Friday, November 30, 2007

Thursday, November 29, 2007

$%#!@*& Cheek!

So. I am not psychic but there have been occasions in my life when I have had a gut feeling about things. That little voice inside my head that tells me, "This doesn't apply to you."

Like when I was a kid and my gymnastics team was set to go see Nadia Comaneci perform on her American tour. The talk every day in our gym centered around this blessed event. I wasn't all that excited. I just felt it wasn't going to happen. The enthusiasm didn't apply to me.

Sure enough, Nadia put on a few pounds and became rebellious about training. The tour was cancelled.

Some years later in our Lamaze classes while I was pregnant with Number One Son, I had the sneaking suspicion that I really didn't need to pay attention. All the breathing and positions weren't for me to be concerned about. The birth process magically didn't apply to me.

Sure enough, Number One ended up being a not-quite-emergency Cesarean delivery.

But there is one area where my inner voice has failed me. All the talk I've heard since I was a kid about getting old, getting wrinkles, gray hair, sore joints, saggy boobs, excess weight--without a shadow of a doubt I knew that tedious business didn't apply to me!

Turns out? My sixth sense was too busy watching Scooby Doo to see the truth . . .

Crow's feet do appear, whether or not I thought they would. Greys occasionally sneak in, though I was convinced that would never happen to me. And boobs? Yeah, draw your own mental picture there . . .

And all the stuff everyone says about how much more difficult it is as you age to maintain weight, take off extra pounds, keep fit and toned and flexible? It's all true. And? It actually does apply to me. F*ck.

That is why I sucked it up and joined kickboxing bootcamp. Which, you may recall, ended up being a bit of a disappointment. And now that I'm healed, I attempted rejoining. But my work schedule is constantly at odds with class times. Sigh.

I was thinking yoga would be a healthy alternative. But again, the classes I was interested in are scheduled during times I just can't be there.

I resigned myself to go back to ralking (Beautiful's word for my running/walking.) Only I can't do it before work because it's dark out. And I can't do it after work because it's dark out.

As that bitch Fate would have it, Cheek happened to post this article about hula hooping performance art. Reading through it, I noticed the woman, Suat Ling Chua, mentioned she had been doing her hula hoop "routine." Curious what a hula hoop routine could entail, I did a quick Google search.

What I learned is that hula hoopin' is the next big thing in exercise fads. I am never one to do the "in" thing, but I decided an exercise regimen with a hula hoop was definitely what I was looking for. I was, after all, the 3rd grade hula hooping champion. Champion, I tell you!

Know what I discovered? I discovered that holy crap it's been a long time since the 3rd grade!! And I am no longer in champion form . . .

It took 15 or 20 tries before I could get beyond one revolution. And every time it hit the ground, it smacked into my ankles first.

So here's my first piece of advice for anyone considering joining the hula hoop revolution:

Don't do it naked.
(I'm assuming this would be a good rule of thumb. I was barefoot during my trial runs which is why it hurt my ankles so much. I can only guess at how the rest of me would have fared without my protective clothing!)


Buy a top of the line hula hoop. Not one from Toys 'R Us.
That's engineered for a standard 3rd grader . . .

A good adult hoop should be fairly weighty (1-2 lbs is good.) And not partially filled with water as the counterbalance like my cheap plastic crappy one is. It's like the hoop has a tide all its own. And the hoop tide wasn't always in sync with my moon . . .

And finally:

If your inner voice is telling you that this is kind of a bullsh*t exercise
"program" and not to waste your time--trust your inner voice. The coming
hula hooping wave probably doesn't apply to you. Unless you're looking for
one more piece of cheesy exercise equipment for your next garage

Must run now. I have to do some research on where I can buy a quality hula hoop . . .

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

It's not a waste of time! It's not, it's not, it's not!!!

My lovely daughter, Beautiful, moved out again a couple months ago. We use myspace to keep in touch.

Now, before you go judging me for being 40 and having a myspace account, let me explain that it’s a cultivated and practical way for mother and daughter to keep up with all the important news and information we used to share in person.

For your consideration, a transcript from last night:

Kristin: I just gave Youngest the ‘birds and bees’ talk . . .

Beautiful: blahhh!!! not that talk : )

Kristin: He kept hinting and asking. What was I supposed to do?

So I told him that it's a beautiful mystery. You get married. You pray for children. One day, you go to the hospital and pick one out. Unless you're a bad, bad sinner and you're not married . . .

Beautiful: and you'd be in that category i believe : )

Kristin: Oh. I had conveniently forgotten that fact . . .

Well, let that be a lesson to you!

Also, don't have sex. You'll die.

Beautiful: but you didn't die. oh wait, your soul did ; )

Kristin: How is everything going for you tonight--other than the dreadful fact that you are the offspring of a soulless entity?

