A Nearly Naked Man in a Tub with a Drill

I know the title sounds a little like the beginning or ending of a really bad joke.  

It's no joke.  It's my life!

Before I explain to you, dear reader, the reason I found my husband nearly naked in the bathtub with a cordless drill in his hand, I feel compelled to say, for the umpteenth time, I've got to learn to censor myself.  

Why do I feel absolutely driven to divulge this kind of information?  

Although it's a rhetorical question, I think the answer rests in my undaunted belief that someone out there in cyberspace will realize how wonderful their life actually is in comparison to my own.  Thus, I've done a good cyberspace deed.  OR someone will read this and think, "Yeah, the same thing happened to me!" Thus, I've done a good cyberspace deed again by proving to that poor soul that she isn't the only idiot on the planet.  Otherwise, I'm just completely embarrassing myself which would be no different from any other day.

None of this, of course, changes the fact that I saw my husband walking through the house in his bathrobe carrying his drill.  And by "drill" I mean his cordless drill.

I was curious and followed him.  

I found him in the bathtub, hunched over the bathtub drain, unscrewing the drain with his drill. Again, people, I'm being literal. It really was a drill.  

A clogged drain.  

Uh-oh. That cannot be good.

The water was suddenly not draining well, and he wanted to fix it.

Well, now I'm embarrassed.  I had just finished showering. The drain wasn't clogged when I showered.  I apparently had clogged it with one shower.   Impressive, right?

Stay with me.

I joined an aqua aerobics class recently because my foot hurts, and I wanted physical activity that wouldn't hurt my foot.  Before I get all the blame in this story, I need to add that my hubby is a health-nut and he encouraged me to join the aqua aerobics class.  He's partly to blame for the darn drain. 

Well, it's not really my fault I had to put on a swimsuit in the dead of winter.  The pool rules insist I wear a swimsuit while in the pool.  I would have preferred yoga pants and and a sweater, but I don't make the pool rules.

Do you see where I'm going with this?

It's the dead of winter and I'm hairy.  My winter coat is in full swing by mid January and nowhere near swimsuit ready.  Nowhere near it!

I had some serious landscaping to do if I was going to venture into a public area in a swimsuit.  I didn't want to scare young children. Plus it's hunting season in these parts, and I was looking a little like Sasquatch in a one piece swimsuit.  There is a show "Finding Bigfoot" and had they stumbled upon me pre-shave, they would have sworn they found their Bigfoot.  God bless Gillette. 

So there you have it.  I single-handedly managed to clog up the bathtub drain with my 6 pounds of shaved off hair.  

I would be more disgusted by this had I not just lost several pounds of weight in hair.

Hey, a pound is a pound. 

Super Bowl 2013 Recap

Did you see this year's Super Bowl? 

And what I really mean is did you see the commercials?

And what I really mean, ladies, is did you see the Calvin Klein underwear commercial?

Hello, Calvin Klein!

Talk about good advertising. I immediately had the urge to run out and buy my hubby Calvin Klein undies.  I'm hoping they come with the same amazing abdominal muscles as in that commercial.  Otherwise it's kind of like false advertising.

I'm being totally sexist, right?

Imagine if my hubby admitted his hope that my boobies would stand at attention and my thighs would firm up upon putting on Victoria Secret apparel.  Yes, I would dig a shallow grave in my backyard and put his Calvin Klein wearing ass in it.

No, there are no undies on the planet that suddenly create perky boobies and firm thighs.  Oh, how I wish!

Clearly, the Calvin Klein commercial was the crown jewel of the Super Bowl commercials, although Taco Bell's seniors rocked it as did Budweiser's Clydesdale.  Of course, Ram Truck's "So God made a Farmer" commercial is also a winner.

Now about that Go Daddy commercial...
My hubby tells me it took 40 plus takes to get the kiss just right. That poor, round, bespectacled child needed to kiss that skanky, blond model multiple times before getting the kiss "just right."  That's a strong work ethic!  I'm amazed by his ability to persevere.

The commercial was upsetting to me because it was one of the more slurpy-like kisses I've heard in some time.  It's hard to eat wings while listening to two people slurpy kiss.
I nearly lost my appetite.  Nearly, but not quite.  I still managed to suck down wings, beer, pizza, and chips.

Needless to say, I could really use some magical undies right about now!


