'Twas the Night Before the Night Before Bunion Surgery

Twas the night before the night
Before bunion surgery
When all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a mouse

The children were nestled
All safe in their bed
While visions of pretty feet
Danced in my head.

Me and my bunion,
With the rest of my foot,
Had just settled down,
But sleeping was moot.

When out of the blue
My brain started to clatter.
I sprang from my bed
To see what was the matter.

Away to the bathroom
I ran like a pro
Tore off my slippers
And stared at my toe.

My bunion was huge
And angry at me.
I glared at it and...
I swear it starred back at me!

When what to my wandering eyes
Should appear
But a bottle of Ambien
To help me, my dear!

With a twist of the cap
And a swig full of water,
I knew I would sleep
I could not falter.

More rapid than eagles
The sandman did come.
I greeted him warmly
And then I went numb.

Zzzzz

10 Reasons Why I Won't Be Running a Marathon

I have friends running in a marathon this weekend.  There are really only ten reasons why I won't be participating, and I'm just sure you will understand.

Reason #10
I have two energetic children, one cat with bowel problems, another cat with a sensitive gag reflex, and a full-time job outside of the home.  Every day is a marathon.  Why would I voluntarily run another one on a perfectly good Saturday?

Reason #9:
Sweat.  Some women glow when they sweat. I just sweat. I sweat a lot.  I sweat in places I didn't know I had sweat glands.  And my sweat smells. And not like roses.  Once I got sweat in my eyes.

Reason #8
Sweat stings when it gets in my eyes, and I have a low threshold for that kind of discomfort when exercising.

Reason #7
Fear of death.  You know people do die while exercising.  It's true. 100% of people die after exercising.  It might be years or decades later, but they do die.

Reason #6
My exercise bra is a death trap. It's difficult enough to put it on dry, but taking it off while it is soaked with my sweaty sweat is a feat of athletic prowess. I've been trapped in my exercise bra in the past and it's a horrifying experience. I would have called 911, but I don't want anyone seeing me hanging half in and half out of an exercise bra that for some reason shrinks to half it's original size when soaked in my smelly sweat.

Reason #5
Is there an intermission in a marathon?  No, I don't think so.  I have needs. I need snacks and pee breaks. Since running walking traveling by foot for over 26 miles would take three days minimum, I'm a little unsure how to have my basic needs met.

Reason #4:
Crying in public is embarrassing. Yes, I cry when I'm sad, hungry, and feeling intense pain.  I'm fairly certain I would cry publicly for 24.6 miles.

Reason #3.
My bunion is the size of Texas.  That's right. I have a bunion that will not fit in Ohio. My bunion could kick your bunion's ass.  When I run, my bunion turns red and angry. I don't like it when it's angry.

Reason #2
I would get lost. I don't care how well marked the course is, after several miles of running I know I experience loss of blood flow to my brain.  All the blood seemingly pulls to my gigantic bunion. With the loss of blood flow to my brain, my brain becomes incapable of following simple tasks like following arrow signs or being able to stay on track.

Reason #1
I own a car. The last time I wanted to travel over 20 miles, I went by car.

Good luck to all my running friends.  My bunion and I wish you the best.

Who's Your MAMA A**?

Who's Your Mama Ass?

There is a code. A secret code. Women don't talk about it much. I'm about to break from tradition and put it all out on the table, so to speak.  Mom, please stop reading.

After attending "Not Your Mother's Tuperware Party," I acquired some...um...marital aids.  You know what I'm talking about, right?

Here's the thing about marital aids:  you must keep them somewhere.

That may sound obvious to non-neurotic people who don't stress over every detail of their life.  But where do us neurotic people keep them?

A logical spot is somewhere in the marital chamber bedroom.  But where?

The key is to find a spot no child will ever be interested in opening like your underwear drawer.  Or a place no housekeeper would accidentally stumble upon like the back of your closet.  Or maybe you're more decadent about your marital aids and you keep your swing and whips in a separate red room that is locked to keep intruders out and sex slaves in.  Hey, I don't know.  Maybe you are kinky in a Fifty Shades sort of way.

The point is, if you own marital aids then they are in your house.

That's all fine and good right up to the point when you die.
When you die someone will need to pack up all the things in your house.  I am sure this will involve judgement even in a marital aid-free home.

