Summer Bliss, 2009

A day at Island Grove with a friend of over 20 years...

Softball in the backyard with kids who have great throws and ridiculous line drives...

Hot dogs and tuna steaks and salad with lettuce from my own garden....

Roasted marshmallows with my husband at the helm and my kids' faces gooey and smiling.....

Pre-Op

We're readying ourselves for big daddy's surgery next week. So there will be guaze, bandages and ice packs on the ready.

Mom's spirit will be overtaken by a kind and nurturing soul who will not grimace or snicker and will tend to both husband and children with a Snow White-like charm.

Oh No You Diiiin't

Seriously, Oxygen channel? A dancing weight loss competition called Dance Your Ass Off? Is this in response to the surmised sad, poor and hefty viewers of So You Think You Can Dance who want to feel the burn of the hot spotlight? Was this an idea hatched to even the playing fields and to give everyone a chance?

I dunno.

This is a time when I'm judging too soon. But the commercials for this program make my skin itch. It's bad enough that we are constantly engaged in watching people stand in front of a firing squad of 'expert judges' to decide if they suck or not. If they should keep pursuing the only dream they ever had. But throw weight into the mix? I worry. Will they still get crapped on by the judges for being overweight? Or will the judging be based on a mixture of their dancing chops and their weight loss?

"Not only was that a perfect funkymcfunkydanceymove, but you've lost 17 pounds in one week! It's totally unhealthy and it's water weight but YOU have edged out the competition this week and you are above the purple line of death and destruction." Or something like that. I think what gets under my skin like a greedy little wood tick is the idea that this show is meant for dancers who are passionate and beautiful and talented and who just happen to be larger than other dancers. If I were a betting woman (which I'm not because I'm horribly cheap and I don't like to give away my money unless it's for a really good cause or unless I'm put on the spot and want to look good), I'll say that there will be an undercurrent theme here that the program is all about self-empowerment...loving yourself no matter what...beauty on the inside will trump all....the importance of embracing your true dancer! Which in my humble, defeats the whole purpose....WHY does it then need to be a diet show, then? Can't we have some larger dancers? Or do we NEED to have them be weighed for them to be successful? For the show to be watchable? Grrrr. I'm not sure why this chaps my ass the way it does but know this: my ass is really chapped! Like, needs some ass-chapstick chapped.

And then there's More To Love. It's Bachelor and Bachelorette for plus-size guys and gals. Really? Really? Can't we just have some plus-sized folks on the REAL show? Why do we need a separate frigging show? Irk Irk Irksome. You know why, and so do I. Would anyone watch it then, or would it be a joke? Would those really smart and funny and beautiful people just be fodder for late night stand-up? Would there be bets on how fast they'd get booted?

What do you think?

Totally getting all earthy crunchy on yo' ass.

I've been feeling this for years now, but I beat it down with a conservative stick.

I'm unearthing my true self, my tree-hugger persona, my granola-rolla, my hippie chick.

I'm eating all organic-y and whatnot.

I'm wearing sandals constantly and the thought of heels makes me roll my eyes.

I'm recycling everything and copping a major 'tude when others don't.

I'm COMPOSTING for chrissake.

Yeah, for my garden. Which I'll harvest and eat. With the homemade gluten free bread I'm fixing to make.

I'm even considering using organic face products, but only if the concealer really conceals and the lip gloss doesn't have eucalyptus. Makes my lips burn.

I could be in the middle of the Himalayas, wearing Birkenstocks and rocking an organic-cotton Kotex before I forget my lip products.

I haven't gone veggie yet, I don't know if I'd survive in this house without some animal. And I know that the day J picks a lentil over beef will be a frightening day when the earth stops rotating properly and my toddlers listen and follow instructions the very first time I utter them.

Off to downward dog. With shiny lips.

You Can Say You Knew Me When

Far be it for me to be so bragadocious, but I think I've got something tucked up my sleeve:

Stay at home mother of two, part time special ed teacher, full-time spitfire with an impatient streak and a tendency to take everything personally breaks through the literary world with a blockbuster smash about what it's like to be a real housewife.

Ok. Perhaps I could loosen up the phrasing on 'housewife' because the dustbunnies are at the moment having talks about an uprising about their overly-dusty situation.

But why not? I almost cried at the library today. Haven't you? When the 2 year old has dumped every. single. puzzle. on the floor and you know, looking at it, that the next 18 minutes of your life will be spent putting pieces back in spots whilst managing an already misbehaving toddler and an older sibling who's now stuck helping you and is pretty pissed about it. I pieced those puzzles like a pro and realized, as I put the Arthur pieces back with nimble fingers and dubious dexterity that all those books written and sold and read and shared at book clubs across the world are stories just like mine. Like yours, like ours. Women who just finally put pen to paper (finger to keyboard?) and did it. Think of all the good ideas you've had and then some other whippersnapper took it and made a boatload of cash.

So I don't know what my timeline is, but the clock is tickin'.

What do you want to do?

I See You Looking At Me All Different Now

So, it all started with my quest for a brassiere. Not a nursing brassiere. Not a Wal Mart special (less than $9.00) brassiere. Not a bra that I knew would be soon stained with something or over-worn and under-washed.

I was going to Victoria' Secret. I was going to buy me a proper over the shoulder boulder holder.