Watch the "So God made a Farmer" video, share it with others, and the Ram brand makes a donation.  Help them raise $1 million to support FFA and assist in local hunger and educational programs.  Click here or go to http://www.ramtrucks.com/en/keepplowing/ for more information.

Shhhhh...Bob Greene Has Secrets

The other night I was sitting in bed, drinking wine, munching on chips carrot sticks while simultaneously browsing various apps on my handy, dandy iPad who I have affectionately named Paddy.

I see an article on my Flipboard App entitled, "Live Strong, Feel Great:  Bob Greene's 3 Secrets to Feeling 20 Years Younger."

The article is actually from 2011, so I have no idea why my favorite app is recycling this particular article.  It must only mean the app gods are trying to tell me something about my lifestyle.  As I sit in bed consuming a large amount of calories at 11:00 PM, I reflect on what message they could possibly be trying to send me.  Hmmm?

Anywho, I'm initially annoyed imagining how young I would feel had I read Bob's dang article two years ago.  Then I read the article, and I am THRILLED to report I am already following all three of his "secrets."

Here are his secrets and...Shhhhh...keep this on the down-low because it's a secret, after all.

(Please note, I am now whispering to you because that's my secret-sharing voice):

Secret #1 - Maintain an active social life.
Well, Bob, no problem there!  I'm happy to say I have over 300 Facebook friends who I report to daily.  They know when I'm having a good day or a bad day.  At least a few of them like what I have to say, and they sure share the Facebook love with me on my birthday.  Plus, I always have my good buddy, Paddy the iPad, by my side.

Secret #2 - Try some tofu
I tried tofu.  I have no intention of trying it again.  Enough said.

Secret #3 -Get active
Well, my index fingers are remarkably active and that should count for something, right?  They get quite a workout texting, Facebooking, and flipping through apps.  I really do have svelte fingers.  I suppose exercise could have the same impact on the rest of my body, but for now I'm going to just continue exercising my fingers.  I would hate to pull a muscle or something.

After following these three tips, I guess it means I should feel 20 years younger.  That means I should feel like a 21 year old.

Bob, I hate to argue with you since you're the fitness guru, but I am waaaaaayyyy too sober to feel like my 21 year old self.  Guess I should pour myself another drink to celebrate my youthfulness!

Waxing and Plucking Your Way to a Historical Moment

'Teen Mom' star, Farrah Abraham, can tell you the best way to remove unwanted hair from your toddler's face.  She learned the hard way, but persevered despite obstacles.  Such courage for a young mother!

Ms. Abraham attempted to wax her three year old daughter's eyebrows.  She then opted to pluck them when her waxing efforts failed due to her daughter's behavior.

The poor mom.  There she is trying to make her hairy three year old more beautifully hairless, and the child doesn't fully cooperate. Kids these days. They are just so ungrateful.

Everyone knows unibrows are ostracizing and no doubt the number one cause of bullying in the preschool - kindergarten age group.   A good mother will do everything in her power to protect her child from being victimized due to unwanted hair growth in the glabella region.  (For you trivia nerds, according to Wikipedia, the term "glabella" is derived from the Latin glabellus, meaning smooth.) Clearly, the child's glabella was not smooth, likely fuzzy at best, and Ms. Abraham was wanting to return the region to its intended texture.

Farrah Abraham didn't just attempt to wax her daughter's glabella eyebrows, fail, then pluck them while her toddler slept.  No.  She then had the courage to blog about the experience.

I'm sure her words resonate with mothers everywhere:

"So here I am faced with a standout historical moment in motherhood when I can confirm to myself that my little, adorable, most cuddle-able cutie, baby girl has a Unibrow :( , I felt bad for her..."

Yes, a "historical moment in motherhood."  My own tween is nurturing unruly eyebrows while I lack the courage to address it face on (pun intended).  As a lesser mother, I am strangely not overly concerned about that inch wide area between her eyebrows.  I am, however, moderately obsessed about the dangers of substance abuse, sexting, bullying, internet safety, and stranger danger.

Clearly my priorities are whacked.  I blame my own mother who allowed me to suffer with my own unibrow until at least middle school.  At that point, I was forced to pluck the unsightly hairs since I'm fairly certain wax wasn't invented for another eight years.

The point is, Farrah Abraham had the courage to stand up to the hair. She didn't wait until her child complained about it or until it looked like a small furry caterpillar had taken shelter between her daughter's eyes.  No, she faced the problem head on and never waxed and waned over the issue (pun intended again).

