he was thinking. I, on the other hand, was thinking, ‘THIS would be the ultimate pocket fart!’. Right? Lucky for him actions speak louder than words and we keep things quiet in our cottage-sized house.

For the record, when I told him what I was thinking, he thought it was funny, too. After all, he’s the one who taught the boys about pocket farts. And, he’s the one who used to pooh-pooh me and feel the need to explain to his potty-humored friends, in the Queen’s English, “Sandra doesn’t think bathroom humor is funny.”

I do now, buddy. Hold your nose.

 

May 4, 2012

Pillow Talk

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Dear Friends- Too long for Facebook, too funny not to share..

“I’ve never had a woman tell me four inches wasn’t enough for her.”  This is what the hapless cashier at The Sleep Store said to me this morning, when I returned a pillow, with a memory foam insert, that left me trying to support my neck with my shoulder the past two nights.  The same cashier that got my phone number the other day, and tried to make me feel better by assuring me he’d be the only one calling me.  Ewwww.  Now, I haven’t slept well the last two nights, so maybe I’m a little punchy, but it was all I could do not to laugh.  Especially when I thought of my third ‘boyfriend’ in college, who really was working with four inches.   I had a traumatic flashback to the first time he took his pants off and I asked, “Is there something you need to tell me?”  I decided to try to be a big girl, not laugh, and get to the bottom of my pillow problems.

 

I told the cashier I have broad shoulders and I must need a bigger memory foam insert to keep my spine and head in alignment.  He looked me over and said, “Still, I don’t think you have broad shoulders.  You look proportional.”   Okay…  Thanks?

 

Then he asked me to lie down on the bed, on two different pillows, while he sat in a chair and looked at me.  He was very professional, so this part wasn’t funny.  Unless, lying on a bed in a store at the mall while having someone study you is funny.

 

Then he said, “Memory foam reacts to heat.  Do you get hot in bed?”  I said, “I’m hot all the time.”  (Not really.)  I wanted to say that, because I was cracking myself up on the inside, but I didn’t.  I told the truth.  I said, “Hotter than my husband.”  Then the truth struck me as funny and I had to make that face where you purse your lips and avert your eyes.  For the record, Big Poppa is totally hot in bed, but he does sleep with an extra blanket folded over on his side sometimes, just like my mother.  

 

After checking me out, the cashier decided that I would benefit from the five inch insert, and proceeded to ring me up.  Mid-transaction, he looked up and asked, “Is it hot in here?”  Then I started singing, “It’s gettin’ hot in herrrre.  So take off all your clothes!” and he transformed from a bad-breath, allergy stricken, clueless cashier into a chiseled, sweaty, and shirtless Nelly.  We danced on the sleep number mattress and I liked it.  (Not really, but that’s what happened in my head.)  It was like an Ally McBeal episode.  Really, I said, “I don’t think it’s hot in here.” And he said, “We just got the air conditioning fixed, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working.” Maybe it’s because I’m so hot?  Lord, have mercy Jesus.

 

I really hope this pillow is the answer to my dreams.  I can’t go back in there…

 

November 27, 2011

Destination… Maternity

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Who in God’s name goes into Destination Maternity, ecstatically sporting the size 27 jeans she never thought she’d wear again, after having a third child and knowing her hips waved the white flag instead of pulling themselves up by the bootstraps and returning to their former position, and gets the baby crazies?

Well… someone call the Looney Bin and tell them I’m ready for my pick up.

You know how Abercrombie and Fitch lures prepubescent shoppers in with the smell of teen spirit? At least, that’s what I think it is. I tend to walk by that type of store quickly. The music and clothing make me feel startlingly old and headachey. I did make an exception to Christmas shop in Tilly’s for my son recently, but I told the first sales clerk I saw, “I need your help! I’m shopping for my son, and I feel so fucking old in here, I need to get out quick.” He was totally helpful and got me out of there before I started to sweat. Anyway, I don’t think Destination Maternity has a subliminal scent they are luring shoppers in with, and they are not audibly playing hypnotic birthing music, so what was it? I went on my own volition, to buy a gift for my pregnant sister.

