Saturday, November 8, 2008
People always want what they don't have. Like me, people always compliment me on my thick coarse wavy dark hair. As a kid I always wanted long straight blond hair like Marcia Brady. I also wanted a size AA training bra. A cute little white training bra with lace and a sweet little rose in the center. No training bra for me in fifth grade my chest bloomed into a full C. The other little girls were just starting to bud and I was a whole rose bush. Forget training bra I went right to a professional strength granny bra. Were is the justice? Like having acne, double wide feet, and being fat wasn't enough God gave me huge boobs.
I have always had big breasts and I have always hated them. Over the years I have heard from hundreds of women how they want larger breasts. Let me tell you the ugly truth, big boobs are not sexy. Real big breasts do not stay perky and firm like softballs boobs playmates have made men so crazy about. When on their own real big boobs sag and hang like the fish in plastic bags that you win at fairs. They are pendulous and need yards of elastic material and under-wiring to stay lifted and separated.
I know all about these large bras. They are never comfortable and cost over $30.00! I have tried cheaper bras but always end up with issues.I have suffered with uniboob, when wearing a bra that does not separate so you look like you have a Christmas ham under your shirt. I have suffered from having extra boobs that pop out over the top of the bra. I often have welts under my arm pit where under-wires pinch, or snap and actually dig in to my skin. If the wire really hurts and I am far from home, I have been known to remove the wire in the ladies room at a wedding and have one up and one down. If a bra is too tight I get red dents in my shoulders from the tight straps. I'm not even going into the subject of sweating and chafing. You don't want to know!
Forget breast feeding. I tried to breast feed Dylan and I used a nursing pillow, a plastic shield to try and pop out my inverted nipples, and a forklift so he wouldn't suffocate. After his birth my chest was the size of extra heavy bowling balls. I could have used my nursing bra as a baby swing. Dylan's whole body could have easily fit into one of the cups, put the other cup over the back of a chair and viola! Baby swing. Seriously, at the hospital I needed three hands and four ladies helpers from the La Leche League to breast feed my child.
Forget about jogging, jumping, horse back riding, having big boobs is dangerous. Taking part in any bouncing activity can easily hurt my back. What if my bra strap broke? I could knock myself unconscious! It could happen. Large chested ladies break bra straps and we bend under-wires. I personally go through bras very quickly. That's why I am writing this today. because I am down to one bra. One black bra!
Last week I lost two bras to the dryer. Both shrunken down a cup size. I broke and under-wire, and one bra started giving me extra boobs on top. Now I have to go somehow with my children to the store and try on bras. Only so I can shell out $30.00 + dollars for a huge under-wire granny bra that will repel my husband!
Until then I will be wearing black shirts. Perhaps I'm still in morning for the sweet little size AA training bra with the lace and rose in the middle.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Yesterday while walking the track at the YMCA my good friend Heather we decided that the time had come for her to finally read my book. Heather is also a crazy unconventional ADD mom. Since the first day (years ago) I picked her up at a local park she has been friend and co conspirator in a lot of my misadventures. Heather is also a former high school English teacher and writer and we decided that the first 4 chapters of my book were at a point where she should read them. We made plans to discuss the chapters the following week. Her printer is broken and ADD mom’s do not concentrate well enough read 4 chapters off of a computer screen. We need to feel the paper in our hands, preferably while we lie in bed or in the bath tub.
After the YMCA I came home went to the computer opened MicroSoft Word, hit 2 wrong buttons and saved a blank document over my book. My 75 page masterpiece was a blinking cursor on a blank page. An hour later when I regained consciousness I picked myself off of the floor of the computer room and immediately ran to the kitchen planning to eat all of my kids Halloween candy. As I was about to take the first pumpkin full of candy off of the top of the refrigerator the phone rang. I really expected it to be Richard Simmons screaming in his spectacular soprano splendor “LYDIA! STOP! UNHAND THAT CANDY!”
