outtabodymommy

1:23:15 PM EST
Feeling Angry

    I arrived home from Hawaii Friday evening.  SInce then I have spent numerous hours trying to update my page--I know you are dying to see some pictures.

    After downloading the AOL 9.0 (High speed) connection for the fourth time today it only took me one hour and 15 minutes to get to the edit page. 

     I don't consider one hour and fifteen minutes to be high enough speed for my needs.

    Consequently I am cutting the AOL cord.  The way I got it figured I can get high speed connection from another company for 1/3 of the price...and maybe I can connect in less than an hour.

    I am guessing that when I disconnect AOL I will loose this journal--I gotta feeling they are funny about that.  So!  I am heading back to my old journal. 

    The address is:    outtabodymommy

 

Come see me over there okay?

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8:18:27 PM EST
Feeling Loopy

   I have painted my toes and fingernails, Done the Dog, tried the ultimate ab work-out, Pilated, Pi-yo'ed and plucked my brows.

     I have done all of these things because tomorrow evening I am going to get laid.  (or is it lei'd?  Do they still give lei's when you get off the plane in Hawaii?) 

     That's right.  Much like Martin trip to Hawaii mine has happened sooner then I thought it would.  Jill and I were going to leave the 31st but it turns out that leaving on the 27th is $100 cheaper.  I am nothing if not frugal, and I can prove this by showing you that I did not get a professional pedicure.  (I would probably have to pay extra to have someone shave my toes.)

    While in Hawaii I plan to do these things:

1.    Lay on beach and have a Corona Day--you have seen the commercial with the corona bottles and the ocean and the stone skipping?  Oh yeah.  I can skip a stone at least one time before it sinks.

2.     Friday night we are going on a whale watching cruise.

3.     I will twirl.  At least once.

4.    I will snorkel.

5.    eat poi.

  Five simple goals, I bet I can acheive each thing on my wish list.

     Truthfully I know I will be spending some time spotting screws--but who can complain about a working vacation in Hawaii?

    These are the things I will NOT do.

1.     Get eaten by a shark.

2.     step on a jellyfish.

3.     crash into the ocean.

4.     swallow fire.

5.     get a tatoo.

     Now I must iron as my seven days in Paradise begins in eleven hours.  (I am couting the plane ride as part of paradise.  The vacation begins when I walk out my front door.

    Aloha!   (Did you know that means Hello and Goodbye?)

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4:14:02 AM EST
Feeling Loopy

     I like to balance out my blog with things of a personal perhaps even weepy nature and also some pure entertainment.  I would hate to get buttonholed as a blogger who always tells a certain kind of story.  This blogging thing is about me publicly proclaiming, “Listen.  I like to write and I have the ability to write many different things.  Won’t you—oh publisher person—hire me to write something for you?” 

 

   And I also have to stop howling every so often so that I can throw my head back and belly laugh.

 

    So let me introduce you To Nikki Spira.  Obviously her name has been changed to protect her (relative) innocence. 

 

   Nikki is a nice woman.  She is a very normal sane mother of—oh—let’s say three children.  She walks around in public every day with her smiling pleasant face and talks to people openly—as if she is not ashamed of herself.  She even shakes people’s hands on a weekly basis, and it light of the post, you should probably never shake her hand if you meet her.  Nikki kisses her children each night when she tucks them in and she tells her mother that she loves her.  She serves her husband fine cuisine every night—always with a pleasant smile on her face.  Every so often Nikki meets the eyes of her husband and blushes because she knows he know her secret.

 

     Nikki is sweet but she isn’t that bright.  The following tales of self-molesting that I am about to share with you are more about Nikki’s comparative dimness and not because Nikki has serious masochistic tendencies. 

 

     Nikki’s self-molestation began as all women’s do—she decided the shave the hair on the nether region.  What woman has not locked themselves in the bathroom with a razor and a pocket mirror for this event?  As every woman does—Nikki enjoyed the first night of pubic nudity.  She didn’t realize that in three days the area would itch excruciatingly for the next week.

 

    This is where the normal woman gets a grip and stops the self-molestation, but as I have stated Nikki isn’t that bright… as I will soon prove.