Do you think products like ‘Post Partum Body Restructuring Gel’ or ‘Nipple Nurture Butter’ sound appealing? I don’t think so, either. I’m still pulling my jeans up over my little gut when I sit down, so pants with belly panels send me into a cold sweat. Nothing about being pregnant appeals to me, and I am done done having kids. REALLY! I had my third at ‘advanced maternal age’ and after celebrating a friend’s 40th with her, with the ‘racy highlight’ being when her tit fell out of her blouse at the grocery store (albeit after a lovely dinner), I do not plan to greet 40 with a baby bump. I plan to greet it with a dirty martini in one hand and my well rested husband in the other. So what gave me the baby crazies? Was it the ‘spend $200 and get a restaurant voucher for dinner’ coupon? I don’t think so. That would definitely be a ‘spend more to save more’ reason for having kids, and I’m more logical than that.

In all honesty, I think it was the newborn I spied at Target, being lifted up and down and doted on by his family. There’s nothing like a newborn. I love everything about them. Thank God my sister is having one.

 

November 18, 2011

Some topics are off limits, but…

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Some topics are off-limits for my blog. For example, my older boys prefer not to be ‘exploited’ (their word), so they only make occasional appearances, and rarely do they star in my posts. And, you thought I just loved the Little One the most. For shame! I’ve always felt my personal sex life should be off-limits, but since Big Poppa never asked me to keep my mouth shut, I’m going to share a story with all of you. And by ‘all of you’, I mean my three subscribers, including my mother. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea? Anyway…

After spending an hour passed bedtime, the boys and mine, in a basketball gym with 47 boys and men, three of whom physically fell all over me, I knew I was going to have a hard time keeping my put-off promise from the night before. I was tired, I was cranky, and I just wanted to watch television. So… Big Poppa and I ate our air popped popcorn, drank our Silk nog with a couple of shots of brandy, and watched Suburgatory. I LOVE that new show. Then I turned the t.v. off and got all sexy. I said…

Me: I’ll have sex because I told you I would, but you have to hurry and get moving (i.e. bring your dishes to the sink, brush your teeth, and be in the bed in 10 seconds flat, and don’t tell me foreplay is part of ‘sex’).

Big Poppa: Good thing you’re hot, or you couldn’t get away with issuing demands like that.

Me: Good thing you’re quick.

Bwah, ha, ha, ha, ha.

I could tell you more, so you’re not worried about me or Big Poppa (assuming you’d worry in that order, I’m fully aware of my grammatical incorrectness) but suffice it so say, we’re good here. Good AND rested.

 

November 17, 2011

“Hell is a Giant Craft Store”

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The Little One just had an all out kicking, screaming, laying on the floor snotting fit at Michael’s. I expected it. It started when he wouldn’t get in his car seat to pick up his brothers from school. I told him I would not be buying him destroy the environment $1 glow sticks if he didn’t get in his seat before I counted to three. Well, he didn’t. So… cue the 45 minute temper tantrum.

But, this post isn’t about temper tantrums or toddlers. This post is about the kindness of strangers.

I was never the mother embarrassed by her children’s public temper tantrums. Probably because my first two never had temper tantrums when they were little. (*Notice I said ‘when they were little’?) Anyway, I never had that feeling of mortification or desire to flee a store with a full shopping cart, lest people judge my parenting. I didn’t have it today, either. I was sticking to my guns, teaching my son an important lesson, and I figured we’d get the big boys’ supplies as fast as we could.

The first thing we got was a dirty look from a woman who apparently preferred watching my son scream and hit his head on the shelf, rather than scoot her large body to the side so we could pass. Me and my handbag couldn’t have gotten around her without a toddler, so I’d think she’d be used to scooting. After that, it was all snot and roses.

Next, when my son was wailing, “I want Daaaaaady!”, the most gorgeous of gay men (shopping for beads), smiled sympathetically and said, “Poor thing!” I said, “I assume you’re talking about me.” We both chuckled and my son held onto my legs and we dragged on.

Next, a woman holding a newborn. I told my son he was going to get the baby crying, because crying is baby-contagious. The mom said, “Oh, I’m sure we’ll be there soon. No worries.”

Then, an adorable rocker couple who just smiled and cleared the aisle for us.

In line, two moms of teens saying it brought back memories to see my little one cry, and one saying, she wished hers was still that age.

When we acquired the big boys’ necessary supplies and got in the car, I heard my own personal Thelma and Louise anthem, Sugarland’s ‘Something More’…

There’s gotta be something more
Gotta be more than this
I need a little less hard time
I need a little more bliss

This is the song that comes into my head when I want to run away from my life, but today it just made me smile, because it doesn’t get any better…

I showed my son that I expect reasonable behavior, and that there is no reward for tantrums.
I showed my son that I will not be embarrassed or exhausted into ‘giving in’.
I showed my son, by getting on his level and hugging him throughout his ordeal and afterwards, that I love him no matter what.
I felt supported and surrounded by the kindness of strangers, and a sense of inner calm you can’t buy with a 40% off coupon.

