Exercising Never Felt So Good!

I am not making this up. There are studies suggesting some women orgasm simply by exercising.

I've never really enjoyed exercising, but apparently I've been doing it wrong.

"Any exercise that uses the core muscles seems to trigger that sense of pleasure." Apparently, exercises that induce a "coregasm" (again, I am not making this up) include biking, chin-ups, climbing rope, and yoga.

I am physically incapable of doing a chin-up. In my defense, I have a very long neck.
I also cannot climb rope because there is a lot of me to carry up a rope and I've never really seen the point. Put a piece of cake at the top of the rope, and then maybe I'll climb that rope. Having said that, since reading about the study, I do have a sudden urge to sign up for every yoga class I can find.

In the past, I've never been able to enjoy yoga because my mind is a lot like a ride at the fair. It is not screwed together tightly, it goes a little too fast, and it is operated by a scary person.

To be good at yoga don't you need to shut off your brain for a period of time and just be still? That's hard for me to do. It's also hard for me to orgasm while walking up a flight of stairs. Just saying.

However, now that I'm in the loop about the "benefits" of exercise, I'm willing to give yoga another try. Like any good student, I googled some yoga poses so I could be prepared.

Here's what I learned:
People who do yoga are perverts.
Please google "yoga's happy baby pose" before disagreeing with me.
Yoga enthusiasts may also be carnies.
Please google "yoga's side crow pose" for evidence. Yes, I research my facts.

I've spent a fair amount of time in fitness centers and know a few things.
By "fair amount" I mean "hardly any."
None-the-less, here are some additional facts:

- I am never going back to a fitness center now that I know there are women coregasming all around me (to be clear, I'm not grossed out just jealous);

- This research gives new meaning to the need to wipe down the equipment between users;

- Spinning isn't just referring to the wheels on the bikes

According to the study, "A handful of woman even say they have had sexual feelings while mopping."

Come on! Now they are just being ridiculous, right?
I mean, Ladies, we know a clean floor makes us feel good, but not THAT good.

I think I speak for the masses when I say, seeing your partner with a mop in his hand is arousing (and by "mop" I mean "mop"). I cannot deny the arousal I feel when seeing someone else clean my floors. However, actually mopping myself into an orgasm is somewhat less likely.

Anyone who has ever been in my home knows how little satisfaction I receive from mopping. I'm raising dust bunnies the way some people raise cattle. If mopping led to a "coregasm" I would unquestionably have floors from which you could eat. Not that you would because you would be wondering where I had last coregasmed. Not that I would tell you because I am very civilized, obviously. I know it's in poor taste to even talk about coregasming. Of course, it's also in poor taste to eat off the floor. I was really just suggesting it as an example vs. something you would actually want to do. See what I mean about my brain? This kind of stream of consciousness does not bode well for my chances at being successful with yoga or coregasming.

I'm not sure I believe a "coregasm" is actually possible, but I'm bound and determined to give it the ol' college try.

Worst case scenario, I'll have the strongest core muscles ever!

Yoga, anyone?

Vacation Momma

Ahhhh....vacation.

My family recently traveled South for the annual spring break migration.
I did not go with them, but my alter ego did. Yes, she is always the one who goes on family vacations because the real me is absolutely no fun.

Vacation Momma, however, is a blast!

Vacation Momma and crew stay at a kid-friendly resort that offers planned activities throughout the day. Vacation Momma signs up for nearly half the activities including 9 am aqua aerobics. That's right. Vacation Momma is a health nut who thinks exercise is actually good for the heart and soul.

Question: When was the last time I took an aqua aerobics class in my hometown?
Answer: 1996

Vacation Momma managed to take several classes in one week. That woman is something else.

After aqua aerobics she shepherds her children to a craft activity where they make seashell picture frames. Vacation Momma thinks this is such a clever idea.
She wants the kids to make them at home and give them to grandparents, aunts, uncles, and teachers for Christmas! She realizes she just needs a few frames, hot glue, and approximately 6500 shells. This leads her on a mission to find 6500 perfect shells.