 

     After the shaving event Nikki decided to let the hair grow back, but she would keep it trimmed very short.  On the night in question Nikki was in the bathroom with one leg on the toilet (so the hairs would fall inside) and a pair of scissors in her hand.  She was fastidiously trimming the shrub into a pleasing design when there was a knock on the door.  Nikki is a shy woman and her first reaction was to put the leg on the toilet on the floor so she could nonchalantly pretend she was just hanging out in the bathroom with no pants on.

 

    However.

    When she put the leg to the floor she nicked her lip with the scissors.

 

     That’s right—she lacerated the labia... She cut the--well you get the picture.

 

     It wasn’t a laceration that required medical attention, but it was a good enough slice that the area was closed for at least a week.

 

    At this point she should have sought an intervention.  But as I have stated she isn’t too bright.

 

     So the days and months flow by and Nikki is resisting the urge to bring sharp objects close to the sensitive areas.  Sure, when she walks past the weed whacker she thinks of what sort of design she could create down-under, but she fights it off.  The natural foliage grows back as God had intended it, and all is right in the world.

 

    But one fateful day Nikki decides that if she is going to take a tropical vacation to, oh—let’s say Thaiti--that she should shave the bikini line. 

 

    This is such a typical story of a woman and a jet tub and a razor that I feel trite mentioning it—but mention it I will as a warning to all you other Nikki’s out there.

 

      There she is, feet planted on the edge of the tub and pubic region jutting out of the water.  She has smeared the region with conditioner because conditioner is a wonderful shaving cream.  She has the razor in hand and is removing the unwanted hairs.  When she starts on the inner thigh there is a knock on the door and Nikki immediately drops the razor and lowers the pubis into the water.

   

    Nikki may not be bright, but once the lip is nicked one tends to remember to drop sharp objects when covering pubic nudity for modesty sake.

 

    A conversation ensues about the party Nikki and her family will be going to and it is mentioned that they are late.  When Nikki realizes the time she gets out of the tub—shaving project incomplete—and gets dressed for the party.

 

   So.  There she is:  Walking into the party.  She notices that the area feels really moist.  She assumes that the moisture is because she did not properly dry and forgets about it.  Thirty minutes later Nikki realizes that not only is the whole area moist—it is starting to tingle;  And not the kind of tingle that a person pays for but the kind of tingling that is going to need a anti-fungicide to cure.  Being not so bright she allows the tingle to go, they are at a party afteral.  Fifteen minutes later the tingle turns into a burn and Nikki must excuse herself from the card table to go to the bathroom.  When she gets insideand the door is locked she rips off her pants and realizes that the whole area is still smeared with conditioner from the aborted shaving.  She thinks about what she should do—is it wrong to wet the guest towel and clean conditioner off of ones pubic area?  Should she just hang it in the sink and rinse it off?

 

    Well,  enough about Nikki the self-molester.  What she did in that situation isn’t as important as this question:

 

What would you do?

 

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2:09:01 AM EST
Feeling Loopy

     Three years ago my family went to Island Park to open the cabin for the season.  The very first night we spend at the cabin after it has been closed for the winter is a little uncomfortable for me.  I know that animals have slept in the beds and rummaged through the cupboards and so for the first night I stay awake and lie vigilant for the intruders who must think they belong there.

    My family sleeps peacefully every night at the cabin.  For the rest of the season I sleep like God intended people to sleep--but on the first night I stay awake and watch the fire and check the windows and listen to my family breathe.

     On the night in question my family was sleeping peacefully and I was reading a 1950 era book and listening to the fire snap inside the hearth.  I was starting to get into my Island Park state of mind when I heard them--

    The wolves.

     They were on the move and the pack was howling.  The first sound of them was distant and eerie enough that I thought I had imagined it and so I kept reading, but the next sound of them was real enough that the hairs on my arms stood up.  I got off the couch and ran to lock the doors--just in case evolution had taken affect and they grew apposable thumbs.  I walked through the house and made sure all of the curtains were drawn because I was sure that I wasn't hearing regular wolves but in fact I was hearing werewolves on the hunt and if I left the curtains open they would crash through the picture windows and the carnage would be extreme.

    I have never claimed to be sane.