Beautiful: well, aside from that great disappointment and the fact that my body wants me to get some sleep i'm doing alright. how you doin?

Kristin: I'm okay. I'm reading an interesting (but poorly written) book.

I thought you had already gotten off-line. I was about to accuse you of being all inconsiderate in your behavior (not saying goodnight or goodbye, just logging off with no manners whatsoever . . . ) but I see you're still on. You are forgiven : )

Beautiful: huh, you must be reading shakespeare. the stories are somewhat interesting, but it’s just like with homer--written like a male would write.

oh, and augh! [indignant kelso-from-"That 70’s Show" sound] not inconsiderate! just very busy

Kristin: No, I don't mean poorly written like Shakespeare. I mean this dude's a total amateur! It would have been better if he had told his fascinating story to a real author and let the literature commence from there . . .

Speaking of total amateur, I've just started looking at on-line writing courses. I could definitely improve. Like I could learn to write dialogue. Or fiction. Or something interesting that isn't a silly rant about my absurd daily life . . .

Let me demonstrate my clever and witty craftsmanship with dialogue:

And then she was all, "Dude, your soul is dead."

And I was all, "Dude! Shut up! You're freaking me out! Plus, you’re, like, so rude!"

And she's like, "Augh!" [indignant Kelso sound]

How's that for some fine creative writing!

Beautiful: now that right there is a world class piece! That's what she said ; )

See what I mean about myspace being a cultivated and practical mode of communication? Almost right up there with beautifully written letters from long ago . . .

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

google me

I'm sure we all have the shared experience of chuckling over the odd google searches that lead folks to our blogs. I've had lots of funny ones, but I don't compile them so they're forever lost in the hide-and-seek crannies of my mind.

Strangely, I get a lot of traffic from people googling the phrase "when she says jump." (Why would so many people google that?) And more than a handful from the phrase "Oh, no, you ditn't!"

I'm sure every guy who has ever checked out my blog late at night after searching for the word "undieless" has been woefully disappointed >: )

But the weirdest one to date came a couple days ago from Sri Lanka. Someone clicked on You can dress me up, but . . . after googling this:

wife dress me as a lady

Um, ewwww?

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Monday, November 19, 2007

influence again

I was working on a post about the impact of best friends. It was almost complete, but I couldn't make it work. It ended up sounding trite. Not what I was going for : )

Rick posted something that said everything I wanted to say anyway. So I'm stealing Rick's post (thanks, Rick : )

Spanning 35 years of best friendship: For Linnea, Tosha, Susie, Rich, Wendy, Tracy, Mary, Beautiful and Mister. Include as well the other friends--the ones who aren't quite as intimate, or those who slip quietly in and out of the pantheon but leave in their wake a silver ribbon of wisdom and truth (Clarice, Angie, Michele, Doug, James, and all the others . . . )

Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are -- chaff and grain together -- certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away. -George Eliot

Sunday, November 11, 2007

And again, Chuck Norris is a curse to me!

I promise--this will be the last time I talk about sex. For, like, 5 minutes anyway . . .

I am here once again to dispense wisdom. Without further ado, a tip (pretty much only applicable to the ladies):

Should you happen to retire to the bedroom with your significant other for a little, ahem, quality time . . .

And should you happen to turn on the TV in the bedroom to provide subterfuge because there are children in the house and children should never overhear their parents having sex . . . which you know for a fact . . . because you've been down that road before . . .

If per chance when you turn on the TV you decide you don't care what happens to be on, just so long as it provides an adequate aural screen . . .

Think again!

For, should the TV in the background be playing an episode of the insipid 'Walker, Texas Ranger' . . .

And if, by coincidence, during the segue between foreplay and the main event the insipid TV program reaches the pivotal, inspirational, emotional moment . . .

And the song accompanying said inspirational, emotional moment turns out to be "Climb Every Mountain" at the very moment that your husband is, ummmmmmmm, summiting a small, wife-shaped mountain . . .

You might (since you can ignore neither the song nor the coincidence) accidentally giggle.

Do not giggle!

Significant other might think you are giggling at him . . .

He might, in fact, worry that you are giggling because you are comparing him to Chuck Norris.

  • Chuck Norris secretly sleeps with every woman in the world once a month. They bleed for a week as a result.
  • Chuck Norris doesn't pop his collar, his shirts just get erections when they touch his body.
  • Chuck Norris is not hung like a horse . . . horses are hung like Chuck Norris.

Giggling--followed by chortling as you deny the accusation of making unfavorable Chuck Norris comparisons--might not enhance the mood.

The mood might suffer.

The mood might be lost.

The mood, in fact, might disappear for some time. Some long time. Some looooooooooooooong, indefinite, lonely time . . .

Not that I know this firsthand, of course. I'm just guessing at what could happen if you tried to have a nooner while Chuck Norris is on TV in the background . . .