I just want to go on vacation and vegetate on the beach.
No time to sit and relax for Vacation Momma! Vacation Momma drags herself up and down the beach looking for 6500 perfect shells. She is completely delusional about the fact that once she gets home, she will be replaced by ME. Once they return home, Vacation Momma will vanish and I will throw those shells away because they will smell like rotting sea creatures. Other than Martha Stewart, who makes seashell frames for Christmas? In March?

Don't judge her, but Vacation Momma likes her liquor. Never before breakfast, but usually before noon. After all, it's five o'clock somewhere (a daily expression she says half a dozen times between 11 a.m. and 5 p.m.)

Vacation Momma is all about having a good time.
The kids are still chewing their lunch and she is encouraging them to get back in the water. None of this namby pamby wait 30 minutes or you'll get a cramp and die stuff. No, Vacation Momma wants her kids busy, busy, busy so they will pass out early, early, early.

On this topic, Vacation Momma and I completely agree.

How Sweet it is to be a Bobcat

Once upon a time, in a land tucked away in the hills of Southeastern Ohio, existed a small college town.

College towns exist across this nation, but this town is different. This town is full of Bobcats. These Bobcats are a passionate, fun-loving, hard-working, devoted bunch.

They like to hang out at places with funny names like the College Green, The Pub, The Crystal, The Donkey, Radar Hill, Brenen's, Baker, and a few can even be spotted at Alden...Alden Library for those Bobcats who have no idea what I'm talking about.

Every year new Bobcats join the pack, and every year an equal number is forced to leave the den. New Bobcats roam the town wide-eyed for several weeks before catching their footing and blending in with their fellow Bobcats. The older Bobcats leave the den after 4 or 5 or more years several memorable years. Those Bobcats spread to the far corners of the world but remain faithful to that college town with its brick streets and beautiful, rural scenery. Most make it back at some point to see old friends and to visit old stomping grounds. A few Bobcats, the luckiest ones, stay in that college town even after most of their Bobcat peers have left.

Bobcats have been roaming this region since 1804.
Then in 2012 something sweet and spectacular happened.
Some have referred to it as a Cinderella story, but everyone knows that Cinderella relied on the magic of her fairy godmother. There is no magic in this Bobcat story. This story is about the hard work of a few and the tremendous spirit and pride of an entire Bobcat Nation.

A small group of talented Bobcats, led by wise elder Bobcats, took all of Bobcat Nation on a remarkably exciting journey. The journey was full of adversaries, and this group of Bobcats needed all the support they could get. All Bobcats, those still in that rural college town and those that had left the den, came together to loudly and enthusiastically support their fellow Bobcats.

The Bobcats rose up from hardwood floors and pounced on creatures who attempted to bring them down. They were so good at defending their turf that they traveled to a town called Nashville to see if they could hold their own under brighter lights and bigger pressures.

A fierce pack of wolverines approached from a northern place. Although the wolverines were tough, their arrogance far outweighed their fierceness. The wolverines seemingly had no idea what a Bobcat was so their arrogance was only matched by their ignorance. The Bobcats defeated the foolish wolverines while the frenzy in Bobcat Nation grew.

The Bobcats then faced scrappy and determined bulls from the south. The Bobcats lost their footing briefly but rallied back to defeat the bulls. Bobcats now walk a little taller and feel a little stronger.

The Bobcats will now travel to a town called St. Louis. The lights will be brighter and the pressure higher as they face the Tar Heels. Bobcats everywhere are breathless with anticipation. No one really knows what a Tar Heel is, but Bobcats are preparing for battle.

This may be their last battle before they return to their very proud college town. Or perhaps they have more battles ahead of them.

The Tar Heels should know that the Bobcats are capable of anything. The Tar Heels would be foolish to underestimate the skill, power, and sheer determination of this team of Bobcats. The Bobcats, and all of their faithful fellow Bobcats, are in it to win it!

The truth is, no matter what happens, it's sweet to be a Bobcat! Really sweet.

Go Bobcats!

My Family's Honesty is Overrated

Did you read my last post?

Do you know I order swimsuits online instead of going into stores because I don't want perfect strangers to hear my shrieks of disgust and horror? I only like to shriek in the privacy of my own home while around those individuals who are supposed to love and support me. "Supposed" is the operative word here.

