When I was a young girl, we used to have pom-poms that we put on our roller skates. They had a little bell on the top and were perfectly round and fuzzy. They came in all different colors. I was so cool with my hot pink ones on my black speed skates.
It wasn't too long after my mom first gave them to me that Anne Margaret and I discovered a new use for them. We had a crush on a certain teacher who lived two doors down from her. One afternoon, we (I say we because I am really not sure who came up with the idea, but going by track records, it was probably me) used those innocent pom poms as fuzzy prosthetic breasts. Our poor training bras were not properly trained for this job.
So there we were, two 12 year old girls, with our satin shorts, tight shirts and our pom pom boobies. And as an added bonus, those bells made for perfect nipples that looked like they were just exposed to sub zero temperatures. We were hot. OK maybe not. But we still took her dog out and walked him back and forth behind that certain teacher's house at least a half a dozen times. For some crazy reason, he wasn't the slightest bit interested.
***Ironically we were rocking those satin shorts and big perfect boobies in 1982 and Hooters opened with that same concept in 1983. Coincidence? I think not.***
Anyway the point of all this is that as a kid I sooo wanted the perfect boobies. When I turned thirty and I still didn't have them, I bought them. Now, two kids later, 20 pounds heavier and I don't even recognize these things on my chest. I look like an Ethiopian porn star. My husband doesn't even need to go to the gym, he can use me for speed bagging. I would like to blame my kids for these boobies, but this one is on me, or should I say, these two are one me.
Boobs really are so over rated. We give them too much attention and too many names: breasts, boobs, hooters, knockers, jugs and tits just to name a few. Still, most women want them and most men can't seem to live without them either. I just can't believe I became one of those women!
When we are little, we want to grow up and when we are all grown up, we want to be little again. I want to be little again. No cares, no worries and no boobies.
I Think I May Have Invented Hooters.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
***This is something I wrote last year and posted on my Facebook notes, but I thought it would be fun to share****
I have far too much junk in my trunk. This time it is not a metaphor for the size of my ass, but rather the truth about the storage locker in my brain. I have tons of memories, some of which are jammed so deep in that locker, that it takes more than one person to extract them. I remember my first dog, Snow, and how, when I was 7 years old, my father took her to live on a “farm”. Ironically, everyone I have ever met since then has also had a dog that went to live on a farm when they were around the same age. All I can say is that must be one god damn big farm. Old MacDonald’s, I believe.
I remember a lot…friends, good times and sad times, primarily from two very different towns. From St. Andrews in Myrtle Beach to Shadowlawn and East Naples Middle in Naples, North Myrtle Beach High School and Lely High. I remember the merry-go-round at St. Andrews and Sister Pauline. I remember that Missy McDuffie (would love to find her) always smelled like Love’s Baby Soft, which by the way, they still sell in most drug stores. I remember Mrs. Leon at Shadowlawn. I remember that Evelyn Graham was the meanest girl in 2nd grade (the last name has been changed to protect the mean old bitch) I remember that I didn’t see my father most of my 3rd, 4th and 5th grade. I remember feeling like a little fish in a big pond in the 6th grade. I remember that in the 7th grade I had a crush on the lead singer of Loverboy . I imagine he doesn’t look as good in those red leather pants these days, but who does? I remember feeling like a big fish in the 8th grade. I remember in the 9th grade standing in the mirror in my bathroom with my black rubber bracelets on, lip-syncing to Madonna’s “Crazy for You”. No matter what bracelet Madonna wears (rubber, Kabbalah), many follow…note to Tiffany’s. I also remember coming home on a Friday night after a party and watching Valley Girl over and over again. Nicolas Cage was so cool. I remember Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club. Siouxsie & the Banshees, Bauhaus, The Cure and Tears for Fears. Then there was Black Flag, Minor Threat and the Dead Kennedy’s to impress the boys you weren’t supposed to like. I remember the creepy crush I had on the lead singer of The Cult.
I remember living back and forth between two parents in high school and feeling lucky that both places felt like home. I remember that my mom was so hurt when I wanted to live with my dad and I never understood why. Now that I have my own daughter….I do.
