This Bra Is Not My Home

How things work.

A while back, I went to this legendary lady, Miss P, at J.C. Penney who measures and fits gals (my gals, in this case) for The Perfect Bra.

This mythical beast is one that doesn’t cause unsightly bulges, add inches to an already ridiculously large chest (why do they sell 40D’s with gel inserts???) or cause upward spillage.

It covers, it forgives, it loves you long time.  It costs a fortune, but you don’t care because it lifts and separates.

After Miss P is done telling you to strip and stand there all half-naked in the bad light and evil mirror of dressing room doom while she does something out there, you know not what, she returns with armloads of brassiers and proceeds to manipulate your flesh in ways I have never before experienced.  I wouldn’t necessarily call it good, either.

By this time, whatever you originally had in the self-esteem department is lying on the floor like so many bitten off hang tags.  There’s nowhere to go but up.

I did not previously realize there are instructions for putting on a bra.  Miss P applied the bra, for there is no other word quite as fitting, then pushed, pulled, stretched and jerked me into it.  This happened a multitude of times.  Did I mention Miss P is a spinster?  Interesting.

When she was finished all this manipulation, she made me demonstrate it. It’s her job to fit women, then make sure her little pets are in capable hands.  When she was assured that I had mastered this task, she loaded me up with said bra and I was on my way.

Now, I have to admit it was worth the humiliation.  They made me look different, better in my clothes, or something unidentifiable.

But I neglegted to tell her that the bra was going to be put through the rigors of a breastfeeding toddler.

The industrial strength monstrosities I ended up with are now tattered, threadbear, missing hooks.  They separate, but I’m not sure lift is still the appropriate word.  Perhaps suspend would be better.

I hoisted up the underwires so many times over the last few months that they are weak and poking out of their channels.  When little one says “milk”, the elastic tries to loosen itself.

Maybe if I wasn’t so cheap I could just buy a really, really good nursing bra.  But I’m so close to the end, I can’t bring myself to do it.

Besides, I have my sights set on something with a little more sex appeal, a little less functionality.  Maybe something a little less JM, a little more MM.

I wish. Except for that whole overdose thing.

And You Thought I Was Weird!

I thought you might like to know what I do in my spare time, like when I’m not tickling unruly children into submission or washing away all thought of my stressful life with boxes of wine.

I fish animal skeletons out of creeks.

I caught a big one, ma!

This was a deer who made his untimely exit not quite long enough ago for his flesh to be completely gone.  But he made up for dying young by becoming a biology lesson for my four year old Ethan.  Since we had found the jawbone of a carnivore only minutes before, we compared teeth and learned the difference between them.

I thought I’d draw you in with shock value, then toss you this little kernel of beauty at the end.

My kind of pedicure.

This is one of my favorite places in the world to be.  It’s Otter Creek on the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia, about 40 minutes or so from my house and just downstream from the as yet undiscovered rotting deer carcass.  If only there was a “just pause it” for days like this.

Piecemeal: The Tortoise Wins Again

I’m in the process of printing out all the posts on this blog so I can look at them as a whole.  Essentially, I’m copying and pasting everything into one gigantic Word document.  And I’ll be damned if I don’t have a book’s worth of words.

I have spent nearly my whole life dreaming of one day being a published author.  But every time I’ve come up with some idea, I’ve looked at it as a whole and the thing was so intimidating I couldn’t even start.

But I’ve made myself sit here and type almost every day for months now, until my legs fall asleep and my ass hurts, and the more I write, the more I have to say.

I never believed all those people who say you just have to write sometimes whether you feel like it or not.

Until now.

Not everything that shows up here is a gem.  I know when I’ve written a dud, but if it’s polished enough, I’ll let it stand if it means I’ve met my personal deadline.  It’s an exercise in discipline for a person who is an expert procrastinator.

Like right now, I don’t know where to go with this.  But that’s okay.  I’ve given you another glimpse, another piece of amazing from me, whom I’ve never thought was all that amazing.

But maybe, just the tiniest bit, I kinda am.

Just to Hold Your Attention a Bit Longer

I’m busy working.  And not sitting on my ass all day because frankly, it’s killing me.  I’m too old for this, and too poor to buy some kind of ergonomic chair.

So I’ll throw you a bone every once and a while for the next week or so.

Savor them, make them last, meditate on these things.

Wisdom is hard to come by.

"When life hands you a lemon. Say, "Oh yeah. I like lemons. What else ya got?""— Henry Rollins

"When life hands you lemons, you gotta say, 'Fuck these lemons,' and bail." --Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Beating a Dead House

I have made no secret of my lack of housekeeping skills.  In fact, in a moment of folly I even posted photos.  Photos, people!

The Parent Bloggers Network is having another blog blast this weekend, compliments of Pledge Multi-Surface Cleaner, and I’m flouncing my shame around in public in honor of the event.

