I Put My Back Into It

Every once in awhile, every great, great while, I do something that I like to call:  GNO.  Girls night out.  Generally we eat dinner, have a drink or two, throw our heads back and laugh, and talk about sex.

Last night it was something new.  We tried that Painting with a Twist thing.  You know, where everybody paints the same exact thing and then takes a picture. . . . . .

38 girls and 2 guys crowded into this room.  The music was dance club, obscenely loud.  And I'm guessing it was only to mask the 38 wine filled, estrogen overdriven, shrill screams that inevitably erupt from . . .  nowhere.  The 2 men were obviously dragged there. And I cried a little for them.

There is a reason that they encourage wine at this sorta thing.  Participating in this activity, can cause abrupt waves of intense anger.  The type of anger that makes you want to throw your dirty paint water in your neighbor's face.  Followed by death jabs of paintbrush on:  not-so-fine master piece. 

The paintbrush, SOMEhow manages to do what it isn't told to do.  And everybody knows it's not always the best choice to try to fix a painting when there is little experience involved. . . . .  Even Ed knows that blue and yellow makes green.  And green is never appropriate for snow.  Except for my painting.

Minus the anger, it was fun.  It wasn't great.  It wasn't awful.  It was just fun.

And then, the highlight of all highlights happened.  *shudder*

It was time to go.  I went over to the coat hooks, which were in an "L" formation.  (I will also preface this with:  my bottom is much larger than it normally is.)(baby weight)  I started looking for my coat which ended up in a frantic search that lasted 1.462 seconds.  I couldn't find my highly, desirable, brown Land's End jacket.  (It was just buried by all the other not-so-small parkas) But in my frantic pawing, I knocked someone's gigantic power mitten out of their coat.

I bent my large bottom over and somehow, SOMEhow, managed to lose my balance.  I did however, swing the main girth of my weight aka Mrs. Mcgillicutty aka my dimpled backside up against the wall to regain lost balance.  Or, what I thought was the wall.  Or, where the wall used to be.  Or, the wall that was still there, but was hiding.  I felt this odd sensation on my buns.  Something that didn't quite feel like a wall.  And feeling very confused, I literally put my back into "it".  I put every ounce of lady lumps I own, and gave it an "all or nothing" but chose an "all" and slammed my goods (still  bent over) into the wall that definitely was NOT a wall anymore.  And still feeling very confused as to what was happening, I stood up, straight and tall - Carmen Electra style - all the while pushing every bit of my womenhood backwards.  When I finally got to the upright position, there was a cozy, plush landing for my back.

And then, and ONLY then - did I realize that I had just given a man a lap dance.  Somehow, in stealth mode - ONE of the 2 men that were there, decided to slip behind me for a simple coat grab - oblivious that an R-rated moment was about to happen on him and to him.  There were no mysteries left to the imagination.  ALL was experienced.  We became one, if that is possible with your clothes on. (Which it is)

And then I left in a complete horrified stupor.  And the pizza flag whipping in the wind, whipped my painting.  My green snow painting.

Take Aways
1)  If you're going to become familiar with a complete stranger, do it thoroughly and quickly.

Fifteen Ways?

I got an email from Big D this morning.  It said this:

                              "Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."

And this is what followed:

Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband

1. Write him a letter and send it to his office, or put a love note in his lunch box or his briefcase.
2. Prepare his favorite meal.
3. Arrange an evening out for just the two of you.
4. Wear his favorite dress with your hair done the way he likes it.
5. Purchase something small and frivolous for him that he won't buy himself.
6. Give him a nicely framed picture of yourself, or of you and the children, for his office.
7. Surprise him with a trip to do something he likes.
8. Put the children to bed early and prepare a candlelight dinner.
9. Do something that especially pleased him back when you were dating.
10. Pray and read the Scriptures with him daily.
11. Take walks together.
12. Keep your junk out of the garage.
13. Greet your husband warmly after work.
14. Wear his favorite negligee, or buy a new nightgown to add sizzle to your evening attire.
15. Clean out the car for him.

Half-Way to Snow Bird Land

I left Big D again.

That's why I haven't been writing.  I've been sitting on a different couch.  With no gumption to say anything.  Even though there are things to be said.

But this morning I've gathered my gumption.

I'm on my annual trip down south.  (Ok, it's only the second time that I've done it.  But I think two times in a row makes it annual.)

Big D gets really nervous with my driving.  He'd like to preserve the family for a bit longer, so he drove us down.  Actually, I kind of manipulated him into driving us.  I say things like:  "I'm really fine.  There is no need to drive us down.  But you can make the call, being the family protector and all".  And then he feels  guilty without me being needy and whiny.  And he takes care of his manly business and I get to be chauffeured.  And I let him chauffeur me in style.  I always wear my biggest granny panties. (There is nothing worse than having a wad of underwear stuck where you can't reach it for hours and hours)  And without fail, I choose the sweat pants that Big D has vowed to never have intercourse with me again - if I wear them.  (They're just so cozy and perfect)  And I smile gleefully.  And my butt is happy.