This is just one example of a hard-working mom making a difference on her daughter's face.
Score one for moms everywhere who think their daughters' eyebrows are the priority.

Look Out, Waistline, Here Comes My Mouth

My mouth has literally become the most impressive garbage disposal in North America.  

I can shove anything in there and it disappears instantly.

I know everyone thinks November and December are bad dieting months.  Everyone is busy making cookies and candies.  Large dinners are prepared and served.  Leftovers are consumed in record amounts.

Yeah, I get it.  It's a total bitch to diet in November and December.  I won't argue that.

Once the dust from the holiday settles, I can't just stop the beast.  She's been feeding since November and she won't go quietly into hibernation.  No way.  She needs fed.  Feed her!

Adding to the problem is the fact I know a bunch of generous people.  You know who you are.  Honestly, every person I saw between December 1st and January 1st gave me either candies, cookies, chocolate, or wine.  My friends know me so well!

How could I refuse them?  Did it ever even occur to me to re-gift these baggies of goodness?  Hello?  Of course not!

I just spent the last month shoveling all that goodness into me via my attached garbage disposal. Mmmmm, mmmmm, and mmmmm.

Now it's January and I can't just turn the switch off.  Noooo, I don't have that kind of willpower.

The monster needs fed and that monster is me.  Specifically my mouth, the largest most effective garbage disposal in all the land.

The other day I stood in front of the refrigerator.  I may have initially intended to clean out the refrigerator - as in throw items away.  Instead I decided to clean it out by eating as much as I possibly could while standing in front of it.  I didn't even bother fixing a plate of food.  I just snacked right from the fridge like a poorly trained man.

I would tell you what I ate, but I don't want you to lose all respect for me.  Oh, hell, who am I kidding?

I had a fistful of garlic stuffed olives, four spoonfuls of cheese spread, a bite (or two) of mashed potatoes, a slice of pumpkin roll, a chunk of pork, and a diet coke.  Don't point out the irony, I'm well aware of it.

I would have stopped myself after the olives, but I'm kind of scared to come between me and cheese.

Had I been thinking clearly in December, I would have asked Santa for a muzzle. Or, at the very least, a little self-control.

'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

The Ghost of Bunions Past

My grandmother had the ugliest feet on the planet. She was a lovely woman, but her feet!  

I would secretly sneak horrified glances at her feet.  While at home, she often just wore stockings on her feet since her bunions were the size of European cars. Its hard to find comfortable shoes that can fit a small automobile.  Her big toes never pointed forwarded and seemed to be red and angry all the time.

When my grandmother passed away, I thought I would never see her on earth again.  One day while showering, I looked down and saw her feet.

EEEK!  Her feet are now MY feet.
Honestly, some people inherit money, homes, china, or silver.
I inherited bunions the size of a small condo complex.  Lucky me!

Driven by guilt over never buying me quality shoes as a child, my mother insists I've had bunions since birth. I won't dispute this, although it's hard to fathom how I made it through the birth canal with these enormous bunions.

I don't recall ever having attractive feet. That's one of the reasons I like hiding them in cute shoes.  Now in addition to being hideous, they hurt. They hurt all the time.  They especially hurt in cute shoes.  This fact alone was enough for me to seek the help of a professional.

I finally dragged my unsightly bunions to a podiatrist for a little conversation.

The podiatrist, to his credit, did not shriek when I revealed my hideous feet. He examined the X-rays, rubbed my feet (which I secretly loved!), and then recommended that one of my bunions be removed.

This news really ticked off my soon-to-be-gone bunion who seems to be getting redder and angrier as the surgery date approaches.

On the plus side, I will be confined to my bed for 1-2 weeks while taking prescribed narcotics.  On the down-side, when I come out of my narcotic haze, my family may be buried under a mountain of dirty clothes and dirty dishes.

To be continued...

Cozy Feet Heated Shoe Inserts - Heaters (Google Affiliate Ad)

Exercise with Children

My husband is a health nut.  Well, to be fair, he's really more of an exercise advocate. He has, and I am not kidding you, only missed 2 days of exercise in over 2 years.  2 years!

He frequently sends me links to articles in hopes of encouraging me to get off my fat ass and exercise more.   The latest article "Lack of Exercise asDeadly as Smoking, Study Finds" seems to suggest that instead of just feeling guilty about not exercising, I could have been chain smoking instead.  Is there no justice?

