A Big Texas Thank You!

Thank you to all reading and following my blog.  The U.S. following has grown considerably and I'd like to send a special shout-out to my followers in the UK, Germany, Italy, Mexico, and Uganda.  Thank you, Grazie, Merci, Danke, and a big Texas "Hell Yeah!"

Wanna' Feel Like A Supermodel? Go To A Theme Park

Both my kids love to go to theme parks and amusement parks.  They will ride any and every ride and want to arrive when the gates open and stay until last call.  Next to camping, I think going to an amusement park is the biggest whip and beating.  Last year my hubby bought season passes to Six Flags; my kids were overjoyed and I was so pissed!  I wanted to punch his lights out.

I'm scared to death of rollercoasters, I can't be strapped into anything and I have a fear of heights too. So basically, if you want to have a fun time don't invite me.....unless you need a pack mule to schlep around everyone else's junk......"Mom, hold this...Mom, take that....Mom, here's my trash." You know the drill...kids can blow and go all day long, but you ask them to hold a piece of paper for you and they completely lose it.  With all the idle standing around time I have while my family frolicks and plays at Six Flags, I tick away the minutes people watching and trying to find the worst-dressed person possible.  And let me tell you--the competition is fierce.  I just do not understand what some people are thinking. 

The last time we were at the park, I witnessed a woman wearing pajamas.  Not loose fitting, drawstring pants....but pajamas.  The Homer Simpson images that decorated her p.j.'s were outnumbered by food stains and the fuzzy pink slippers she paired with the ensemble were giant germ traps.  I watched her go in and out of the bathroom, dragging her hairy shoes through all sorts of sticky muck and garbage.  Was she going to wear these slippers in her house?  Were these slippers only used for public outings?  Who knows?!!?!?  She was a fashion disaster and it was shocking. And I loved watching every minute of it......

During our same visit, I was befriended by a woman who was also waiting for her family at the end of a ride.  She was so nice, seemed so normal, but her attire was unbelievable: Daisy Dukes, an impressive collection of tats, stilletto heels, and a tight belly shirt that read "I Got Da' Skillz To Pay Da' Billz". Wow.  Double Wow. That took some guts.

We left the park later that night and when my husband asked me how I was holding up, I surprised him by responding with a hearty, "I feel terrific! And I can't wait to come back here soon....this place makes me feel like a supermodel."

Politically Incorrect Compliments

I’m always searching for new and creative ways to tell those I love just what they mean to me. I’ve grown bored with all the canned phrases:  “You’re amazing!”  “You’re stunning!” “I love you!”  Yawn.  Compliments such as these are used so often they lack emotion.  In order to give a heartfelt declaration that certain jenesaisquoi—I think your word choice really needs to pack a punch that people will notice.

My two favorites at this time are:

1)     If I were a lesbian, I would pick you.

2)     You are so great, I could stalk you. (I usually reserve this for men)

Think about it ladies. If another woman said that to you, wouldn’t you be elated?  I would. I think it’s the highest ranking compliment one woman can pay another. That teeny tiny phrase encompasses it all: you’re brilliant, funny, beautiful, interesting…I can’t get enough of your awesomeness!

And the stalking comment is equally tight.  I mean, what says I love you like wanting to know and see everything a person does 24/7?  Nothing.  It’s the ultimate.

Now get out there and go make some new friends!!!!!!!

School Holidays – The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

Like so many mommies all across the nation, I’m frantically trying to finish projects and take care of bidness while I still have my weekday freedom from 8am-3pm. Summer vacation is upon us and I’m chaffed that it’s already here—I’m NOT READY! Forget educating our children, school is an important necessity for our mental state as mothers. And because my kids had tons of “no school” days this year, I’m already riding the lunatic fringe. I love my kids more than anything in the world, but you just can’t peacefully co-exist with the little ones when they are behaving like barbarians.