To be honest, Vicki's never really did it for me in the days of old (when I was on the prowl and thought, like a dufus, that guys cared about stuff like that). I didn't care for the single clasp on the back, that even on a skinny day made me feel like I could shove some quarters in my back fat and save them for later, in case I happen upon a gumball machine or need to do some laundry at the coin-op. I didn't care for the shiny flowers. I didn't care for the price tag. I didn't care for the fact that I was a 'irregular size' and told that repeatedly. A 38 B bra size just makes me more special. And screw you, Tiffany. Eat something other than your cigarettes and your Bubbleyum. Sorry.

I think I may have gone the catalog/clearance route once or twice, but the days of lingering over a lingerie magazine are far from my reality. When I usually realize I need a bra, it's much, much too late. There are usually already stains, stretches, inappropriate cup situations. Backfat for you and your friends. It's kneejerk, which unfortunately seems to be how I take care of things like this. But it's a new day, my friends. And when I say friends I am actually referring to those two, but you also.

So I go. And I wear the wrong bra. It's like a sports bra (see? I just throw on whatever is there that won't show my nipples...I just don't like those things sticking out, it's not sexy to me. Just makes me feel all nekkid). So the VS girl measures me and she says I'm a friggin' A CUP.

After I wake up from passing out in a zen-state of euphoria....this is a long story too but I would always prefer small biddies over big biddies and hearing that I'm an A cup is like hearing that I really am black on the inside (I've always known this) and that DNA has just proven it to be true.

Or, that I have really small biddies. Wheee!

So I have to come back at a later time. This usually means I'm not coming back. And the sucky thing is that I have a coupon for free skivvies and $10 off a fancy bra should I choose to purchase one. But I can't get the free skivs and use the coupon at different times so I apparently really do need to come back. Historically I would never go back. But remember, it's a new day. And my breasts deserve a nice, lofty, cushy, expensive new high-rise condo called a brassiere.

I go back! I think I hire a sitter (I mean this is an act of breastly desperation, right? Who hires a friggin' sitter to get a BRA?...Oh, a mom does). Anyway, so I get sized. Still a 38B, the earth still rotates properly and all is right in the world (I sadly let the A cup fantasy go). She brings me 3 kinds. Two are promising, but ensure me lots of strap-pulling and back-fat glancing, so I decide to just go for the extra nice purty one that I didn't think I could pull off. It's also $50.

$50 for a BRA? The only expensive bra I've ever owned was purchased for me by my dear Mommy and it was post-delivery-second-baby-in-14-months-holy-shit-this-girl-needs-a-decent-bra, bra. It was wonderful with lace cups and underwire and snaps and I wore it EVERY DAY for 9 months. Medela, like the breast pump, bra. It was amazing in a world of early mornings and late nights and tearful latches and very hairy legs.

So it's called the Bio Fit Bra. You can wear it 7 different ways! And you know what, I don't know about you, but I have about 4 shirts I just don't wear AT ALL because I can't find the right bra to wear with it. Maybe it's a racerback tank top. Maybe it's a tighter blouse that makes me feel like I'm a coin collecter for the laundry. Maybe it's just too sheer and my little guys pop out. I don't know, but this bra has switches and hitches and hydraulics and clear straps and like 15 different places to latch the little strappies into. And a lacy little pouch for the extra straps Oh Dear Me! And it fits me. It fits the cups and the back and the shoulders. It's got 3 THREE, for the love of God just give us THREE rows for clasps.

And so I buy it. With my coupon ($40 for a bra still makes me want to throw up a little) and my free (read: boring) underpants and off I go.

I'm excited!

I'm thrilled!

I'm proud!

I put the bra in the closet. I hang it on a friggin' HANGER.

And I don't wear it for 2 weeks.

Why? Because it's a $40 bra. That is super-special. That fits me. That makes me feel fabulous. Why would I go and do a silly thing like ENJOY it?

So I rock the Old Maidenforms for a bit. And the Wal Mart Not So Specials (I swear one makes my girls like torpedoes, like something out of Austin Powers and it's just not cute on a real person). And then I just decide I need to break. out. the. sling.

So I do. And I rock it. Hard.

Cups are flush.

Back fat is in it's place and it's not even thinking of pulling any funny-coin-business.

And business is covered.

So if you see me with an extra som'm som'n in my swagger. It's the bra baby.

It's the bra.

Freedom Rings...

You know it's springtime in New England when you can smell the outside burn piles and see the sun shine after 6pm. It's a time to crack open the windows in the house and let the dusty air out. When the Sox seem to be on every night, and a cold beer is the perfect accompaniment to food on the grill.

At school you see it, too. The staff is out the door by 3pm, the students seem to glaze over when you remind them about MCAS tutoring and getting their physics homework in on time. They know what awaits them. A friend's car. Windows down. The music so loud that no one can hear the others talk, but nobody cares. Stopping for an iced coffee. Smelling the air for the first time in months.

It's hard to believe that this season of warm weather and flip flops is just as long as the other part of the year, the part with shovels and snow-chunked boots and hot cocoa in mugs. It feels like it just flies by. Like the rest of what's good.

So this year, I won't pine. I won't worry about summer and it going too fast. I won't worry about next year and the budget and school cuts. I'll be in the moment with my two peanutty buttons and my love and my cut lawn and my Red Sox.