So recently, in an effort to get him off my back show him I value his every word, I started exercising with my children.  This was a hair brain idea and you should not attempt this at home.  Seriously.  Don't do this.

First, I convinced my 11 year old to go for a run with me.  I was hoping for a slow 2 mile jog where we would watch butterflies fly by us while talking about boys, puberty, and my love for her.

Yeah, I'm a numbskull. 

Instead my daughter viewed this leisurely trot as a sprint event.  From a distance I realized my daughter resembled a gazelle.  At least, that was my impression as sweat (or was it tears?) poured into my eyes creating a blurry vision of my little girl smoothly gliding away from me.  She was graceful, fast, and focused.  It was beautiful to watch until she was so far ahead, I could no longer see her.   

She was sweet enough to circle back around to me.  

At that point, she looked puzzled as she asked, "Mom, when did you get so slow?"

I would have responded but I couldn't breathe. 

Two days later my ego was nearly healed when I decided to take my 9 year old son to the bike path.  I thought he could ride his bike while I ran behind him.  Well, that's a total joke.  No way could I keep visuals on him.  I certainly tried but my legs were no match for my son's biking speed.  I did draw stares from other runners as they passed me.  I can only assume they were overcome by the smell of blood, sweat, and tears emitting from every pore of my body. 

My son waited patiently for me and then asked, "Geeez, mom, did you take a break or something?" 

Again, I couldn't form an adequate response since I was unable to breathe.

I can only assume exercise is contraindicated for my physical well-being.

To celebrate my renewed, albeit limited, interest in exercise, I took the kids out for ice cream.   

Shhhhhh.  Don't tell my exercise advocate!

A Public Service Announcement for Men

"Do These Jeans Make Me Look Fat?"

Any answer short of "Hell no!" is the absolute wrong answer.

Listen up, Men. Some questions are disguised as opinion seeking questions but they actually have potentially lethal consequences.

The, "Do these jeans make me look fat?" is just one. Here are some other examples :

"Would you still love me if I lost all my limbs in a freak accident?"
"If I died, would you consider dating my best friend?"
"Don't you wish I had the same figure as when we first met?"

Any of the above questions could lead to your demise. No one actually wants to hear the truth. Truth is over rated.

Also, while I'm trying to keep this brief since I know you aren't really listening to me, I also want to add that you should not make any noise whatsoever when your significant other reaches for a second helping of potatoes. A cough, a sigh, a loud swallow can all be misconstrued for the following statement:

"Geeez, Lard Ass, lay off the carbs!"

Since you risk being misinterpreted, I suggest not breathing until your love is completely finished eating.

If you have any doubts about an appropriate response to any question or situation, consider saying, "You are right."

You MUST be sincere when saying this or you risk losing your own limbs in a freak accident.

This message was brought to you by a woman who is always right and who, incidentally, has exactly the same figure as she did 15 years ago. She knows this because her husband told her so when she asked him.

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?

The Most Magical Place in the World!

No, Silly, I'm not talking about Disney World. I'm talking about your local beauty salon!

Where else can an unfortunate woman with a mustache and a uni-brow enter with a mane of grey hair and leave with golden locks and a face as smooth as a baby's bottom? Mickey Mouse can't perform that kind of magic!

However, there is a dark side to beauty salons. A beauty salon can also be a house of horror, as I well know. I have countless salon stories. Every woman does. Let me share one of my earlier experiences...

I have thick, straight, fine hair. In my youth, hygiene was not a priority so my mother never knew what to do about my greasy, tangled hair. I managed to lose gum, pens, and small toys in my hair on a somewhat regular basis. Since brushing hair took so much physical effort on my part, I often chose to just focus on other things like picking scabs, chewing my toenails, and being "charming" to my parents.

For reasons that are not clear to me, except that it was the early 1980s (and we know that was a time of amazing styles and trends), my mother decided my hair was best kept in a short permed state. Think little orphan Annie. Every three months or so I was forced to sit in the salon and get a perm. I will maintain (as I did then) that this is a disguised form of child abuse.

Since I have no idea how to post pictures to this blog (remember, I am not as smart as a 5th grader), you'll have to rely on the mental picture I am about to create. Picture this:

A young, prepubescent girl of about 11 years old sits frowning. The girl is 5'9" when she stands up straight, but she is typically slouched in an effort to be 5'4" (yes, she was a freakishly tall 6th grader who was taunted endlessly by cruel creatures known as "boys."). Every tooth in her mouth is wrapped with costly silver braces. Blessedly, no head gear is involved. There is not a single ounce of fat anywhere on her body including any breast tissue (much to her chagrin).