I remember summer jobs at NMB; playing “lifeguard” at the waterslide, waitressing at Outrigger, two whole weeks as a quench wench (pushing a cart sucks) and serving soft serve at the Dairy Hut (I never could dip a cone) and my favorite job….Bert’s Surf Shop. I remember the NMB pier and going to the beach before it was actually warm enough, praying the sun would win out over the cold wind. I remember the day Lisa and I became friends and how opposite we were (and still are, but are still just as close today). I remember riding down the boulevard in Shannon Parker’s mustang with Brooke and Lisa. I remember riding down Hwy 17 on the back of Bryan Beck’s motorcycle. I remember riding in Vonni’s car and hoping it would start every time we made a stop. I remember the time it didn’t and we met Cujo. I remember working at the original Apple Annie’s. I remember Crazy Zacks, 2001, and a little place called the Joint. I remember hot dogs and potato wedges at Dodge’s and the She Crab soup at the Chesapeake House. I remember the Budweiser Beer fest at the beach during Spring Break. I remember Spring Fever.
In Naples, I remember 13th and 32nd. Hanging out at the mall on Friday nights and Mama Mia’s after. I remember when Scottie was the good Krehling. I remember and loved Jean Krehling. I remember and miss Christian DePasquale. I remember when there were only three high schools and everyone still knew everyone. I remember when 951 was a two lane road. I remember the after prom party at Katie and Anne Marie’s house and how awesome their mother was. I remember and miss Wes Fields. I remember when Tara cut Barb’s bangs (note to Barb….never let a drunk girl cut your hair!) I remember when Steph didn’t drink and would NEVER burp in public! I remember lying on my floor with my feet on the wall talking to a certain boy until two in the morning. I remember when Santa Barbara wasn’t a major road, but a hangout. I remember the Swamp Buggy and shed an actual tear upon its closing. I remember many a fun night with Stewie and Ana. I remember when it was cool to own a Suzuki Samurai.
I remember my first kiss, my first love. I even remember my first heartbreak. Wishing the minutes and hours would speed up to take me further away from the moment. I remember how turning 21 was not nearly as monumental as I had previously thought it would be. Fake ID’s take that moment from you. I remember the first time I bought beer and didn’t get carded (I would like you to believe it was not that long ago, but in truth it has been about ten years.) That is when I remembered back to the day I wished I was old enough to buy beer and how I would give anything to go back to that day now. I will soon be telling my kids what my mother told me….”don’t wish your life away”.
I remember the first time I heard Nina Simone….it was heartache and passion. I remember the first time I read Sense and Sensibility. I was sure Jane Austen and I must have been friends in a former life. Not that I necessarily believe in past lives, but if I did and I had to guess what I was in a former life, I would guess it was a bear. The reason? It would only be fair that in my past life, I actually got to sleep for long periods of time, be as fat as I wanted to be and not have to shave because being hairy was acceptable. As a mother of an infant and four year old, I can’t remember the last time I actually slept more than two hours at a time.
I remember the first time I truly understood the meaning of the word “alcoholic” I always thought my dad was just really fun or sometimes really tired. I remember holding his hand so tight as he took his last breath and how the blue line that once had at least some semblance of rhythm, was now so infinitely straight. I remember wishing I could stop breathing at that moment, too, just for a little while, so I wouldn’t feel the pain in my heart. I realized that day how ugly straight lines are. I love it when my daughter colors outside of the lines, or for that matter, makes up her own lines.
Most importantly, I remember every detail of my wedding day and the births of my two children. The I do’s and the sweetest sounds of their first cries. First words and first steps. Bumps and bruises. My husband’s fight (and win) with a kidney tumor. Losing everything (monetarily) and still having everything (my family and friends) I need.
I remember the places I have lived, people I have met and a lot of little details, more than I could possibly put on paper and a few which I wish I could forget. Which leads me to my one burning question and what started this little rant….if I can remember all of this from years gone by, why is it that I can’t remember what the hell it was I needed when I walked into the kitchen?
I have far too much junk in my trunk. This time it is not a metaphor for the size of my ass, but rather the truth about the storage locker in my brain. I have tons of memories, some of which are jammed so deep in that locker, that it takes more than one person to extract them. I remember my first dog, Snow, and how, when I was 7 years old, my father took her to live on a “farm”. Ironically, everyone I have ever met since then has also had a dog that went to live on a farm when they were around the same age. All I can say is that must be one god damn big farm. Old MacDonald’s, I believe.