When I die people will know what an absolute slob I am.  When they move my couch, they will discover I never cleaned behind it nor did I ever clean up the mass of crumbs, pencils, hair balls, and other items that no doubt live in the couch cushions.  Nah, I'm not cleaning there.

Although I'll be dead, I'm still confident I won't like the idea of people talking about what a slob I am. Having said that, I'll be dead so there isn't much I can do about it, right?

Wrong!

The crap under my couch is small potatoes compared to the marital aids issue.  It's one thing to remember me in death as a slob who cared little for house cleaning.  It's quite another for people to learn I was a kinky horn dog who owned an odd assortment of creams and lotions that heat up and taste like hot fudge sundaes.  I would, quite literally, roll over in my grave.  (In fairness to me, there is tremendous pressure to buy these "goodies" at parties designed to wake up the teenager in you.  Peer pressure isn't just a teen issue. AND who can resist an edible cream that has zero calories and tastes like a hot fudge sundae?  But I digress...)

The point is every woman who owns any marital aid lotion, contraption, gizmo, equipment, device, gadget, or tool needs a MAMA ASS.

What's a Mama Ass?  Well, it's code for:  "Mourn After Marital Aids Are Secretly Secured."

Mama Ass friends know they have a HUGE responsibility.
When my Mama Ass learns I have died in a freak accident, that is hopefully totally unrelated to marital aids, she will make a beeline to my house.  She has a key to my home, she knows where to go, and she knows what to do.  She doesn't have time to mourn my untimely death.  She needs to dispose of all evidence of my sexuality. Get. It. Out. Of. There. Pronto!

After I'm dead, she pledges not to breathe a word to anyone about the loot she has unearthed.  She can also consider it the oddest inheritance ever!

If she has time to sweep the floors, clean the windows, fold the laundry, and dust behind the couch, that would be great, too.  Are you reading this, Mama Ass?  If so, the Windex is under the kitchen sink.

Who's your MAMA ASS?

Smoke Signals: My Tween Better Master the Art of Reading Them

According to my "well-informed" tween, "everyone" in 6th grade has a phone. 

(Note to "reader":  This "well written" monologue will be heavily "punctuated" with words in "quotes." I do this so you can better "appreciate" the way my "delightful" tween "communicates."  She is a big fan of using "quotes" when she talks in an effort to "prove" her "sophistication.")

Perhaps it's because my daughter is dogged in her advocacy for a phone or perhaps it's because my husband knows I've already started Christmas shopping (started about 9 months ago, but my husband only became aware of it last week). Whatever the reason, my husband has sent me two articles in the last two days about the absolute horrors of cell phones.

I believe he is worried I will lapse into a manic shopping frenzy and accidentally purchase a cell phone for my daughter. I assure you this won't happen unless I find a really good deal at Walmart.

The point is, my hubby and I are totally freaked out about sexting.
I think we both know what horrible decisions my hubby would have made had he had a phone as a tween. Me, on the other hand, I was totally "angelic."

My hubby e-mailed me (Yes, emailed.  We have been married for 16 "glorious" years and we are great "communicators.") the results of a study showing that over 20% of high school students have "sexted" and over 31% had been asked to "sext."  That's an enormous amount of peer sexting pressure!

That e-mail tidbit was followed by one with a link to this article in Scientific American. If I understand it correctly (and I'm not sure I do because I was reading it from my phone), we are happier when we are not near a phone.

This is ironic because my phone is in another room right now and that makes me feel anxious.
Am I missing your call at this very moment?
Or did you just text me something with a "mega funny" autocorrect error?
Now I'm itching. I gotta go get my phone.  Hold on...........................
Ok.  I'm back. Miss me?

The point is, our relationship with our tween is already precarious unpredictable at times complicated developmentally appropriate. Why would we want to do anything to make it worse?

However, a phone doesn't just mean my tween will be able to text until her fingers bleed while sending naked pictures off herself into the stratosphere.  A phone would also give us, her neurotic parents, some amount of peace of mind. If she needs us, she could call.  If we need to talk with her, we could text her.  There are benefits. I get that.  I just remain concerned the benefits don't yet outweigh the risks.

For this reason, she needs to learn the ancient art of reading smoke signals.
That would solve everything!

Lol. Ttyl!