    I could hear something large crashing through the underbrush and the sound of the wolf pack all around the cabin.  At this point it was entirely to much for me and I ran to the bedroom to wake Martin.  I pushed him and yanked on him and hiss whispered, "There are wolves outside!  They are right by the cabin!!  Wake-up!"

    Martin enveloped me in his large arms and murmured in my ear.  I don't remember what he said--I think he murmured the soothing sounds that he used on the horses he used to break--it didn't matter what he meant to say or what he actually said.  All that mattered was that I was buried beneath his body and I knew if the wolves came through the windows they would have to eat his large body before they got to me.

   I didn't sleep well that night, but I did sleep.  Granted I was more underneath him then next to him--but still I slept.  The following morning Martin woke me with the proclamation that if I came outside I would see the tracks around the cabin.  The tracks told the story of a Moose and her baby running past the cabin with a pack of wolves on their tail.

    I didn't get up to see the tracks, instead I mumbled about waking him to tell him I heard them and dammit-!  It is 5:00am have you lost your mind trying to wake me?

     There are two things that stuck with me from that night.  First was the feeling of the wolves howling.  As a paranoid person inside the house it made my hairs stand up and dried the spit from my mouth.  On another deeper level there was the feeling of the wild parts of me joining in that song.  I know that on that night the wolves were howling out of the excitment of the hunt, but it was still a mournful sound that reached inside of me and tried to draw out my own mournful howl.

    The other thing that sticks with me about that night is that I ran to Martin and crawled beneath him and when he began to murmur to me  I stopped fearing the wolves outside and nestled into the comfort of this man.

     Since that time I have employeed the word 'howl'.

    There have been moments in my life when my heart was so broken that I wanted to sob, but instead I simply said, "howl."

     The word packs weight and it does not need to be drawn out or screamed into the night--it simply needs to be said and it releases the tension inside me.

     The word 'howl' has taken me through deaths and other disasters.  At any time it would be inappropriate to sob the word "howl" has taken that place.

     Tonight I talked to Martin--it was a nice conversation.  Being aware of our cellular minutes I watched the clock and calulated how many minutes I had tonight and what that would cost me next week.  When we ended the conversation I walked through the house and checked door locks and sleeping children.  I whispered "howl".

     I know he will be home.  I know I will get a sa-weet vacation out of this deal.  I know that we are all safe and warm tonight.  I know that in the scheme of things three weeks is a drop in the bucket.

    But tonight it is late thirty and hearing his voice reminded me that I have no warm body to curl up against.

Howl.

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3:09:50 PM EST
Feeling Loopy

Yesterday I stepped up to the exercising plate and joined a gym.  I didn’t join for keeps, I joined on the ten free days pass.  It is a non-committal commitment with a health club—sorta like a ten day long affair with no strings attached.  Oh, I am sure that after the tens days are up I will get calls from the health club fella and he will say things like, “But Deborah, I thought we had something special here!”  I will reply, “Baby I gotta let ya go, my husband is coming home soon and you know we can’t carry on this way.”

 

    Between now and our break-up I plan to do it dog style everyday.

 

     My painting partner—Jill—joined the club with me.  (We are no longer painters by the way.)  She and I came to the club with all of our children and signed up for the Yoga class.  As the health club fella led us to the Yoga room he asked if we had ever done Yoga before.  I admitted that I did it at home but never in public.  He assured me it would be a wonderful experience then pointed his muscular forearms towards the Yoga door. 

 

     The class was full when we arrived so Jilly and I had to take the front row right next to the instructor...And you gotta know that a woman who has never done public Yoga loves to be in the front row.

 

     As soon as we walked in the door I recognized that Brooke was in the class.  Brooke and I went to HS together.  She was one of the wealthy elite who got a new car for her sixteenth birthday and had a glamour shot taken for the yearbook.  I don’t know that Brooke and I ever spoke with one another; our relationship was more about her being beautiful and blonde and me being gawky and shy.  I am all grown up now and like to pretend that I am not shy so I greeted her and to show just how cool I am these days I said, “This is just like my HS nightmare of being in gym class with Brooke!” 

 

   Oh yeah, she had to recognize  that I am not the geeky kid I once was.