Her mousy colored hair is wrapped tightly around perm rollers, and she is pouting in hopes of making her mother sense how truly miserable she is. (To this day she believes the pouting had absolutely no impact whatsoever on her mother. However, she is convinced it led to fine lines on her 39-ish year old face.
 Kids - Pouting never pays!)

She sits begrudgingly in one of a dozen salon chairs. The other chairs are occupied by women in their late 80s. Blue and white hair represent the majority in this salon, a sure sign that other 11 year olds were not out getting perms. After seemingly days of sitting, the rollers are taken out to reveal the tightest of curls. They are pubic-like and not a single strand falls below her earlobes.

She stands and looks in the mirror. She doesn't think of movie stars or beauty queens. No, she knows with absolute certainty that she most closely resembles a toilet bowl brush. The mousy color of her hair sadly suggests that it is a rather filthy toilet bowl brush at that.

She leaves the salon with the same attitude as when she arrived (miserable and generally annoyed with her mother). Upon entering the car she reaches under the seat for the one item she hopes will finally signal her utter hate of permanents and beauty salons.

She pulls out the brown paper grocery bag and places it over her head in a sign of quiet protest. She's been planning this moment and had the forethought to cut out eye holes and a mouth so that basic comforts like seeing and breathing are not compromised.

With the brown bag securely on her head, she turns to look at her mother who exclaims,
"Oh, for Pete's sake! You're being ridiculous! Those curls will soften over the next few days."

This, of course, is not true. I have school pictures to prove it!

Not Your Mother's Tupperware Party

**Warning: If you are nun or a Puritan do not read any further. This will embarrass you, and you will lose all respect for me in the process. I love the respect of nuns and Puritans so please stop reading.**


The rest of you, dirtbags, are curious about what kind of vulgarness I'm about to unleash, right? Well, here goes...


I attended my first sex toy party. I am 39-ish and I've been married for over 15 years.
I have never attended a sex toy party (gasp!). When invited, I thought I could go for "research" purposes.

Well, apparently I was raised by a Puritan nun.
I, myself, am as pure and clean as newly fallen snow on a winter's morn.
This was NOT your mother's Tupperware party!

My pupils are still dilated and my cheeks remain blushed. It's been days since the party.

First of all, did you know they make waterproof, electric sex toys?
That's got to be a safety risk. These toys resemble power tools except they are brightly colored and have clever names like "Mr. Dependable," "Thumbs-Up" and "Disco Stick." One even glowed in the dark. They cannot possibly be safe to take into the water.

I couldn't risk that type of purchase because the image of the newspaper headline announcing my death haunts me:

"MOM OF 2 DIES IN A FREAK DILDO ACCIDENT AFTER BATHING FOR 6 HOURS"

My other fear is that my nosy curious children would find one of these industrial sized toys rendering me shamed and speechless.

I suppose I could swing it around and convince them it's a light saber.
After all, it lights up, glows, and makes a strange humming sound.
'Show and Tell' would never be the same if one of these accidentally found its way to school via a child's book bag. The only way I could recover from such an incident would be to change my name and move out of state. Of course, I would have to take Mr. Dependable with me. He really is a sight to... um... behold.

Have you ever wanted a Merkin? Do you even know what I'm talking about?
A Merkin is basically a toupee for a cleanly shaved pubic area. These were not sold at the party which was really disappointing to me because I was hoping to see one. A Merkin can be made out of feathers, fabric, fur, or get this...someone else's pubic hair.

Again, I was obviously raised in a convent. Who would shave their nethermost parts and then glue someone else's pubic hairs to them? Who does this? I'm 99% sure my husband would pass out if my who-ha hairs were replaced by brightly colored peacock feathers. I know this because my husband was also raised by a Puritan nun.

I will confess that the edible body glitter caught my attention. Most of the lotions, creams, and glitter products were all flavored and edible. I wonder how many Weight Watcher points those are?

Now there's a marketing strategy they should explore further.
"Item is appropriate for use on nipples, genitalia, or as a lite dressing or marinade because it's only 1 calorie per serving."
Mmmm, nothing like a salad served with a side of "Nympho Niagra" lubricant.
No, I'm not making up these names. "Nympho Niagra" exists for all you nymph-o-wannabes out there. I am not one, of course, because I am married.