My favorite is when I take the kids into the restroom stops.  Big D never shows his face with us.  He pumps gas.  But I can see right through his antics.  He's horrified to be associated with us.  So he pumps and we pee.  And then when we're half way into the parking lot, he bolts from our car, straight into the rest stop - without a glance our way.  And nobody would guess for a second that he is our hired chauffeur/father of the sewer rat children/husband of this hot piece of eye candy.

For this trip, I was a real mom.  I made food for the car.  And it was 100 times better than "packing food" sounds.  Like - I imagine, smooshed, car-warm pb and jelly.  But I was way fancier than that.

I made poo-tang sandwiches in mini pita pockets.  And they rocked our world.  So so tasty.  And made our trip 3 times happier and 2 hours shorter.  The chauffeur was happy.  I packed other things too - but nothing was quite so trip-changing as those samiches. (That's how Big D says it.)

And we listened to books on tape.  And stopped in the middle of a busy busy highway in the dark, to rush Ed to the edge of death - so he could pee.

Before we knew it - (only because I packed sandwiches) we made it to B.B. Chuck's house.  And the kids ran around and screamed and squealed like banshees for an hour.  And the adults looked at each other and smiled and wished so hard that it was bed time.

And then Big D woke up a few hours later and flew back home. 

So in actuality, Big D is the one that left me.  And wouldn't you know - he's missing me.  Wishing he could catch a glimpse of this plush bottom in a pair of granny panties.

Take Aways
1)  My gumption has left.

The Day I Almost Died

I almost died.

I probably almost die all the time, but most of those times I'm completely unaware.  This time, I was very aware.

It started out with a miscommunication problem.  Or, a-not-reading-correctly moment.  Which ever you choose..The main point is, it was not my mistake.

Our plan was to make a trip to visit Iss and her husband.  And watch the horse races.  And gamble away our 3 pennies.  I don't believe in gambling.  But Big D does, and when he gambles, I cross all my toes and fingers and hope for luckiness.

But when we got to Iss's house, and looked up our next day's frivolities - we were crushed to find out that "somebody" had misread the calendar. *ahem ahem*  And there would be no gambling.  Which lead to tears.

And then there was this extra time that needed to be filled. And what better way to enjoy friends and the beautiful end of summer than to go to a state park?

Sounds lovely.  The idea was pitched to me like this:  "So, it looks like it will be a great day to head to the park, if that sounds nice to you guys.  We could pack a picnic.  They have some fun little playgrounds.  Even a zip line.  And then a little hike if you want to."

Oh my, so low key.  And manageable.

(Silly me to think such things.. . . )

We had a beautiful lunch.  Perfect sunny warm and crisp air.  Perfect combination of poo poo and J with plain salty chips and dilly picks - that Ed ate most of.  Which made us sad.

And then the kids and the not kids had a grand time on the zip lines.  And we made theories and hypothesises of which zip line was longer and which zip line was faster.  And all sorts of silly conversations that made us feel smart.

And then the world blurred, while I was kidnapped and wisked away to the hiking location.  I really am not sure what happened.  But then, we were "there". And there were a lot of happy people.  And families.  And picnickers.  And backpacks.  And hiking shoes.  And I felt very nervous, because:  a) I don't hike b) the thought of hiking makes my tummy hurt c) when my tummy hurts, I get diarrhea explosions d) there are no bathrooms on hikes and e) I wasn't wearing a backpack.

I was also led to believe that this particular hike was "short" and "easy".  That we would get to a "certain spot" and then turn around and come back.

And the hike began.  It began with a flight of metal stairs that went straight down.  Straight down the side of a mountain.  Like your old grandmother's stairs that go down into the basement.  Steep and narrow, and practically on top of each other.  Like, you have to walk down with your feet sideways.  Because there's no room for a full foot facing forward.

Welcome to hiking.  And death.

And then it went from bad to worser.  At least with the stairs there was a railing to hold on to.

Not so much with the rest of the hike.

The entire hike was on the ledge of a mountain.  The foot path was a whopping yard wide. To the right was mountain that went straight up.  To the left was mountain that went straight down.

Did I mention we had the beautiful children with us?

Did I also mention that the place (aka footpath) was over crowded with every troll, mountaineer, billy goat gruff, and lunatic that thought it was a good idea to go hiking on the ledge of a mountain that day as well?

Now, I'm not scared of heights.  However, something physically happens to me when I'm up high. (I think it's because my buns are so used to being smooshed on the couch, in a "low" position.)  I get really dizzy and my legs shake in a non-queen like manner.