The "V" Word as in VAGINA

I am raising children so there is a laundry list of words and word combinations which can get you in trouble in my house.

Imagine hitting your thumb really hard with a hammer.
All of the possible words and word combinations you might say at that moment are banned in my house. This is one reason why I don't work with tools. I just can't risk the flood of profanity that would inevitably flow from my mouth. That, and I completely loathe home projects that involve tools, but I digress.

In addition to the obvious bad words, other really foul language like stupid-head, moron, and shut-up are also banned. I have tried banning "fart-face," but the alliteration coupled with the giggles makes the word difficult to ban in a house where 50% of us are children and 75% of us act like children.

You know what word is not banned in my home?
Vagina.

You want to know why?
Because it is an actual part of the female human body.

Children are curious creatures who have all sorts of questions.
It's hard to get all worked up over words that are body parts. We don't typically sit around talking about vaginas and penises, but I try not to overreact when the words are uttered. I might sweat a little and breathe easier when the questions have subsided, but I don't totally freak out prohibit our children from talking in the house for a day.

Why don't I ban the kids from talking in the house if they say the word vagina?
Well, because that is maybe the most asinine idea I've ever heard.

So help me understand why Michigan's male Speaker of the House banned two female state legislatures from speaking on the House floor because of comments they made which included the "V" word. Glad I don't live in that house!

"They will not be recognized to speak on the House floor today after being gaveled down for their comments and actions yesterday that failed to maintain the decorum of the House of Representatives."

The "V" word can get awfully messy all on its own, but I've never really thought the word itself would reduce the decorum of the House of Representatives. Isn't that what the elected officials do?

Wow! That is one powerful vagina! I mean hotpocket! Can I say "hotpocket"? What about "hoohoo"? Is "vajayjay" permissible? Oh, I'm so confused!

I can think of all sorts of "V" words that make my skin prickle. For example, varicose veins, venereal disease, vampires, and viagra give me the willies. The scariest and most dangerous word of all, however, isn't even a "V" word.

Nooooo, the scariest word is the "P" word. Politician.

When a male politician starts to make rules and laws about my lady parts, I want him to be banned from speaking in any house. Proper decorum demands it.

The Fairy I Fear Most

I'm certainly not afraid of the Tooth Fairy.
I know she is an unorganized twit that I could totally overtake, but I'm absolutely terrified of her evil cousin.

In our house we call her the Knot Fairy. Trust me, you don't want to tick her off.

She torments my daughter about 4 times a week.

She sneaks into my daughter's room at night and uses her fairy powers to create massive knots throughout my daughter's hair. Honestly, Medusa has nicer hair in the morning than my daughter.

The other day, the Knot Fairy actually left red yarn and a Littlest Pet Shop Toy in my daughter's hair. It looked as though the tiny chipmunk was imprisoned in a web of tangled hair and yarn.

The only thing scarier than the Knot Fairy is my daughter when she tries to undo the Fairy's knots.

My apologies to our neighbors who live within a ten mile radius of our home. That screeching, high pitched, going-to-break-glass sound on Tuesday morning was not an injured wild animal. It was my daughter extracting the Littlest Pet Shop toy from her mane of hair. Please send your hate mail to the Knot Fairy.

The fact that the Knot Fairy doesn't visit her brother only reinforces and strengthens my daughter's resolve to hunt down and destroy the fairy. I don't blame her.

She has recently resorted to braiding her wet hair each night. The Knot Fairy can't penetrate the braids, but you should see the Punk Rock hairdo those braids create in the light of day.

Just give the girl some leg warmers and a friendship pin and she's a flashback to 1981.

Poor child.

You Call it a Water Park; I Call It A Bio-Hazard Experiment

My family recently returned from an overnight trip to a water park.

I am waiting to see what types of fungi sprout on our feet.

We arrived at the hotel on a Saturday afternoon and immediately made a beeline for the water park. It was a cold, drizzly February day outside, but inside the water park it was a humid 87 degrees. Ripe for growing all sorts of fungal goodness.

The smell of chlorine and the sound of screaming children filled the air.
We spent hours, and hours, and hours frolicking in the lazy river and climbing 10 flights of stairs so we could hurl ourselves down wet and wild slides. Oh what fun we had!

My fun started to wane as an algebra problem formed in my mind. Leave it to math to ruin my day.