I put picked up the phone and who did I find on the other end, a close second to Richard Simmons, my mom. She immediately asked what was wrong, as my tone of voice was more like Eeyore and instead of my usual Tigger. I told her what happened and in her usual sweet motherly way she lied and told me that I would be able to undo my error and gave me the number of my step-brother. My step brother is a mathematical computer genius who graduated from RPI with a double major in Computer science and mathematics and a 4.0 GPA. I am not exaggerating! He wears big car windshield size glasses, is about 6’4” and weighs as much as my right thigh. He is terrified of other people and I haven’t seen nor talked to him in over 3 years. Come to think of it I saw him but we didn’t speak. Actually I don’t know if we have ever spoken directly too each other and our parents have been married since 1978.
I weighed the thought of having a horribly uncomfortable conversation against the trauma of losing 3 months worth of work. This was a very hard decision indeed. My mother sensing my ambivalence, made me promise to call him. I agreed and wrote down the number. Then I hung up and quickly threw the number in the trash. I went back to the computer room and stared down at the blank page with the blinking cursor the way my dog stars at her empty food dish. Like if I stare long enough, perhaps start scratching and whining my book will come back.
With my tail between my legs I dug the number out of the trash and called him. He was actually sweet in a timid chipmunk kind of way. He was indeed vrey helpful he emailed me a program that retrieves deleted items and left me with some sound advice. “Back up your work”.
I get the program start it up and realize that he has sent me a super genius computer program written for mathematical aliens and people who wear pocket protectors. I try to run it, but I am the kind of math idiot who can never find a pen, so I fail miserably. At least I think I did. I really have no idea.
I call him back and I get the answering machine. I understand if he screened my call, it took us 21 years to have our first conversation, 10 minutes was way too soon to have our second. I immediately think about the candy. Then I remember that my husband is an ERP computer system analyst, whatever that is. I call him and he is in the middle of an ERP computer analyst emergency, whatever that means. He tries to give advice. He says,
“You know, you should back up your work”. Do you think so? Yeah, that would have helped a lot… yesterday! He has no time for me. I hang up fight off the children long enough to call my good friend Carol she too is a computer wiz . I catch Carol on the first ring, but she is running out to take her son to soccer.
I look down to see my children are literally hanging on to me and whining. Untangling them from around my arms and legs I go out to the porch hold the door shut with my foot and call my friend Heather’s husband Mike. Mike is a computer programmer or something like that. I get there answering machine. After this call I realize that my children have been bothering me because it’s six o’clock and they need dinner.
After dinner I call Carol back and hearing the desperation in my voice agrees to come over. Carol comes over. Carol is the friend who they write songs about. She is the kind of friend you would drive over a canyon with. She comes over and we try a few things, we even to run the alien program, but nothing works.
Then my husband comes home and is so overwhelmed because his ERP computer analyst emergency, still needs to be resolved. His body has become dead matter that is holding up his brain. A brain that contains switches, right now the ERP computer problems switch is on and the father, husband, family switch is off. We lead him to the couch to finish processing, and continue with our effort to no effect. The document is gone!
As Carol getting up to leave we brain storm about the other people we know who can help. Then I remember that my friend Selena’s husband works in the IT department of a notable college. Who is more technologically dim-witted than professors! Nobody! Professors must save over important files all of the time! My parents were both professors and neither of them could ever learn to program the VCR, or even use the DVD player.
I call him. He helps me. We try a few things and then in his sweet yet direct way he tells me that I am comlpetely screwed! My document is dead. My hours and hours and hours of work are gone forever into a deep dark hole. I try not to weap. Before we say goodbye he remind me. “Yeah know, it’s very important to back up your work.”
Here I am today. I keep hoping that I will wake from a bad dream. I am pushed back to where I was in August; the road back is so tough I have considered trashing the whole project. However, I believe that everything happens for a reason. I’m not sure what the reason is. However this ordeal did teach me 3 things:
1. I have great friends
2. I can survive a crisis with out eating candy.
3. ALWAYS BACK UP MY WORK!
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Yesterday I voted for a candidate for the first time in 8 years. In the last two presidential elections I cast my vote against the other candidate. Yesterday as I checked the box on the voting form I felt an anxious tickle in my stomach. A venerable feeling, a glimmer of hope taking seed in the pit of my stomach. I have to admit that after you people, you know who you are, elected Bubba-Dubya two times in a row, I did not have faith in you that I had for my presidential pick.