I remember a lot…friends, good times and sad times, primarily from two very different towns. From St. Andrews in Myrtle Beach to Shadowlawn and East Naples Middle in Naples, North Myrtle Beach High School and Lely High. I remember the merry-go-round at St. Andrews and Sister Pauline. I remember that Missy McDuffie (would love to find her) always smelled like Love’s Baby Soft, which by the way, they still sell in most drug stores. I remember Mrs. Leon at Shadowlawn. I remember that Evelyn Graham was the meanest girl in 2nd grade (the last name has been changed to protect the mean old bitch) I remember that I didn’t see my father most of my 3rd, 4th and 5th grade. I remember feeling like a little fish in a big pond in the 6th grade. I remember that in the 7th grade I had a crush on the lead singer of Loverboy . I imagine he doesn’t look as good in those red leather pants these days, but who does? I remember feeling like a big fish in the 8th grade. I remember in the 9th grade standing in the mirror in my bathroom with my black rubber bracelets on, lip-syncing to Madonna’s “Crazy for You”. No matter what bracelet Madonna wears (rubber, Kabbalah), many follow…note to Tiffany’s. I also remember coming home on a Friday night after a party and watching Valley Girl over and over again. Nicolas Cage was so cool. I remember Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club. Siouxsie & the Banshees, Bauhaus, The Cure and Tears for Fears. Then there was Black Flag, Minor Threat and the Dead Kennedy’s to impress the boys you weren’t supposed to like. I remember the creepy crush I had on the lead singer of The Cult.
I remember living back and forth between two parents in high school and feeling lucky that both places felt like home. I remember that my mom was so hurt when I wanted to live with my dad and I never understood why. Now that I have my own daughter….I do.
I remember summer jobs at NMB; playing “lifeguard” at the waterslide, waitressing at Outrigger, two whole weeks as a quench wench (pushing a cart sucks) and serving soft serve at the Dairy Hut (I never could dip a cone) and my favorite job….Bert’s Surf Shop. I remember the NMB pier and going to the beach before it was actually warm enough, praying the sun would win out over the cold wind. I remember the day Lisa and I became friends and how opposite we were (and still are, but are still just as close today). I remember riding down the boulevard in Shannon Parker’s mustang with Brooke and Lisa. I remember riding down Hwy 17 on the back of Bryan Beck’s motorcycle. I remember riding in Vonni’s car and hoping it would start every time we made a stop. I remember the time it didn’t and we met Cujo. I remember working at the original Apple Annie’s. I remember Crazy Zacks, 2001, and a little place called the Joint. I remember hot dogs and potato wedges at Dodge’s and the She Crab soup at the Chesapeake House. I remember the Budweiser Beer fest at the beach during Spring Break. I remember Spring Fever.
In Naples, I remember 13th and 32nd. Hanging out at the mall on Friday nights and Mama Mia’s after. I remember when Scottie was the good Krehling. I remember and loved Jean Krehling. I remember and miss Christian DePasquale. I remember when there were only three high schools and everyone still knew everyone. I remember when 951 was a two lane road. I remember the after prom party at Katie and Anne Marie’s house and how awesome their mother was. I remember and miss Wes Fields. I remember when Tara cut Barb’s bangs (note to Barb….never let a drunk girl cut your hair!) I remember when Steph didn’t drink and would NEVER burp in public! I remember lying on my floor with my feet on the wall talking to a certain boy until two in the morning. I remember when Santa Barbara wasn’t a major road, but a hangout. I remember the Swamp Buggy and shed an actual tear upon its closing. I remember many a fun night with Stewie and Ana. I remember when it was cool to own a Suzuki Samurai.
I remember my first kiss, my first love. I even remember my first heartbreak. Wishing the minutes and hours would speed up to take me further away from the moment. I remember how turning 21 was not nearly as monumental as I had previously thought it would be. Fake ID’s take that moment from you. I remember the first time I bought beer and didn’t get carded (I would like you to believe it was not that long ago, but in truth it has been about ten years.) That is when I remembered back to the day I wished I was old enough to buy beer and how I would give anything to go back to that day now. I will soon be telling my kids what my mother told me….”don’t wish your life away”.
I remember the first time I heard Nina Simone….it was heartache and passion. I remember the first time I read Sense and Sensibility. I was sure Jane Austen and I must have been friends in a former life. Not that I necessarily believe in past lives, but if I did and I had to guess what I was in a former life, I would guess it was a bear. The reason? It would only be fair that in my past life, I actually got to sleep for long periods of time, be as fat as I wanted to be and not have to shave because being hairy was acceptable. As a mother of an infant and four year old, I can’t remember the last time I actually slept more than two hours at a time.