I sit right now in the middle of an architectural disaster.  A hundred year old house makes dust bunnies that reproduce faster than regular bunnies.  Coupled with my apathy about things like dusting, I could start some kind of farm here, if I thought the bunnies wouldn’t get lost amid the clutter.

So how do I clean?

Mostly, I move stuff around until I can reach a surface.  Then I wipe with whatever is handy – sometimes it’s a washcloth, sometimes a sponge, sometimes a shirt.  If a child happens to be wearing the shirt, it’s a bit more of a challenge.

Today I loaded up the truck with donations for a local thrift store.  I think I’m finally ready to let it all go.  I figure once I can find all the surfaces in my house, I’ll be more likey to clean them.  I do have one question about the Multi Surface cleaner, though.

Can I use it on the kids?

Because It’s Poetry Month

For your reading pleasure.

Finally! Scatalogical Saturday Has Arrived

Some time ago, a strange gentleman, obviously not a native English speaker, was kind enough to offer to return to my blog for “Scatalogical Saturday.”

I understand he is indisposed at the moment, but perhaps they have wifi that reaches his cell.  I don’t know.

But in honor of his probable return at some future date, I bring you:  poop.

I have refrained from titling this post with that particular word, in hopes that the pervs who constantly found my “to pee or not to pee” entry will not find this one.

See, I deal in poop.  It’s the currency of motherhood, the end result of what moms do.  My little Beckett, who all day long says, “daddydaddydaddydaddy,” when asked, “Who feeds you?”  Replies, “Mahi.”  That’s what my name sounds like when emanating from a beautiful baby named after a morose playwright.

About the poop:  I am a princess!  I am not supposed to be wiping asses and shaking solids into the toilet!  This is not what Disney geared me up for with all those movies.  I mean, hell!  Even Cinderella didn’t have to touch excrement and she was a flouncing* slave!**

So today, daddy comes in with Beckett and tells me, “It’s a big one.”

*Sigh.*

I plunk him in the bathtub to strip him because there’s just no other way to handle these things.  Ethan, being the odd duck that he is, wants to see it, insists on seeing it.

“Oh my god!” he says, and runs off.

Seconds later, he returns with his camera.

“I’ve got to get this on film!”

I’m betting it will never make the Disney cut.

*Flouncing.  Come on, aren’t you tired of freaking?  And frigging is so last decade.

**I am so not a princess.  I’m not even like a baroness twice removed or anything.  I might be a courtier or even a eunuch!  Or maybe I’m getting my terms confused.  Anyway, just so you know, I accept the shit because…wait for it…it happens.

Flouncing Friday

What?  What’s that you’re saying?

It’s FIBER Friday?

Huh.

Anyhoo, all you moms out there know about multitasking, right?  I mean, we think nothing of brushing our teeth while sitting on the toilet and paying bills,  or breastfeeding and typing (otherwise, the acronym “nak” wouldn’t exist).

We wash dishes and help with homework while we cook supper and listen to NPR’s All Things Considered.  Or Pantera.  Either way.

But how do you factor in exercising with something else?

My coworker Julie has a plan.  She bought this DVD to use as a work out.

It looks like fun.  And if I can look like that again (I can’t believe I ever did), it would totally be worth looking like a whore fool to anyone glancing in my HUGE front window.  Hell, maybe I’ll sell tickets.

As for the multitasking, Julie figures even if she doesn’t lose weight, at least she’ll know how to give a decent lap dance.

Clue Number One that Tivo has Taken Over

So we’re reading a bed time story last night, when Ethan decides he needs to go get something.

Me:  But I’m reading the story, and you’ll miss it.

Ethan:  JUST PAUSE IT!

Things That Make Me Happy, and Might Make You Happy Too If You Try Them

It’s Therapy Thursday again, in case you didn’t know.  So here’s my list.  Did I miss anything?

Pink Dogwood blossoms

Listening to The Beatles

Sloppy baby kisses on the mouth

Singing badly to really loud music when I’m in the car by myself.

Squishing my toes in the mud after playing in a steamy, hot, Virginia summer thunderstorm.

Making people laugh.

Writing.  And reading my own writing, which surprises me.

Dreaming about my non-existent patio, upon which Melissa and Karyn and Emma and countless others will sit and sip wine with me while the kids play in my back yard.

Growing food.

Digging up worms.  I’m serious.  Try it some time.

Getting really, really dirty in the real dirt (not fake amusement park dirty, not sticky and ew bathroom germ dirty), then taking a nice, hot shower and putting on comfy clothes.

David Sedaris publishing a new book.

Mountains.

Snowboarding.

And in case you think I’ve lost my edge with all this gratitude and joy, don’t worry.  The other list is much longer.