My new swimsuit arrived in the mail. I was actually able to squeeze my body into it. The color was perfect because it was black and everyone knows black is "slimming."

I started feeling optimistic. I left the privacy of my bathroom and ventured through my house to get the opinions of others. This was a mistake.

I found my husband in the kitchen:

Me: I need you to be totally honest. Do you like this swimsuit?

Hubby: Hmmmm.

Silence

Hubby: Does the ruffle bother you?

Silence

Hubby: I mean, (awkward pause) I guess I don't really know what is in style these days?

Silence

Hubby: Am I (awkward pause) really bad at this?

By now I am headed away from horribly honest hubby towards judge #2. I find her reading in bed.

Me: Do you like this swimsuit?

Tween: (With barely a glance towards my albino white skin and new, jet black swimsuit) Yeah, yeah. It looks great. (Now a 2nd glance, followed by an expression of utter horror.) Do I see your private hair?!

I turn to flee from her room.

Tween: Now I see your butt crack!

I head back to the privacy of my own room. Of course, I don't actually get any privacy because I never get what I want my son appears.

Me: Do you like this swimsuit?

Son: Yes.

Me: Really?

(I'm shocked. For a brief moment I think my son and I are the only two people in the house with any sense of style.)

Me: What do you like about it?

Son: It's better than the other ones.

(And for the record, he is smiling as if the disgustingness of my other swimsuits has been weighing heavily on him. He's finally able to unburden himself with the secret that his mother has some pretty ugly swimwear.)

Would it be so hard for my family to just tell me that the swimsuit was poorly made, and I deserve better? Please lie to me.

I CANNOT HANDLE THE TRUTH!

Swimsuit Shopping Season

Swimsuit shopping season is upon us as evidenced by the endless stream of catalogs with scantily clad models on the covers.

Swimsuit shopping season coincides with the time of year when I practice self loathing and binge eating.

I flip through the swimsuit catalogs while munching on healthy foods like Doritos and newly arrived Girl Scout cookies. Yes, I'm leaving orange cheese stains on each page as I belittle myself for not having more self restraint.

I have yet to find a swimsuit model in my favorite beach pose: spread eagle on a towel with a frozen drink in one hand and a half empty bag of chips in the other. The swimsuit is covered with a generous sprinkling of chip crumbs, and the model is 3 sheets to the wind.

If I ever see a swimsuit being modeled this way, I am definitely ordering that suit!

I've learned the best way to shop for a swimsuit is to buy from online catalogs.
No one wants to hear my shrieks of disgust or sobs. Everyone is happier if I try on the swimsuits in the privacy of my own home.

Another benefit of ordering from catalogs, of course, is that I do not own one of those evil, three-paneled, fun-house mirrors that are always found in dressing rooms with the brightest of fluorescent lighting. The downside of trying a swimsuit on at home is that I do not own one of those evil three-paneled mirrors.

I have no idea what my backside looks like which is a good thing. I last saw my backside in 2008, and I decided that I never needed to see that mess again.

Here's the thing I really don't understand. How did the back of my thighs become puckered and jiggly?
Is this normal? Don't answer that question.

Like every woman on this planet, I just want to find a swimsuit that fits me well and masks all of my various physical flaws. For this reason, I'm considering moving to Alaska.

Advertisers think they are being helpful by telling us in code which swimsuits would flatter us. The problem with this is that I don't always understand the code.

Am I a triangle, an upside down triangle, a rectangle or a star? Do I need tummy support and a miracle bra lift or just all over support? Should I buy a swim mini or a swim skirt? Do I need high cut, regular cut, regular torso or long? It's all too confusing!

Can the advertisers just label the swimsuits a little more clearly?

Honestly, I won't be offended. I would just like to see a page that reads, "If you have puckered, jiggly thighs buy one of these 2 swimsuits. We recommend sticking to black."

(OK. That's a bold-faced lie. I will be TOTALLY offended, but I'll get over it. I'll put on my big girl panties, and I do mean big girl, and get over it.)

Swimsuit shopping is stressful enough without having to decipher a code in the process.

Now, where did I hide that box of Thin Mints?

Bowling Alley Bliss

The idea was nice. Celebrate my son's 9th birthday at a bowling alley.