The worst bout was when we had a winter storm that rivaled the Ice Age and my kids were home for one week straight. By Friday I was looking for any blunt object I could find to pound into my head.  First of all, the weather was horrific.  Not Norman Rockwell snowy days, but thick sheets of ice and sleet that were treacherous. Unless you had a wooly mammoth to ride—you were imprisoned at home….with your kids…and their friends…  and their friends’ friends. The kids were in and out but it was so cold they were mostly in.  The snow suits, boots and socks piled up at my front door made my house smell like a rank nasty locker room.  Mommies across Dallas were on their phones having the same conversations:

Mom #1: What are you doing?

Mom #2: Yelling at my kids and making hot chocolate-you?

Mom #1: Same.  I can’t get my car out of the driveway. I’m losing my mind

Mom #2: Yep.  And we have no food.  I just ate some gummy bears and cream cheese

Mom #1: Wanna’ come over and have a glass of wine later?

Mom #2: You bet! Can I come now?  I’ll bring the….oh My God….shit… gotta’ run—the dog is choking on Legos…….

Man oh man that week was rough.  After a couple days, a glass or two of vino wasn’t even helping so I contemplated setting up a meth lab in my kitchen.  I’d seen it on an episode of Cops before and it didn’t look that difficult……plus it would give the kids something to do…o.k….that’s not true…but it sounds funny…..

Luckily, we all survived that week and had only minor casualties to report. And by the following Monday morning we were back on track and back at school.  But the amount of school days my kids missed this year was ridiculous.  I felt like writing the school and asking for some money back…p.s.  I’m not home-schooling! 

After next Friday, June 3^rd, I will find myself with two little sidekicks until school begins again in the fall.  As mommies, we do look forward to summer family fun, vacations, swimming, and all that great stuff.  But we are realists, too.  When it all gets to be too much, you will find us on the phone with each other, always opening with the same question, “Can my kids come play at your house today?”

Am I Really Cool or Do I Just Think I Am????

I’m so beaten down by my kids telling me how embarrassing I am and rolling their eyes at me 24/7. I know it’s part of the mommy gig and all but there are times I want to just smack them and say, “Are you freaking kidding me? My level of awesomeness is immeasurable!”  I have decided this is my current rage-against-the-machine: maybe if I just keep forcing myself into their little worlds, and constantly pointing out my talents, they will see how cool and fun I am….they have no idea how much endurance I have when I make my mind up to do something —I am the Forest Gump of Mommies. 

Recently my husband and I threw a 16^th birthday party for our twin godsons and I really saw this as my opportunity to shine and dazzle the teens with my abilities to relate…..I had the focus of a Jedi.

As soon as we got to the party, my switch flipped on.  I liked my outfit, felt hip with the current slang, and knew my dance moves were white hot.  I tried to ease in slowly by floating around, eaves-dropping on private conversations, and picking out those attendees I thought were most likely to let me chillax with them. Unfortunately, my subtle moves were getting me nowhere so I decided to go full-throttle the rest of the party and just cram my big Gladys Kravitz  mug smack in the middle of things…I was running out of time.

I sat down with six girls and said, “What it is ladies.  This party rolls deep, doesn’t it? It’s a real banger.”  All I heard were crickets. Whatever.  I decided just to stay seated and listen to their chit chat—maybe I could just hang with them. One by one and two by two they left the table as I sat alone munching my chips. WTF?

I decided to head to the ping pong table where one boy was dominating the game and after watching him school his opponents I offered, “You’re killing it, shorty! You are fresh to death.”  Again nothing.  (Insert sound of Chinese gong here) 

I was starting to sweat.  My last chance was going to be the dance floor and I had to represent.  I went in the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and told myself how awesome I was.  Right on!  I’m ready.

When I came back outside the dancing had begun. I muscled my way through the crowd to the middle of the circle and began to Roger Rabbit.  I was on fire until my wedge heel turned and I almost broke my ankle.  Dammit!  I closed my eyes and decided just to free dance…puhleeze, I could keep a beat better than these posers.  When I opened my eyes, I was on the outside of the circle. I had been pushed and shoved and squeezed out while grooving and hadn’t even felt it.  I had never felt so defeated in my life.  This was such bullshit.  I left feeling like a loser.  And every bit of 42 years old.

Later that night, after icing my ankle and taking a buttload of Tylenol, I received a text from my godsons that read: “Aunt Kelly and Uncle Brett, thank you so much for the party—it was off-the hook…… And Aunt Kelly, everyone thought you were so cool!”