Remember the following equation: if a = b; b = c; then c = a ?

Well, then follow this logic:

Daughter takes strand of her own wet hair and places it in her mouth.
Mom looks out across crowded water park full of children.
Mom reflects on how utterly void of children the restrooms seem to be.
Mom realizes (duh!) the water park's lazy river is actually the world's largest urinal.
Mom looks at daughter and knows with absolute certainty that daughter is sucking other children's urine out of her hair.

I suppress the urge to shriek, "Out! Out! Everyone out of here NOW!"
Instead, I look at my tween and calmly say, "Oh, Honey, don't suck your hair. Other kids may be peeing in the water which means your hair is dirty."

My tween looks at me like I am clueless.
She continues to suck on her urine-rich hair.

I throw up in my mouth, but I swallow it (vs. throwing up in the water so my daughter can later suck it up via her hair straws). That's love, people.

How much urine and other bodily fluids can one water park contain before no amount of chlorine can keep the water clear blue and mask the smell? I honestly think they are performing some sort of science experiment!

Meanwhile, hubby approaches coughing and claims the chlorine in the air is burning his eyes and scratching his throat. He continues coughing. My son approaches from another direction. He has slipped and his elbow is bleeding. I am certain this will result in an infection from the mixture of urine and bacteria that must exist on every surface. He will likely lose his arm as a result of the impending infection. On the plus side, it's his left elbow that's injured and he is right handed. I take comfort in this.

Of course, I say none of this to anyone because I don't want to induce panic.
I am, however, happy to be out of the water park petri dish experiment.

My kids cannot wait to go back!

Skinny Jeans

Skinny jeans were specifically designed for skinny people. Skinny, young people. Advertisers may try to convince you otherwise, but any attempt to lure us 39-ish year old gals into skinny jeans is ridiculous.

I know this because I recently tried on a pair of skinny jeans.

Well, I never actually got them on. I managed to get them past my ankles and to my knees. That's when I realized there was no hope of getting myself all the way into the absurdly skinny jeans. Even if I had, I assume the jaws of life would have been needed to get me out of them. As a general rule, I try not to get myself into precarious situations while in dressing rooms. The jeans could have easily cut off circulation to half of my body, and the only thing I fear more than death is the fear of dying naked or even half naked.

(Interestingly, there is no name for that fear. Thanatophobia is the fear of death and Nudophobia is the fear of nakedness. I'm really not afraid of nakedness. I just want to have clothes on when I die. Seems like there should be a name for that fear. The fact that there isn't, makes me fear I am the only person who has a fear of dying naked. Good grief! Now I've added to my list of fears. Fear that I'm the only one who fears dying naked. Let's just call it Todiebucknakedchickphobia so I can move on.)

Sorry, I'm easily side-tracked. Back to ridiculously skinny jeans made for the ridiculously skinny...

I can count on one hand all of the 39-ish year old skinny women I know who wear skinny jeans. I hate each and every one of them.

Actually, I know only one. She is a miserable person. I'm sure if she would just eat a cheeseburger, she would cheer up. As it is, she is content to waltz around miserable in her skinny jeans.

I was once friends with a skinny person. She could recite from memory how many calories were in every food imaginable. She absolutely loved talking about caloric intake and exercise. We had absolutely nothing in common.

You need only know me for 20 seconds to realize my great affection for food. I would love to limit the amount of food I put in my mouth, but that would require something called "will power." I am not a superhero who has such powers.

Food brings me happiness and I just love happiness. I especially love happiness when it is deep fried and dipped in butter.

Life is frighteningly short. I would rather fill my proverbial plate with happiness than worry about squeezing my generously sized bottom into a pair of jeans designed for a prepubescent 11 year old.

I hope marketers are listening because I would like parachute pants to come back in style. They are forgiving, and by "forgiving" I mean you could stick an entire roast in there and it would go unnoticed (imagine the usefulness of that!). They are stain resistant and they come in a variety of colors. On top of that, I am fairly certain they could also be worn as pajama pants which would remove one more step from my already busy morning schedule.

The most shocking thing is that I never actually owned a pair of parachute pants when they were in style for that one month back in 1985. Now I'm suddenly toying with the idea of seeing if any are for sale on eBay!

Skinny jeans, you just met your match.... Imagine a world filled with happy women wearing a rainbow of parachute pants!