I couldn't trust you after what I experienced last year, watching with horror as the country I love turned red like the blood of my liberal bleeding heart. But that was last year.
This year as the day went on I felt my seedling of hope grow nurtured by exit polls and news media personalities. Then as the afternoon turned into night I huddled by the TV too nervous to breathe. I had my Republican husband put the kids to bed. He conceded defeat and took them upstairs. I accepted his concession, but the scars of election nights past, needed more concrete evidence.
Then the room spun and the TV was talking in slow motion. I heard someone crying and I felt my own wet face. Tears blurred the screen and I relaxed my stomach muscles inhaling the crisp night air. I filled my lungs with hope, and pride, and felt the need to start screaming out the song "I'm proud to be an American". That horrid country song that I for years have privately labeled the Red Neck national anthem. I don't sing out loud, but in my head I hear the song and picture my new president. My new president who makes me proud to live in this great country where anything is possible.
I am a cynical satirist who cried like a baby in awe of a great man who has inspired me to believe in my twisted wicked heart that anything is possible. We have witnessed the dawning of a new era...buckle your seat belts!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
"What happens when you eat too much candy"? I ask my 5-year-old son Dylan as I catch him running into the play room with a Ziplock bag filled with of nuclear-orange candy corn.
"I know, I know". He whines. "I'll throw up, I know, but what is I only eat a few"? He looks up at me with his large hazel eyes with long thick eye lashes.
“I don’t know it’s almost time for dinner.” I say cocking my eyebrow. A smile brightens up his sweet little face.
“Please, please my big sweetie, please my sweet darling”. Oh crap! I feel myself melting into a puddle on the carpet.
“O.K.” I say lying like liquid on the rug, “Just a few, my little darling”. I say with stars in my eyes. How can I say no? He is so cute and the boy has serious skills.
Let me tell you about my little ladies man, my Dylan is a pint sized Romeo, he is a chick magnet super hero. The kid has super charming powers and he’s never afraid to use them. He charms the meanest looking old ladies and he even melts the hearts of the “anti-child” profession girls. You know the ones the designer stylestas who are always talking on their Blue Tooth, glaring at crying infants, and never holding the door for us? One encounter with Dylan and their stunted biologic clocks tick for the first time. This kid has powers and like Clark Kent’s parent’s, Dave and I do not understand them. We are always in fear because we never know what to do when he uses them. What do his father and I know about the rules of being charming and popular? We know a big nerdy zero, that’s what we know. As kids his parents were the dysfunctional ugly fat-girl and the insecure quiet boy with the googly glasses. We were and continue to be card carrying members of the geek clan. We couldn’t be cool if we were both naked in the Arctic. All I know how to do when Dylan finds a new target is blush and try to flee!
For example Sunday when my son saunters up to a group of young female employees sitting on a bench chatting outside of are local Target store. Dylan gets a devious spark in his eye and I know what’s coming. Before I can grab his arm and pull him into the store, he is at the bench giving them his trademark pick up line: “Hello sweet ladies. I’m Dylan a boy who loves girls.” As always I immediately turn beet red, locate an exit route and start to apologize, but these new friends protest my groveling like all of Dylan’s marks do.
“Oh don’t worry, he’s not bothering us he is so cute”! With in seconds my 5-year-old little boy is holding court on the bench surrounded by 5 pretty girls. The girls are all laughing and fighting for his attention. I swear to God that some how I gave birth to the Fonz! I walk over apologize again to the girls, but this time because I must steal Dylan away from them to go into the store and buy Halloween items for 50 Percent off. Usually I’d let him chit-chat for awhile but a 50 percent off sale, or any sales takes priority.
Later inside the store Dylan get’s a wave from a tall dark haired beauty girl in the toy department, a “Hiya Dylan!” from a blond chubby girl stocking food in the grocery isle. The girl checking us out is also one of Dylan’s new friends and she gives him and Alice each a handful of Target dog stickers.