(sigh)
Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned sex?

Must I appear covered in body glitter, wearing edible undies, brandishing a whip, a fist-full of anal balls, and a small arsenal of electric toys varying from pocket-sized to jumbo-tron-sized? Is that really necessary? Do I really need handcuffs, a swing contraption that looks like a future insurance claim, and a costume in order to be sexy? If that's not enough, I then need to shave every single hair from my vajayjay and glue someone else's pubic hair to my who-who?

Is this absurd or am I just a total prude? Don't answer that question.

I think I was at the wrong party because what I really need is a plastic container that comes with an airtight lid. I'll take 4 of those, please.

A Message to College Girls

This is dedicated to a college intern who will remain nameless...

Once upon a time, I was you.

I was having the time of my life! My best friends were my roommates and I was surrounded by eligible bachelors. I set my own schedule and I could do as I pleased. This included ordering pizza at 2 in the morning and never suffering from heartburn or weight gain after eating half of it.

As I think about it, college was like living in a fantasy world. I even remember my father telling me, "These are the best years of your life," and I thought he was wrong!

College girls, these are some of the best years of your life.

Don't waste them worried about your waistline or your thighs. Ten years from now you'll see a picture of yourself from today and you will realize how beautiful you were.

If a young man buys you a drink or a meal, don't feel you owe him ANYTHING.
Chivalry is not dead so don't try to kill it.

Don't go out drinking without a good girlfriend by your side. Don't leave your girlfriend once either of you start drinking. Girl power is not to be underestimated.

Yes, Hairy Buffalo is an excellent drink. Don't drink it sitting down. Trust me on this. If you feel the need to sit down while drinking it, it's time to go home and go to bed (alone).

Beer goggles are invisible, but they most certainly do exist.

Say kind words about your fellow female counterparts. We can be our own worst enemies.

Don't cuss. Cussing makes you look like a @^€/#*! fool.

Bad boys are appealing to hang out with but they make appalling partners. Better to be alone than be with someone who doesn't accept you for who you are or who doesn't respect you.

Stop texting and put the cell phone down! In order to meet cute boys, you will need to actually look at them and talk with them.

A great place to pick up a cute boy is the grocery store. Seriously.

If you have the urge to get a tattoo, wait 24 hours. That cute dolphin on your butt cheek will eventually morph into a large sperm whale later in life.

Your mother is right. Keep your shoulders back and your chin up. A stooped woman is not what you aspire to be.

That statistics course you're taking is a necessary evil, and you will never use any of it in real life.
On the plus side, after graduation no one will ever ask about your GPA.

Don't let anyone make you think you can't accomplish what you want. You can and you will if you apply all the gifts and talents you have been given.

Don't forget to call home. Those people totally get you, even when you don't get yourself.

Of course, respect the advice of women older than you. One day you will be one of those women. That will happen sooner than you ever imagined possible.

GO BOBCATS!

Pimply Old Me

I was a very attentive student, and I am nearly certain my junior high health teacher never mentioned the possibilities of getting pimples in adulthood. Pimples are for teenagers and anyone on steroids.
I am neither.

So why am I nursing a pimple that is firmly rooted between my eyebrows?
My children asked what it was, and I told them I'm turning into a unicorn.
That happens after a certain age, right?

I did what any self-assured, confident woman would do in this situation.
I anxiously called a few friends and asked them how to dry up and hide my budding horn.
My friends are morons.

Toothpaste was the number one suggestion to dry it up. Well, didn't I look lovely.
Even my children mocked my minty-fresh horn. In addition to turning into face plaster, toothpaste does make you feel as if your skin is burning off. And we use this stuff on our teeth? No wonder my gums bleed!

In terms of coverage, concealer was recommended. Well, that may have worked better had the toothpaste not melted my skin and formed a sore the size and shape of Ohio between my eyes. As it is, the concealer was sucked up by my open wound creating a scab that only highlighted the large nub I was trying to conceal. Ironic, right?

I would like to ask the evil pimple gods why they chose to place this enormous puss-filled nodule in the center of my face. I was complaining to my husband who pointed out that he gets pimples, too. I asked to see them and guess what. He has one behind his ear. How is that fair? I told him my pimple could kick his pimple's ass.

I swear I am housing the mother of all pimples. I should name it.
Hmmm...Mount Pustule might be appropriate.