 

    The class began and we twisted into cute shapes.  I noticed right off the bat that every other person in the class was barefoot.  I planned to take my socks off too, but I haven’t shaved my toes in quite awhile.  I am sure I have never mentioned my own toes as I don’t often like to broadcast their existence…let’s just say that they are not cute.  The second is longer then the big toe and—horror of horrors!—the fourth is longer then the third.  I recall being 12 years old and spraying cold water on my feet.  I swear that I saw the third toe shrink from the coldness.

 

    You may say this is impossible, that toes don’t shrink in cold water and I will tell you to shut yer mouth cause I was there and I witnessed it.

 

     So!  I kept my socks on.  Ten minutes into the session I realized that my socks made my feet slippery and I was sliding all over the mat.  When I was in the downward facing dog position with the perfectly arched back I would feel my feet slowly sliding off the mat.  When we were in the “put yer one leg on the other thigh then twist yer arms all weird and just stand there concentrating on good energy” pose my planted foot kept slipping and consequently I had to break the pose often so that I wouldn’t fall.

 

    I was really happy to be in the front of the room showing off my Yoga skills.

 

     There was a little mirror on the wall right in front of me and from that mirror I could see the class behind me.  I noticed that each time I got into a “bend over and poke yer gelatin-ass as high as you can” pose that Brooke was checking me out. 

 

    I was supposed to be concentrating on releasing the negative energy that was stored in my bowels but instead I was wondering, “Is Brooke checking out my gelatin-ass because it looks fabulous in this position and she wants one just like mine…or is Brooke looking at my gelatin-ass because from her angle she can see each curd of cottage cheese stored there?”

 

       Today I am taking the Pi-Yo class.  I shaved my toes so I can take off my socks and I found a pair of Yoga pants that have enough lycra  to keep the appearance of curd down to a minimum. 

 

   I have also decided that a girl who can do the dog in public is the same kind of girl who scoffs at the idea of bikini worthy.

 

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2:55:46 PM EST
Feeling Loopy

The short version is that Martin’s trip to Hawaii happened 36 hours sooner then we expected.  What was supposed to be Tuesday at noon was actually Monday at six AM.  Sunday was a tense day at the Manor.  I spent most of the day completely amazed that the men in charge of this trip were not packed AND did not know exactly when they were leaving.  I suppose the tension that I felt helped to alleviate the fact that I was about to drop my beloved off at an Airport and would not see him again for three weeks. 

 

   So!  He’s gone, I am here.

 

    The long version goes like this:

 

   I dread the Airport goodbye.  I would rather have liposuction then go to the airport for a drop-off.  (I would also rather have liposuction then go grocery shopping—but that isn’t the issue here.)  I hate the day of the airport goodbye.  I loathe the moments before we pile into the car.  Always have.  Always will.

 

    In the hour before the airport goodbye is to take place I have always noticed that the atmosphere in the house changes.  People talk quieter and move faster.  The person leaving is usually excited to go but trying to hide the excitement behind a façade of goodbye blues, and the people in charge of the airport goodbye are trying to hide their goodbye blues behind a facade of excitement for the traveler. 

 

    I am not good at the airport goodbye.  I generally have nothing to say, no witty comments and you can forget about any weepy heartfelt moments from this woman.  During yesterday’s airport goodbye Martin told me I was being stand-offish.  I was standing in front of the security sign that tells you all the things a person can not take on the plane and I replied, “What is this country coming to when a God fearing American citizen can’t fly with a meat cleaver, tear gas or fireworks?” 

 

    My beloved was not amused.  I suppose he wanted something heartfelt and I do not have the capacity to give heartfelt moments at the Airport.  I tried for levity but "meat cleaver" "fireworks" and "tear gas" aren’t good words to say next to the security section of the airport.   

 

    As the men approached the security check-point Jill and I walked out the door—there was no final goodbye wave or a last lingering look—just the quick get-away and her and I wiping our watery eyes but pretending like we were cool and just in a hurry to get to Denny’s for the meat lovers breakfast.

 

     Last night when I got home from work my house was silent.  I can’t sleep in a noisy house and nighttime silence is something I have always loved about this house.

 

   But last night the silence was filled with the knowledge that Martin was not where he was supposed to be.  The silence took up space that I felt like I needed to skirt around , but of course you can’t see silence so there was no way for me to walk around it.