As we entered Michael’s, one embarrassed almost teen, one almost ten-year old more concerned about clay than anything else, the tantruming Little One, and me, I recalled a friend’s Facebook post the other day, about Michael’s. It said, “Hell is a giant craft store.” Today, it started out that way, but turned into a little piece of reassurance. People are good. Life is good.

p.s. My Little One is good, too, now.

p.p.s When we each shared our favorite part of the day at the dinner table tonight, the Little One said his favorite part was “ALL the time I wasn’t being naughty!”

p.p.p.s. My favorite part was the same. Just kidding. My favorite part was when all three kids got up before they needed to this morning and we had time to talk about our dreams and snuggle before getting ready for the day.

Life is good.

 

November 15, 2011

I’ll be taking my son to nursery school if I have to wear a diaper and carry a salad bowl.

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I spent last night sitting on the toilet and throwing up… I swear I’ll be a multi-tasker on my deathbed. It was so bad that Big Poppa went and got me saltines and ginger ale at 7-11. It was so bad that when he asked if I wanted him to go somewhere with a better selection of ginger ales, I couldn’t even laugh or say no thank you. He was awesome. He took care of the kids, fed them, got everyone to bed, and then gave up his alone time to wrap his arms around my chilled, stinky, sweaty body until I fell asleep.

I had to feel better today. When my bff asked if I could drive her son to nursery school this morning, I told her I’d be taking mine if I had to wear a diaper and carry a salad bowl. I would have traded a few minutes of humiliation for three hours of alone time with the porcelain goddess. Thankfully, no diapers or bowls were needed. And while my son was at nursery school I got to contemplate my relationship with the porcelain goddess. Thankfully, it hasn’t been the same since college.

My sweet middle child came out of school this afternoon and asked if I was feeling better. I told him I was on the mend. I marveled at his thoughtfulness. But, only until dinner. I rallied to make dinner. I figured after eating bread, saltines, bread, and more saltines, I’d cook some rice and make a meal for my family. Before dinner was on the table, one son asked if we were going to have to eat leftovers tomorrow. Hadn’t even seen or tasted it, yet. I made tofu and chicken. Options! One of the chicken-eaters said, “I wish you made orange chicken!” The tofu-eater said, “Can you get the sauce to caramelize this time?” I made it through dinner with these empathetic darlings, but when one said, “It’d be crazy if you and dad both worked,” I must have looked like my head was going to spin off, because he back pedaled and said, “I mean you and dad do both work. You just don’t get paid. It is crazy!”

It’s la vida loca around here for sure. Mama’s ready to punch the time clock and get back in bed.

 

November 10, 2011

Coming Out of the Country Closet

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I. love. country. music. Right now I’m high on the dvr’ed CMA’s (Country Music Awards, for those not in the know), a few vegan cookies, and a tall glass of almond milk. I was tempted to throw back a shot of tequila with Kenny Chesney, but thanks to my still newish ‘healthy lifestyle’, my liquor cabinet is filled with homemade jam, red wine, and sparkling water. Seriously.

When Darius Rucker and Lionel Ritchie did a duet, I decided to come out of the closet. Clearly, the face of country music is changing. The truth is, I’ve had Darius’ country album on my iPod since it came out, and I WORK OUT listening to it sometimes, when I’m not listening to Pit Bull, Flo Rida, Jason Derulo, and the like. Another confession, I’ve always loved Lionel Ritchie. Who knew he had country roots?!? While I’m confessing, I’d also like to say, Jennifer Nettles does it for me. Is there a sexier man or woman alive? I think not.

My little one was Buzz Lightyear for Halloween, and though I’ve been reluctant to dress up since being a hazed pledge bumblebee in 1991, I jumped at the chance to be Jessie from Toy Story. I may have traumatized my nine-year old by wearing his favorite shirt as part of my costume, and my neighbor by borrowing his weather hat, but I’ve had a pair of Justin cowboy boots in my closet for the past twenty years. I’ve worn them every winter, but I’m thinking about putting them in year round rotation.


These boots are made for walkin’. Right out of the Halloween costume and closet, and into all year, all the time, real life. You won’t have to ask this country girl to shake it. I’ll be line dancing on the bar with a shot of tequila. And… I’m thinking of having my 40th birthday at a dude ranch. Who’s in?

 

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