Here was the vision:
Have son invite 4-5 of his closest friends to the bowling alley so they can have fun bowling.

Here was the reality:
Have son invite 4-5 of his closest friends to the bowling alley even though not a single one of them knows the first thing about bowling. Feed these wild creatures pizza, cake, icing, more sugar and fill them with caffeinated beverages. Give them each a seven to ten pound ball and see what happens.

Yes, we live dangerously. No one was actually struck on the head with a bowling ball, but we came close a few times. No one actually lost a finger in the ball return, but we came close a few times. There was no blood loss during the party so I am calling it the longest two hours of my life a HUGE success!

Both of my children have birthdays in March. I am a lazy clever mother so my daughter had her birthday party at the bowling alley at the exact same time as her brother.

Here was the vision:
Have daughter invite 4-5 of her closest friends to the bowling alley so they can have fun bowling.

Here was the reality:
Have daughter invite 4-5 of her closest friends to the bowling alley so they can be greatly perturbed by the ridiculous 8 and 9 year old boys one alley away from them. They pick the brightest of bowling balls with total disregard for weight. They remain utterly annoyed if a silly boy even attempts to use one of their balls, and they fret incessantly that the boys may score more points during the game.

Their fear, of course, was totally irrational because the boys' balls managed to go any number of places other than down the alley. As a general rule, it is a bad idea to toss bowling balls into the air.

Two hours of bowling with two different sets of children taught me a few things:

Children's frontal lobes are not fully developed so never underestimate how stupidly they can behave.

8 and 9 year old boys love to talk about farts and wedgies while 10 and 11 year old girls like to bowl.

Caffeinated beverages are to 8 and 9 year old boys what crack cocaine is to the rest of us.

10 and 11 year old girls can get excited about bowling shoes. They also think its fun to spin, curtsey, and bow after each turn.

8 and 9 year old boys like to jump up and down while making farting sounds after each turn.

Birthdays come once a year.
(You can't see me, but I'm so happy about that fact that I'm jumping up and down while making fart sounds!)

My Daddy is a Pageant Star

How many kids can say that? Mine can!

Yes, this will practically write itself.

My husband is a pageant star.
Can I say that one more time?

My husband is a pageant star.

Honestly, that must be the strangest sentence I have ever written. The words "my husband" and "pageant star" are so grossly unrelated that I can hardly understand the sentence, and I wrote it!

Hubby works at a university (it happens to be the same university my BFF, Matt Lauer, attended, but that's another story altogether). Hubby was asked by a service fraternity to be in the pageant which is an annual event to raise money for St. Jude's Hospital. The fraternity finds several suckers faculty members to volunteer to be in the pageant. It's a creative idea for a wonderful cause.

Like any supportive wife, when I learned hubby was asked to participate, I spent nearly 5 minutes laughing before I could ask, "What's your talent?"

I was momentarily worried that this opportunity to mock my husband would unravel should we be unable to identify his talent. I suggested he sing. Not because he can, but because it would make the entire evening all the more enjoyable for me.
(Insert evil laughter here.)

I nominated myself to be his manager. I watched an episode of "Toddlers in Tiaras" in hopes of getting some good tips. Instead, I ended up with indigestion and night sweats. Are those people for real?

As it turns out, hubby juggled while wearing a clown wig and a red nose.
Seriously.
His bitchy manager didn't even suggest the wig and the nose. It was all his idea.
Yes, his gonads are the size of melons.

Sadly, there was no swimsuit competition and a tiara was not required.

In the end, he was not crowned the pageant winner, but in our house he is a total pageant star!

Nobody else in our house can say that...blessedly.

Rush Limbaugh: Portrait of a Man Baby

I am no more surprised that Rush Limbaugh said something offensive and rude to a woman as I am that Spring follows Winter.

I could spend the next several paragraphs outlining the offensiveness of his language and tone towards a particular woman. I could point out that by calling her a slut and a prostitute, he was showing disrespect for all women. I am resisting calling him names like bully and foul-mouthed, narcissistic, Viagra-loving ass. I could rant about his behavior for hours. I could go on and on and on. Behind closed doors I already have. Just ask my husband.