Now I'm online actually wondering if we should remortgage the house so I can afford face cream that guarantees that the pimple gods will never visit my face again. 100% guaranteed.

Tempting, but I've got to evict the one leasing space on my face first. It's scaring young children. I overheard my children talking while setting the dinner table.

My son said, "You can sit by mom tonight. I don't want to sit next to her pimple." Isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard? My pimple needs its own seat at dinner!

Because there is a comic in every family, mine is having a competition related to who has the best pimple jokes. After dinner, my daughter taped a third eye to her forehead and my husband said, "I would be pretty sure that Mount Kilimanjaro is in Eastern Africa if it wasn't clearly on your face."

Meanwhile, my son is visibly frightened by my pimple and is trying to avoid it (me) at all costs. Frankly, this is hard to do since the pimple seems to have its own blood supply and is growing rapidly.

On the bright side, once I rid myself of this 5th limb, I imagine I'll weigh 5 pounds less!

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!

I AM NOT A SUPERMODEL

Shocking, right?

If I were a supermodel, how would I have time to write such witty observations about meaningless things? I would be much too busy purging and traveling around the world with my boobs.

This is really not a rant about supermodels. I'm sure some of them are as lovely on the outside as they are on the inside. Wait. I said that wrong. Anyway, this rant is directed at companies who try to trick me into thinking I am a supermodel. You know who you are.

The other day I was innocently flipping through a secret catalog that had bras, undies, and other clothes for sale. The secret catalog will remain unnamed because it's secret, and I am an angel for not sharing what secret catalog it is.

The deals were amazing and everything in that catalog looked fantastic! I became absolutely convinced I would be unable to live another day without a sweater dress. I wanted it in camel, but they were sold out. I tried black, but no luck. I settled for winter white which happened to be the one the SUPERMODEL was wearing in the secret catalog.

My winter white sweater dress arrived in the mail. I gleefully tore into the package like Steve Martin in The Jerk. Reminiscent of the scene when he's squealing, "The new phone books are here! The new phone books are here!," I cheered, "My new sweater dress is here! My new sweater dress is here!"     I am such a chump.

First of all, the new sweater "dress" was really more like a long top. My voluptuous bottom was covered but my hamstrings were left exposed. This phased me less than the fact that I could see through the "dress." Seriously, is seeing pubic hairs through a dress not one of the more disgusting images you can envision?

I put on my spanks (because Oprah told me every woman needs a pair of spanks, and I will do whatever Oprah tells me to do). Well, spanks did not help the situation. Now instead of flaunting my thighs and nether regions, I looked like I inexplicably wanted to wear a long sweater over a strange pair of beige biker shorts. Who would wear that?? Not Oprah, I assure you!

I picked up the secret catalog to see if the SUPERMODEL in the picture was showing off her pubic hairs. I found the page and, I kid you not, she was sitting down with her legs crossed! I'll never know if that SUPERMODEL had pubes or not. (I'm thinking SUPERMODELS only have hair on their heads, but that's just my suspicion.)

That's the sad moment when I realized (for the billionth time, though I always seem to forget until the clothes arrive in the mail) that the secret catalog is full of clothes being worn by SUPERMODELS.

Sure, that string bikini is cute...on a 100 pound SUPERMODEL. Put my well used body into one of those things and it looks like my butt crack is actually trying to chew up and eat a pair of panties. It's not pretty.

Catalogs need to start showing clothes on us regular folks. I assure you, had I modeled that sweater dress for the secret catalog there would have been plenty left in stock!

I am not a supermodel.

I'm 40. How did this happen?

I vividly recall being a young girl and thinking that 35 was old. Ha! My younger self was an idiot, but boy did she have nice legs. I kind of miss her.

She was insecure, but she had a good heart. My younger self truly believed in happy endings and that good would conquer evil. You see, she was raised by decent, hard-working parents. They tried to tell her that life isn't fair, but as I stated earlier, my younger self was an idiot.

I'm only marginally smarter now. I've come to believe that one does grow wiser with age.

In fact, I've spent the last 4 decades growing wiser and wiser. Since the "Golden Rule" was emphasized in my upbringing, I've somehow managed to keep some of my wise observations to myself. Never saw any reason to inadvertanly hurt someone's feelings.

However, now that I'm 40 (eek), I seem to be losing some amount of self control over my mouth. I cant seem to keep my observations to myself any longer. So here goes...