I remember the first time I truly understood the meaning of the word “alcoholic” I always thought my dad was just really fun or sometimes really tired. I remember holding his hand so tight as he took his last breath and how the blue line that once had at least some semblance of rhythm, was now so infinitely straight. I remember wishing I could stop breathing at that moment, too, just for a little while, so I wouldn’t feel the pain in my heart. I realized that day how ugly straight lines are. I love it when my daughter colors outside of the lines, or for that matter, makes up her own lines.
Most importantly, I remember every detail of my wedding day and the births of my two children. The I do’s and the sweetest sounds of their first cries. First words and first steps. Bumps and bruises. My husband’s fight (and win) with a kidney tumor. Losing everything (monetarily) and still having everything (my family and friends) I need.
I remember the places I have lived, people I have met and a lot of little details, more than I could possibly put on paper and a few which I wish I could forget. Which leads me to my one burning question and what started this little rant….if I can remember all of this from years gone by, why is it that I can’t remember what the hell it was I needed when I walked into the kitchen?
Monday, July 5, 2010
art /ɑrt/ Show Spelled[ahrt]
–noun
1. the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.
2. the class of objects subject to aesthetic criteria; works of art collectively, as paintings, sculptures, or drawings: a museum of art; an art collection..........
Last week, as I was getting ready for work one morning, my son was being a little too quiet. This is usually a sign that something is either in his mouth, his sister has him pinned down with her hand over his mouth or he is sleeping. So I began to investigate. Hmm. He was quietly walking down the hallway smiling and running his fingers along the wall. Amazing.
As I began drying my hair, Ethan entered the bathroom and continued quietly outlining the walls and cabinets. Not a word. No crying. So this was shaping up to be a great morning. Suddenly, I noticed it, that familiar smell. Ethan needed to be changed. So I summoned daddy and he whisked him away to the other room and began donning his hazmat suit to complete the task. But, somehow the smell did not fade. In fact, it seemed even stronger.
As I left the bathroom and walked down the hall, I noticed swirls and lines on the walls in beautiful patterns. They were faint brownish-yellow colored from what I assumed must have been a dried up marker. But upon closer inspection, I realized the smell in the hallway was quite pungent as well. LIGHT BULB. Nooooooooo. An even closer look and……yeeeesssssss. It couldn’t be, but it was. He painted with his poop. Was this payback for my last post where I called him a poop machine? Maybe he was trying to show me he was more than a mindless poop machine. He has talent. My son discovered his calling, and artist. A fecal painter. I have heard of making lemonade out of lemons, but never pop art out of poop. We have named him Poocasso
For a split second I was actually relieved that it was not marker, until the realization of what cleaning this would entail set in. I now know where the idea for Clorox wipes came from, all of the other mothers in the world with their own little fecal painters.
Obviously, I was late for work.
–noun
1. the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.
2. the class of objects subject to aesthetic criteria; works of art collectively, as paintings, sculptures, or drawings: a museum of art; an art collection..........
Last week, as I was getting ready for work one morning, my son was being a little too quiet. This is usually a sign that something is either in his mouth, his sister has him pinned down with her hand over his mouth or he is sleeping. So I began to investigate. Hmm. He was quietly walking down the hallway smiling and running his fingers along the wall. Amazing.
As I began drying my hair, Ethan entered the bathroom and continued quietly outlining the walls and cabinets. Not a word. No crying. So this was shaping up to be a great morning. Suddenly, I noticed it, that familiar smell. Ethan needed to be changed. So I summoned daddy and he whisked him away to the other room and began donning his hazmat suit to complete the task. But, somehow the smell did not fade. In fact, it seemed even stronger.
As I left the bathroom and walked down the hall, I noticed swirls and lines on the walls in beautiful patterns. They were faint brownish-yellow colored from what I assumed must have been a dried up marker. But upon closer inspection, I realized the smell in the hallway was quite pungent as well. LIGHT BULB. Nooooooooo. An even closer look and……yeeeesssssss. It couldn’t be, but it was. He painted with his poop. Was this payback for my last post where I called him a poop machine? Maybe he was trying to show me he was more than a mindless poop machine. He has talent. My son discovered his calling, and artist. A fecal painter. I have heard of making lemonade out of lemons, but never pop art out of poop. We have named him Poocasso
For a split second I was actually relieved that it was not marker, until the realization of what cleaning this would entail set in. I now know where the idea for Clorox wipes came from, all of the other mothers in the world with their own little fecal painters.
Obviously, I was late for work.
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