This is not an isolated event! Last week at the farmer’s market Dylan asked me for a dollar. I gave the dollar to him, because our Franklin Farmer’s market has 4 or on a good day 6 small farm stands. I assume that the kid will come back with an apple, a pear, or some carrots; after all it is a Farmer’s market. What does my son come back with? A brownie, and not just a regular size generic mom’s homemade variety. This brownie is as big as a CD case and as thick as a brick, with thick chocolate frosting on top. I would estimate my son’s brownie is the size roughly of a half of a batch of the box brand brownies that I make. There is no way this brownie cost a dollar. I go and investigate, firstly because I want to find the jack ass who has deflowered the farmer’s market with processed sugary crap food! Secondly I want to know if my son just shoplifted his first brownie. I quickly find a small card table where a new local bakery is selling pies, cookies, and of course mammoth brownies. Who is sitting behind the card table a cute young perky 20-something. When I ask her about the brownie she says.
“Oh is that your son? He is so cute. I gave him a free brownie I hope you don’t mind.” I shook my head in shock.
“He said the cutest thing to me”. She said with a giggle.
“That he’s a boy who loves girls?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself. She nodded yes and added.
“You’re in trouble. He’s a little heart breaker, that one.”
“I know.” I said “You have no idea".
Monday, November 3, 2008
Enough about the rich and beautiful this blog is all about me, the fantastically fat-middle-class mom, who didn’t eat candy on Halloween. Halloween went great for most of the day and night. My kids did end up with about three shoes boxes each, filled with candy. Tonight I am sorting the candy in the hopes of finding at least 2 or three sets of enough matching pieces to use for my son and daughter’s birthday treat bags in November. They’ll never notice, plus Dylan can only count to a hundred. As long as he has 100 pieces he’ll never know.
We do let the kids eat a lot of candy on the day of Halloween. Last year I was more strict, but stopping children from eating candy while Trick or Treating is like stopping grown-up at the doors of Dunkin’ Donuts and telling them theirs no morning coffee. Actually I bet the kids fits would be minuscule compared to the blood curdling screams and blasphemous howls of their caffeine addicted elders. But, still my children and my Candy Battle Royale was so exhausting last year that this year I said. “Eat all the candy you want while Trick or Treating, but remember that if you eat too much candy you’ll throw up”.
Over the last year every single time the kids have more than one piece of candy in their hot little hand I squawk like a nagging parrot “Remember if you eat too much candy you’ll throw up”. I nagged my poor little children on their birthdays, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Easter, The 4th of July (Yes, now kids’ leave 4th of July parades with arms full of candy). Any time the delight of candy sparkled in their eyes a crazed squawking parrot was there! “Throw-up throw-up”!
My tactics though extreme worked wonders with my older son. My daughter is still at the age where she eats a half a candy bar and leaves the rest to melt into a puddle on the couch. I blame this defect on my husband’s gene pool. My son has my candy gene, if left un attended he eats candy like he is training for a career as a competitive eater. You know the guys who eat 85 hotdogs in 4 minutes. My son could toast these mamby pambies like white bread on the grill. I know this about my little candy eating machine so the other day as his sister and he collected candy at my husband’s work I was thrilled to see my little candy monster turn to his sister and say. “Now, Alice don’t eat too much candy or you’ll barf”! Then he scowled at her and said. “I don’t want any baby barfing on me”!
I was so proud, in his own sugar-high demented little way he had learned his lesson and I was proud. As we left Dave’s building with two 10-pounds bags of candy, I was hopeful, that this year there would be no candy battle Royale. I was a good mother after all! I thought until I opened my car door and saw an oozing puddle of neon orange foamy liquid covering my seat and dripping onto the mat on the car floor. I screamed waking Anabel, my 6 year old Bichon Frise who was sleeping in Alice’s car seat in the back. Anabel jumped onto the center console fluffy white tail wagging and wearing a conspicuous neon orange mustache and beard.
I looked in the back seat and found an empty bag of candy corn! I am a good mother but obviously a horrible doggie Mother! I let my sweet Anabel eat too much candy and my poor baby threw up! Bad momma! Bad girl! Is a mother’s work ever done?