Being shaky and dizzy is not a good mixture for ledge walking.  Or for any type of walking.

I kept looking and judging the other troll mother's faces.  Trying to get a good read of enjoyment or exhaustion.  Or pure horror.  And every other troll looked as pleased as punch that they chose such a death defying activity for the day.  Which made me even more grumpy.  I could not identify with anyone.  I couldn't make "eyes" or share in knowing, sympathetic head nods. Or even lip crumples.

And then, after I had given up hope for ever finding the "certain spot" to turn around - the trail ended.  It was over.  And I renewed my secret oath of never going on a hike ever again, for real.  And signed it with my own blood.  And thanked Jesus that I didn't dive over the side of the mountain head first.  And also thanked Jesus that neither kid bolted over the side of the mountain.

Take Aways
1)  The Foxtrot belongs on her couch.
2)  I do not like thinking about my scraping by.  Therefore, I shall not think about it.
3)  Big D thought the hike was grand.  That's because he has no sense of parental protection.
4)  Which makes me really excited.
5)  The pickles were nice.

The end.

Swapped Butt Juice

Bruver Bear (B. B.) Wensleydale and B. B. Bobby are still living at home.  Which means that I get to see them every morning and during the working day - because they work with me at the pool teaching swim lessons.  I won't say that I see them at night because they are off with their hussy ladies that care WAY too much about their appearance.

Anyway, B. B. Bobby always gets up so cheerful and eager to great the day.  B. B. Wensleydale wakes up wanting to kill everything in sight.  Including me and B. B. Bobby.  Bobby eats breakfast with me every morning and Wensleydale is just rolling out of bed when Bobby and I are leaving for work.  Bobby and I chat morning pleasantries.  Wensleydale growls worse than I do when I haven't had morning tea.

So last week, Bobby and I were eating breakfast, exchanging morning smiles - him filling me in on the hussy evening (which. just. gets. my. blood. BOILING.)  And who do you suppose comes charging through kitchen doorway?  Bruver Bear Wensleydale, that's who.  Oh, and he was gruff.  Actually, livid.

Bobby is just a hair larger than Wensleydale.  But Wensleydale is older.  And both of them have matching swim trunks.  And they both hate that they have matching swim trunks.  But that's what Mother bought.  Mother loves.  LOVES for us to match.  It's hideous and a curse.

When Sister Bear and I were younger, we had to make family matching outfits for pictures or vacations.  And Mother never bought appropriate material.  Material that would make us look somewhat like a normal family.  She would only buy the loudest, brightest, most laugh appropriate fabric.  Neon cats or huge toucan jungle theme.  Mmmm fond memories.

So, apparently Wensleydale (who is more grumpy about the matching suits than Bobby is) told Bobby to NEVER to hang up their suits next to each other (when drying - or ever)  And for whatever reason the suits got too close to each other the night before.

Which brings me back to Wensleydale, who is now livid standing in the kitchen doorway.  With his brow furrowed down into his nose hair, he roared, "GIVE ME BACK MY SUIT".  To which Bobby responded, "oh, I just thought my abs got a little bigger".  And then Bobby shook and smooshed his manly buns (while still sitting) all around in multiple circles singing, "I'm naked in your swim suit, I'm naked in your swim suit".  Which got Wensleydale REALLY excited.  And then I think there was some mooning, and maybe a few punches.  Followed by an exchange of swapped butt juice trunks.

Take Aways
1)  Yes, this is what I'm living with for the next 3 weeks.
2)  Please pray that neither fellas get mixed up with my swim suit.
3)  Don't ever match your kids or cousins or friends.  It only invokes awful memories.

Why I Moved in With Mother

Here's the scoopy poopy.

Like I mentioned earlier last week, I've moved in with my mother.  True dat.

And as much as I would like you all to think wild thoughts about the state of Big D's and my holy matrimony - I am pleased to tell you that we are fine and as smooth as butter.

I moved in with my mother for a selfish/nonselfish reason.  Here goes.

When I turned 15 I started teaching swim lessons.  And fell a bit in love - over time.  I really was forced into the situation.  Kinda like an arranged marriage. And over time my heart opened up to the love potential.

Things I Love About My Job
1) The pay
2) The challenge
3) The staff
4) The confidence in my ability to perform a job well done that has built over time
5) The results
6) The creativity
7) The reason to show off my firming buns

Things I Hate About My Job
1) The creepy dads
2) The chemical water that instantly gives me a rash
3) The temperature of the water
4) The possiblity of having to deal with a life or death situation
5) The conflicts
6) The bodily fluids/communicable diseases

So, every summer the swim program hosts a 6 week program - and last year I almost ended my marriage for the 37th time while doing the swim program.  Every minute of every day has to be accounted for and Big D is anything but helpful.  Honestly, it's worse than that.  He turns into a dickleweed.  And I turn into a roaring she-lion on steroids who just had 7 cubs.  And we claw at each other and bite each other where it really matters.