 

      He called me at Midnight and I set on the back porch and visited with him and I realized that the very best part of my every day has been the final nighttime smoke on the back porch with my husband.  For years we have set in the silence of that moment.  Sometimes we talk, sometimes we set quietly but always there is the feeling of that moment being ‘full’.  While I spoke with Martin the silence was gone, but the full feeling does not transmit through the telephone.  When I hung up the phone I went through the rest of my nighttime ritual—reading—then went to my bedroom.

 

    And there was the giant bed-- The giant cold bed.--And the silence that took up space and pressed against my eardrums with enough force to be uncomfortable.  I placed my hand over my ear so that the silence couldn’t get in and as I drifted to sleep I thought:

 

    I am going to Hawaii in three weeks, let the dieting and exercise program begin!

   

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12:12:55 PM EST
Feeling Loopy

 

    I have mentioned Pilates a few times in the last few weeks.  I may have given the impression that I was down on the floor stretching my legs and pointing my toes like pencils. 

 

     The truth is…I have yet to Pilate.  Oh I have bounced the ring of torture across the floor, I have even placed it between my thighs and squeezed it a few times.  I have done some basic crunches but I haven’t popped the Voight tape in the VCR and allowed the magic to happen.

 

    It isn’t that I don’t want an ass that pokes out like an awning or abs that make Daisy Fuentes clap, I do want those things.  The reason I haven’t Pilated yet is far more meaningful and it goes like this…

 

     When I was pregnant with our first child I thought that after the baby was born I would have my own body back.  After the birth of said child I stood on the scale and saw that I had lost 25 pounds in a matter of hours.  I assumed I could go home and slip into my own clothing and it would fit!  It didn’t take long, however, for me to realize the new soft poppin fresh dough belly would stick around for awhile.  After the two week mark I discovered that the baby belly was really soft and that I could stuff it into my jeans—the “I just had a baby belly’ is incredibly soft and malleable.  The problem with the jeans and the belly is that when I unzipped my pants the belly would burst forth—much like refrigerator biscuits flying out of the can.  (Without the popping sound of course.) 

 

     During that first baby experience “The Dream” happened.  This same dream happened for the subsequent birth of each of our children and it is back again now.  When I say “The Dream” I want to make it perfectly clear that it wasn’t a Now I lay me down to sleep dream but more of a personal goal.

 

    In “The Dream” I took my freshly birthing body and ran it through the rigmarole of exercise—yet I kept the body dressed in sweat pants and giant shirts so that my new amazingly firm body transformation was not noticeable to anyone, especially Martin.  When the transformation had gone from I just had a baby to, “Holy shit I could play spoons on you rib cage!” Martin and I would have a date at my favorite restaurant.  I would tell him to meet me there and I would walk in wearing a slinky dress.  Martin would notice me and gasp at the new image. 

 

     This is the best part.

 

     When I approached him he would stand up and hug me and tell me how wonderful the new body looked and then he would seductively whisper in my ear, “Let me see you twirl in that dress.”  Of course I would demure because twirling in a restaurant isn’t generally approved, but he would beg and eventually I would give it up and twirl so that my dress would rise up and I would have to slap my hands down on the skirt lest my black thong panties showed.

 

     Oh yeah…the twirling is the best part of the dream.

 

     Now.  None of this sequence has ever happened.  I could blame it on lazy me but who wants to hear self recriminations?  The real reason—or so I tell myself—that this sequence has never occurred is that Martin sees my body all the time and he would notice the subtle raising of my ass awning.  If he notices that I am firming up, well the twirling dream is defunct.

 

    So!  That is why I haven’t  Pilated,   Because if the firming begins while he is here he will be expecting firm in three weeks.  I prefer for the transformation to be a surprise.

 

     On Tuesday the Pilate project will really begin.  I don’t know where I will find the dress that is twirl worthy, but I have confidence that if I build my body for it, it will come.

 

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12:07:11 PM EST
Feeling Loopy

     Last night I dreamed that I was running a marathon.  It was to be a fifty mile marathon from Ashton to West Yellowstone and I was psyched because I knew I could win.  I ran up the Ashton Hill with some huffing and some puffing but when I breached it I was filled with the “I Can!” feeling.  The marathon ran through Island Park and the whole crew was going to The Cabin for a rest.  When we arrived at the cabin I found my father waiting with beverages.