Thursday, November 8, 2007


Yesterday, standing in my kitchen slicing cheddar cheese, Kate popped into my mind.

I was almost 15 when I met Kate. She had just moved to this area--a freshly minted law degree and two daughters in tow. I became Kate’s babysitter while she embarked on her new legal career.

I admired everything about Kate. She was everything the women in my family were not. Unapologetic for her status as a divorced, working mother (this was in the early 80’s--the beginning of the so-called "Mommy Wars." It was a big damn deal.) Tall and very thin. Educated. Professional.

She stayed out late. She came home drunk. She occasionally brought men home with her. And her men were all over the map. Some were older. Some were obviously far below her socioeconomic class. One was appreciably younger than Kate.

Kate was adventurous. She acted in local stage productions. She skied and sailed. And she was a hella good softball player on her firm’s team, The Ms. Demeanors.

More important than anything else, Kate treated me like an adult. She trusted me implicitly with her kids (who became like sisters to me.) She paid me well, included me in family activities, and wrote a glowing recommendation when it was time for me to move on.

It is said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. That’s where the cheddar cheese comes in.

If my mom were slicing cheese to accompany crackers, she would make nice, even little squares--just smaller than the crackers--arrange them on a plate and serve them properly. Not Kate. Kate would stand at her counter, knife and brick of cheese in hand, and make outrageously uneven slashes. This was revolutionary to me. Everything about her life was outrageously uneven. I wanted to be what she was.

I imitated her gait. I realized yesterday I also imitated her cheese slicing method. Cheese--of all things. And one other thing I’m aware that I copied from her is the way she answered the phone. I still answer after her fashion to this day.

And I realize something else. "Phil," the young man who I had a long and committed motherlike friendship with, now answers his phone like I do. Our friendship is over, but that little detail softens the pain of our parting.

I know I’ve been influential in his life, and in much bigger ways than just a phone greeting--but that one little compliment to me . . .

I confess, I hope one day when he’s 40 he notices someone in his life answering the phone like he does and he remembers where that came from. I hope his memories of me are as full of admiration and gratitude as mine are of Kate.

How’s that for egotistical?

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

The rest of the story

I had questions. Questions to which ‘Jude Law’ alone had the answers. I just could not wrap my head around the suggestion this man was making, so I e-mailed him. He was frank about his ideas. And justifications.

I started to post the transcript of our conversation, but felt it was too big an invasion of privacy. Jude may have answered more fully (or not at all : ) if he knew his thoughts were headed for public consumption.

Instead, I’ll briefly sum things up:

It appears that he loves his wife and that they have a good partnership except there isn’t enough intimacy to satisfy him. His solution has been adulterous relationships with long term partners who are in the same boat, so to speak.

And why did he invite me to this exclusive party? I was vainly hoping it was because he found me clever or funny or interesting or intelligent enough to hold a conversation with or, you know, something flattering like that. The real answer is that he finds me physically attractive, I’m married, and I live geographically close to him. In a word, he propositioned me because I’m convenient. So romantic!

As to "where is the ‘intimacy’ conducted?" He and his previous partners have used their own homes. I’m just going to directly quote his reasoning because there is no need (or room) for interpretation: "Infidelity is bad. I don't feel at one's house makes it more acute or egregious." I’d be willing to wager his wife would feel differently . . .

Finally, speaking of his wife, I asked him if he thought she ever suspected what was going on. Again, I’ll quote him directly: "No, i don't thnk she has. I'm pretty good at compartmentalizing. My guilt is assuaged by my lack of sex at home."

I’ll bet you’re all thinking what I’m thinking--that he has managed to blame his wife for his infidelity. I didn’t call him on that. I didn’t call him on anything. It was all too Twilight Zone.

The whole thing had a cold, pragmatic ring to it. Not emotionally vested. Dry. Businesslike. Not attending to any personal needs whatsoever--just f*cking for the sake of f*cking.

So--I’m thinking he’s a Grade A pig with a shirt on.

On the other hand . . .

What’s worse? Would I be more hurt to find that my husband was screwing someone else because he wasn't getting enough from me, or to find that he was having an affair with someone he was in love with?

Saturday, November 3, 2007

dude, this is what personal ads are for

All you blogger buddies--you’ll know what I’m talking about. When you have a publicly viewed Internet space, you get a mix of readers, commenters and private messagers. Most of these folks are nice or funny or thoughtful or encouraging or interesting or inspiring . . . But some of them are, hmmmm, well, they’re just a little different.

Over the last couple weeks, a purposefully unidentified man has been e-mailing me with the repeated suggestion that we chat via IM or maybe meet for coffee. Things he said, things he didn’t say, information he wasn’t willing to share all left me feeling kinda funny about what was going on. Instead of being patient and letting it ride to find out just who this person is and what he wants, I bluntly asked him what his deal is.