Rush regularly appears to be an insensitive, hypocritical man who lacks any moral compass. I suppose his choice of words and his erroneous analogies shouldn't surprise any of us. His verbal dung flinging attacks are nothing new except he targeted a private citizen. Someone like you and someone like me.

As difficult as it may be to imagine, once upon a time Rush was a baby who needed his mother's milk to survive. Now he's a man baby who needs the milk of advertisers.

Just the thought of Rush as an infant, created a perverse need to know more about his family. So like every other American, I turned to Wikipedia for my facts.

I half expected to learn that he was raised by a pack of wolves as this would be one explanation for his love of carnage. Turns out he comes from a long line of lawyers and judges. That's pretty close to being raised by wolves, right?

He dropped out of college. According to Wikipedia, his mother reported, "he flunked everything." You've got to appreciate a woman who doesn't sugar coat her son's failures.

His father passed away in 1990 and his mother passed away in 2000.
Rush is parentless.

With no mommy to guide him, he has become a rather pathetic Man Baby.
Look at how we have had to parent him this past week:

He says something outrageously offensive. We point it out to him.
"Rush, honey, you can't call a perfect stranger a slut and a prostitute. That's rude."

He seems unfazed by the rebuke so we start taking loads of cash things away.
No more play dates for Rush. Quicken Loans doesn't want to play. Sears and AOL decide to go play in another sandbox.

This seems to get his attention so he sort of apologizes.
Moms know this type of apology well. It lacks appropriate eye contact and is said to the ground with a tone that translates to, "Fine, I said I'm sorry. Can I have my toys back now?"

"No, Rush. You need to apologize and actually mean it."
Rush tries again. He tries three times in a row in one day alone. Only this makes Rush seem desperate, defensive, and no more sincere. Moms know that no one wants to play with a desperate, insincere child.

How all of this will play out remains to be seen. Will the pathetic Man Baby find anyone who accepts his apology? Will his friends return to play with him? Will he ever morph from a Man Baby to an actual man?

I don't know. What I do know is this:

What the sad, little Man Baby really needs right now is a time-out.

Rush, go sit quietly in the corner. We don't want to hear another peep out of you.

Leave My Ovaries Alone

If you are sensitive to the foul language of sailors, you may want to stop reading. Although I don't come from a long line of sailors, I'm about to rant vulgarly.

First, I should say that my ovaries and I have not always been on speaking terms. Those two can be scheming, conniving ladies who have caused me my fair share of pain and suffering.

As a woman who has struggled with infertility, I realize the irony of me standing up and telling politicians to back away from the birth control issue. While they're at it, they can leave Planned Parenthood the hell alone, too!

I mean really, should the Duggers be the family we all aspire to be? Really?

I have the right to do whatever I want to do with my ovaries and reproductive tract because they are MINE!! Mine! Mine! Mine! (I learned this kind of language from my children).

I suppose next you're going to tell me how many children I can have? That's really worked well for CHINA!

After that, I suppose you'll tell me with whom I can procreate. I'm totally against that. (Unless of course you think George Clooney and I should...you know...)

Listen up, politicians!

You are not the sharpest tools in the shed.
I understand that so I'm going to talk veeeery slooooowly.

If we didn't provide you with your daily dose of Viagra, how would that make you feel?
Fine? Really?
Well, how about if blood poured from your penis every 28 freaking days?
How would you feel about that, Hot Shot?

Aren't there more important issues you could address?
Given the current economic climate, for example, perhaps you could focus on the "E" word.
I'll give you a clue. It rhymes with autonomy.
Yes, the ECONOMY deserves your attention and thoughtful consideration - not my reproductive tract!
Incidentally, autonomy is what I have with my ovaries and uterus. You can leave those gals alone.

I CANNOT BELIEVE A BUNCH OF OLD, WHITE, MALE POLITICIANS THINK THEY KNOW WHAT WOMEN SHOULD DO WITH THEIR REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEMS!!

Anyone else have the urge to burn your bra in the middle of the street or do I just need to take another Midol tablet?

I suppose if we were talking about the politicians' testicles, they would feel differently.

Never mind. I'm totally wrong about that. You know why?

These politicians don't have any balls.