When I finally decided to work this summer again (there were a lot of deciding factors) I thought maybe that moving in with Mother would be wise.  I would get more sleep.  I wouldn't have the stress of the commute (1 hour).  And Big D and I would be separate and therefore loving when we had the opportunity to see each other (minus last night).  The kids have a more consistent schedule and are a lot more pleasant to be around.

One week down, 5 to go.  Big D is all about paying me extra attention . . . (every woman wants to feel desired - and I have felt desired, minus last night)  Maybe it's just my new buns.  I have gotten far less sleep - the kids are in bed with me. ("uggles mommy" - I think Ed is going through snuggle withdrawals since there really isn't a time to snuggle because there is always SO much work to be done at Mothers.  So bed is the only place where I'm in one position for longer than 5 minutes.)  I am less stressed and time constricted.  The kids have a choice of 7-9 adults at any given time to play with/help/watch.

And then I came home - and my mole hole turned into this:  (I hope this makes you all feel better about the condition of your mole hole.  Or house - if you have an actual house.)

Take Aways
1)  Choose unconventional ways to live life.
2)  Find things that you love - and do them.  Even if they're unconventional.
3)  Sleep is over rated, stress is not.
4)  Pay attention to the day you're in, leaving tomorrow for tomorrow.

Fun Fact
Ed is obsessed with feeling my armpits.  He thinks they're soft.  But when they're sweaty - which is 97% of the time - he says "ew" and them smears his sweaty fingers on the couch. I am destined to have the grossest couch forever and ever amen.

The Bakery is a Place Where Buns are Made

Something happened to my butt.  It's gotten really unflattering.  The gluteal muscles run down into my hamstrings.  I'm not quite sure when this happened.  Maybe it's been a gradual descent - following the two babies that have made their exit.  Or maybe it's because I love my couch so much and my buns are constantly making mushy face with the cushions.

It took me awhile to see the impending doom that was taking place.  Who spends time looking at their buns?  It's hard work.  You have to find another mirror somewhere in the house so that you can stand backwards and see what the world sees. Ugh.  Too much work to do on a regular basis.

But what really got the ball rolling of paying extra attention to what was happening back there, started when Sister Bear came to visit.  And we did a tot-swim class together.  I noticed that her buns stopped where buns should stop.  And there was no jiggle or cheese.  And I thought "my, I don't think that looks like what I got".

So I started pulling out my mirror.  To often for comfort.  Like, what if it looked like that just today? Or maybe it's the underwear that's causing that unfortunate shape?  Is it normal to have your buns roll into your knee space?  Was it getting lonely up there by itself?

Now, I would like to say:  Big D has proclaimed allegiance to my buns.  He has made reference to finding joy in the unsightliness of them.  And he thoroughly finds the never-ending wobbliness entertaining.

Or so he says.  Husbands say a lot of things that maybe are not quite accurate.  You know, shut the wife up - make her feel like a queen.  So because of his adoration, I really didn't pay a whole lot of attention - until my sister came and waggled her non-wobbly buns around.

Around the same time of acquiring a complexion, I started the process of buying new work clothes - which entail swimsuits and volleyball/running spandex thingys (which I wear over my swim suit to help hide the goods).  And every woman knows that different bun coverers produce different allusions.

And there were plenty of allusions to be had.

Allusion #1
Left bun completely contained.  Right bun hanging out in a steep diagonal.

Allusion #2
A chewed up piece of gum on the underside of a city bench.

And that's when I decided to start doing something about it.  May 1st I started.  And kept it a secret.

Because I wanted to know if Big D noticed.  You probably have seen that thing rolling around pinterest where it says something to the effect of - It takes 1 month for you to notice, 2 months for family/loved ones to notice, and 3 months for the rest of the world to notice.

I will just say - June 29, Big D said some nice things that do not need repeating.

So, I proved that silly saying true.  Or maybe Big D proved that saying true.  And I felt like a queen.

Personally, I can't see or feel a difference, but when I walk - that feels different.  Maybe a more controlled jiggle vs. an illegal wobble.

Buns are on the mend.  They may not ever crawl back exactly where they came from, but they're trying.  And I'll take satisfaction in their positive attitude.

Take Aways
1)  Love the potential your body possesses.
2)  Feel like a queen when somebody notices, even if it takes 2 months.

Fun Fact
I came back home last night due to the holiday in the middle of the week.  Sometimes it's nice to be separate from husbands for a bit.  They like you a lot more that way.  And you like them a little bit more too.  I thoroughly enjoyed my splattered couch, Jewish wine, and mind-rotting tv.

P.S.
A picture to honor mom's bellies.