That night I slept better than I had in weeks……

Butts, Boobs, and Bunions Part II

I have always loved the feeling of being naked because I’m very hot-natured and sweat at the first glimpse of sunshine.  It’s a horrible curse to have overactive sweat glands as a girl, and the more I sweat, the more nervous I get about sweating so it’s never-ending.  I remember reading, “To Kill a Mockingbird,” when Harper Lee describes the Southern ladies’ metaphoric response to heat as “they (Southern ladies) were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.”  Well, I am no dewy glistening teacake.  I am a disgusting wet mess; similar to a 350 lb. hairy man running in 100 degree weather.  It’s positively gross.  The fewer clothes the better and my experience with a topless beach in Europe was my first crack at any kind of public nudity.  But here’s the thing: there are some unwritten rules about topless sunbathing and everyone else seemed to know the parameters except for me.

It was May in Italy and my friend Cory had arrived to visit for 2 weeks.  One afternoon we jumped on the train to the beach and while en route, I asked her if she was planning on going commando on top.  “Well, I’m not sure,” she said, “Are you?” “Of course!”  I replied.  “Everyone does so it looks kind of weird if you aren’t topless.”  She agreed to think about it but she just wasn’t sure. We arrived, found our spot, lined up our chairs and towels and off came my bikini top.  Cory seemed a little surprised at my level of comfort but after looking around, one could see this was the way to go.  What wasn’t the way to go was topless over to the snack bar.

After scorching ourselves in the sun for an hour or so, we spotted a gelato cart over by the snack area and decided an ice cream would be jim dandy.  “I’ll pop over and get our frozen treats,” I said.  I felt so relaxed and comfortable in my new topless world.  Before leaving, Cory asked with a wincing look, “Are you going to put on your top, Boobs McGillicutty?”  “Ummm, no.  Why?” I replied.  “Because you’re going over to buy something, you freak.  Laying on the beach is one thing but walking over to a public area is different.” “Oh would you relax, Cory.  This is Europe.  Nobody cares.”  And with that, I was off.  By the time I finally reached the cart I realized I’d made a grave mistake and was so self-conscious and uncomfortable.  I was, in fact, the only woman purchasing a cone without a top on.  And believe me, the ice cream guy did not believe in taking a discreet peek.  He just stared at me.  Leered actually is more like it.  I bought the ice cream as fast as I could and just wanted to get back to my safe place on the beach and cover myself from head-to-toe.  I needed to get back and get back fast so I decided to run directly across the sand as opposed to following the path that I so gingerly walked before.  As soon as I stepped on the sand, my feet felt like I had lit them on fire.  It was hot as shit and walking was just not possible—survival instinct kicked in.  And lots of pain.  I’ll never forget the look on Cory’s face when she looked up and saw me sprinting toward her, topless and desperate, ice cream melting all over my hands.  She was dying laughing and had a million “I told you sos” for me and said my big cans bouncing all over the place was an image she would not soon forget.

“Who doesn’t put clothes on to go buy food in public?” She sarcastically asked.  Apparently I don’t.

The older I get the more comfortable I am in my own skin and I do feel a little more accepting of my physical flaws-but I still think about them.  My legs are never going to be long and lean, there aren’t any magic squats that can get my backside firm as two grapefruits, and botox is calling my name.  I think of that Violent Femmes song “Add it Up” as I once-over my body and take inventory on all the purchases and additions I’d make if I could.  Then I get down to my feet and it’s a different story—no adding on.  In fact a hammer and chisel would work  wonders.

My feet, in a word, are ick.  In addition to my dad’s squatty Irish build, I received his wide feet and my mom’s genetic disposition for bunions with the potential bonus of a hammer toe down the road.  If you look at an imprint of my left foot you could easily spend hours wondering what animal or mutated human made this print.  It’s the most bizarre outline I’ve ever seen – kind of a cross between a webbed foot, with a 6^th toe and a high arch.  Sandals elude me and trying to find a bunion friendly heel is next to impossible.  It just plain sucks.  And you can forget the poor soul who has to provide my pedicures; I usually sit down and immediately start apologizing. When I receive a perplexed look, I simply remove my shoe and flash my Fred Flintstone foot their way and all becomes crystal clear.