And his answer?

"I am looking for someone who might be in a similar situation as me: married, and for the most part very happy, but wanting more in the intimacy department. I am patient, not a man-whore, looking for someone with whom I can establish a long term quasi-monogamous (aside from spouse) relationship with. So, if you are interested in something like that, please let me know."

Oh my.

Part of me is thinking maybe this is someone I know (or a friend of someone I know) just jacking me around for the sport of it. Or perhaps it’s one of hubby’s friends who has read my blog and is testing my fidelity?

I asked this man, we’ll call him Jude Law, if either of those scenarios was the case. He assured me it wasn’t anything as sordid as that. He’s just interested in the philanderous sex.

I shouldn’t have declined quite so quickly. I should have played it for awhile--at least until I could get some answers to the million questions I have about his suggested arrangement.

For example, if he contacted me, one would assume he has also contacted at least a handful of other candidates. If he took each potential conquest individually out for coffee and a chat, isn’t that tantamount to the women applying for the position (pun fully intended) of mistress?

Jude claims that he and his family just moved here 6 months ago. I want to know if he had a similar situation worked out in the last place he lived. And how did it end? Was it a tearful goodbye? Do they keep in contact? Does he arrange for convenient ‘business trips’ in order to visit his former long-term-quasi-monogamous partner?

And really? Who’s to say there isn’t more than one partner? How many side dishes has this guy cooked up for himself?

And what of logistics? Since Jude is specifically looking for a married woman, then where is the ‘intimacy’ conducted? If it’s a regularly scheduled tryst, hotels could get expensive. His house? His married mistress’ house? A friend’s place? His car?

What if Jude is into . . . ahem . . . ‘costumes’ or ‘props’ that he doesn’t use with his wife? Where would those items be kept when not in use? Is there a storage locker somewhere filled with the trappings of this extra-marital business? Oh--hey! If it’s a big enough storage locker--maybe there’s also a bed, and a night stand, and candles, and a champagne bucket, and a trapeze and that’s where the actual ‘intimacy’ is conducted!

And what about birthdays and Christmas and the anniversary of the beginning of the affair? Maybe it’s just a girl thing, but I would want to share, or at least acknowledge, special occasions. It wouldn’t be possible though. Under those clandestine circumstances, you’d never be able to go out for a romantic dinner. You’d be unable to give a meaningful gift. You couldn’t spontaneously jump into the car and spend the day doing something whimsical and out of the ordinary. It would be more like a dry business relationship. {shudder}

I’m not up for playing Katharine Hepburn to an unseen, unknown Spencer Tracy. Or any Spencer Tracy, for that matter.

And no--I have NOT spent way too much time thinking about this . . .

Friday, November 2, 2007

And yes, I still do stupid stuff at work All. The. Time.

Monday morning, Pharmacist Greg and I were standing behind the counter unpacking and labeling the day’s order. A still-handsome, confident man in his late 50’s/early 60’s came to the window and slapped a $20 bill on the counter.

What I was thinking inside my head was, "Obviously he expects me to know who he is and fetch his prescriptions. If only he’ll say his name so I can fluidly handle this transaction . . . "

What came out of my mouth was nothing like that. What escaped my lips was, "And what can I trade you for that?"

No, seriously--I actually said that.

With a completely straight face, the man looked at the pharmacist and said, "Greg, walk away--we have a deal to conduct here."

Once again, a satisfied customer is a repeat customer . . .

an unsuck moment

So, I homeschooled my kids. Have I ever mentioned that? A few kazillion times? Yes?

Some days it’s great to be a mom. Other days it just sucks. Many days I wonder if the way we have raised our kids (including, but not limited to, the homeschooling) has been beneficial or detrimental to their development as human beings.

Today, Number One Son gave me one of those extraordinary gifts that comes unexpectedly and radiates with beauty. Out of the blue, for no apparent reason whatsoever, he sent me this lovely e-mail, confirming that I didn’t completely f*ck up everything:

"Hello Mom,

. . . I was thinking the other day about the time we did algebra 1 in a week. I know it wasn't fun for me, and I am sure it wasn't to much fun for you either. But if you hadn't helped me to do that I probably couldn't have taken algebra 2 from Dr. H. Without that I seriously doubt that I could have gone to school as an engineer, at least initially. I just wouldn't have been able to get in, and there is not really the right type of calculus prep classes at the university level to help out. So thank you. It's unfortunate Spelling in a week wasn't quite as successful for me. Of course for me, spelling in a year would still be insufficient.

Hope you have a nice week.

Number One"

I wish I could wear this letter. Well, first I would correct the spelling and punctuation and maybe take a stab at a little formatting . . . but after that, it’s perfect. Happy early Mother’s Day to me : )