Butts, Boobs, & Bunions Part I

I've just sat down to blog for the very first time and all I can think of is how full and sick I am from inhaling tons of pizza tonight. Also, the orthopedic boot on my left foot, needed for a second stress fracture, is bugging the shit out of me--I'm feeling bulky, thick and so uncomfortable. I think I'll go try on my bathing suits right now....... From as far back as I can remember, I’ve hated my figure.  I come from a long line of tough Irish farm women and the genes are strong.  My grandmother’s build was square and stocky and I received many of her physical traits: my legs have humongous muscles and my ass is flat and kind of low-hanging, a hindrance I like to refer to as “ass-challenged".  I’m forever trying to find ways to elongate my calves and tighten up my rump (think Brazilian butts) but my attempts have been futile.  Outside of calve-reduction surgery and butt transplants, I’ve exhausted all possibilities. 

The first time my Hulk-like calves were brought to my attention was in the 8^th grade.  I was dressed in my cheerleading uniform and one of the guys on the football team yelled across the lunchroom, “Oh my God, Kelly!  Look at the size of your calves! They are bigger than my thighs!” Thanks for the shout-out, jackass. Now granted, I certainly didn’t think I had a great figure but I also didn’t see myself as disfigured—at least not until this point.  I had absolutely no boobs, maybe a 34 A on a good day, and my legs felt like tree trunks to me.  From that point on I was very self conscious and wanted to do anything I could to remedy the issues at hand.  First, I started by stuffing my bra with cotton balls.  Not too much, just three on each side to give me “something".  I learned about this from reading “Are You There God, Its Me Margaret,” and it seemed like a winning idea and nobody would ever know.  Next, I moved onto dieting.  Why on earth I thought dieting would help me lose weight in my calve muscles is beyond me, but I gave it my all nonetheless. Moreover, I really wanted a pair of acid washed Guess jeans with the ankle zippers and up until this point, I couldn’t even get the f-ing things over my calves much less zipped shut.  It was totally bogus.

I didn’t know anything about dieting but I figured that I should probably consume less than 1000 calories per day in order to get the anticipated results, so I began drinking diet cokes and splitting king-sized Snickers bars into thirds and eating that throughout the day.  Sounded like a perfect meal plan to me.  After day 3 or so, I weighed myself and I’d lost 2 lbs so I decided to celebrate with a pizza and ice cream. Dieting wore me out and made me cranky and fussy so I decided to just complain about my figure versus actually try and do something about it.  Nothing seemed to work so why try?  This feeling continued throughout my teen years and on into college but then I started running and it seemed to help somewhat—at least with my weight. 

Unfortunately, I never received anything on top, at least not naturally, so when I turned 21 I decided that breast augmentation was the only way for me to go.  I remember coming home from college and telling my parents that I wanted a boob job; I was miserable with my flat chest and having some cans would also balance out my ham hock legs.  I was positively desperate and if they really loved me they’d cough up the $5,000 needed in order to make their one and only daughter both happy and busty. 

The guilt trip and tears of frustration worked, I could have won an Oscar for Best Dramatic Actress, and in December of 1991 I went from a 34 A to a 36 C-just like that. Life was good and I couldn’t wait to show off these bad boys. Bathing suits? Tight tee-shirts? Fitted sweaters?  Bring it on!  Articles of clothing that had been my arch nemeses were now my best friends and you can forget bra shopping—that level of excitement made me pee in my pants.  It was almost too much.  It seemed I had done just about everything I could to celebrate my new rack; I was like a proud new mommy and would discuss said rack at any given opportunity. “Notice anything different about me?”… “Why yes, I did used to be flat.”….  “Uh-huh, that’s right—I got a boob job.”…..  “I know—they do look amazing don’t they?”… “Do you want to touch them?”  I was very open to sharing and I wanted the world to know how happy I was.  I got the chance to do so when I spent a year in Europe in 1994 and experienced the topless beaches…….I couldn’t wait to bronze my new breasts and experience the uninhibited empowerment of going topless….or so I thought….