 

     My parents divorced when I was four and Rendell—my dad—took over when I was five years old.  He raised me.  I didn’t see my father again until I was in the eight grade.  The only remarkable feature being highlighted here is that for my entire life I have had a problem with “dad”  and “father”.  I finally decided that ‘dad’ was an honorary term that was earned by the man who rocked you when you had the mumps and whispered in your ear, “If I could take this from you I would.”  “father” is the name of the man who created you.

 

      In this dream it was my ‘father’ that was serving beverages and I knew that I was ahead of the race and if I went on I would win the prize…and I knew that if I stayed there to visit with him I would loose that race. 

 

    I told the coordinator that I was dropping out and I set with my father and visited.  I knew he couldn’t stay long—I knew he would have to leave before the race was completed and that I would watch the winner on television long after he had left, but entirely to late for me to win the race. 

 

    But it was okay.

 

    I don’t know what we visited about during that dream, but I do know that when he had to leave I was at peace with sacrificing the race.  There was a feeling that I had won—something.  There was no proclamation of what it was I won, but I had the victor’s pride of knowing that I had won the ultimate prize.

 

     Yesterday Martin took me to Island Park  for lunch.  He, the Ikeman and I ate bacon blue cheese burgers—they were worth the trip.  In five days Martin leaves for his Hawaiian month.  The chain smoking four year old within keeps reminding me about dad's who go out of state to find a job. I've been ignoring her because as an adult I know it is going to be okay.

 

      In the end my sitting here writing is just a poor excuse that keeps me away from the Pilates mat and the ring of torture.  Martin leaves for Hawaii in five days--I leave for Hawaii in approximately twenty-six days.  

 

    The four year old within theory is a compelling, but the holiday cookies clustered around my hips and thighs are real, and I know how to get rid of them. 

 

      

 

   

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1:00:11 PM EST
Feeling Loopy

     I am lucky enough to have friends who go to therapists.  The reason this makes me lucky is that I can use my favorite friend's therapy for my own personal gain.  If I didn't have such wonderful buddies I would probably have to pay a therapist myself, and who can really afford that?  As it currently stands I have a whole team of therapy attending buddies at my disposal and they have helped me through many of my crazy spells.

    Of course there are also the buddies who don't go to therapy and just mock my fears enough that I discover that I am being ridiculous--like the time two summers ago when I couldn't bathe on the second floor because I was afraid the weight of my body combined with the weight of the water and the tub would cause the tub to crash into the basement.  I did shower but baths didn't happen for quite awhile because I knew that naked and broken in a puddle of water in the basement would not be a good look for me.  I spent the weekend with Frankie and she mocked me sufficently that these days I am bathing in a giant tub on the second floor. 

    I would say that was progress.

     Yesterday I spoke with another of my favorite buddies about Martin's upcoming trip to Hawaii.  He leaves on Tuesday and will be gone for a month.  I will be going for a visit during the last week--which means I will be in Hawaii for Valentines Day.  She and I talked about some of my crazies--things such as my fear that diet and exercise will not work and I will have to trade the bikini in for a very slimming swim capri pant.  (She told me that bikini's come in all sizes, even pup tent, so I didn't have to worry about that.  She assured me that the lovely Polynesian surf ho's have seen enough blazing white cellulite that I won't make much of an impression.)  We touched down momentarily on my not very reasonable assertion that while Martin was gone a Russian kidnapping squad would break into my house, steal me and sell me into the sex trade.  (I am reading the Big Bad Wolf right now.)  We talked about a few of the other funny things that I worry about and then we got to the meat of the problem.

    If I had a real therapist it would cost me thousands of dollars to crack jokes before I ever got to the real stuff. 

      Here's how it works:  When I was four years old my father said he was going to find a job in Texas--and he would come get us after he found us a place to live.  (Ya know, I am starting to think he is never going to come home.)  It is a very dramatic memory for me.  I clearly recall my tiny self running through the garden out to the road where he stopped the jeep and told me he would come back and get us as soon as he found a job.

    So!  I am all grown up now and able to bathe on the second floor but I am packing around a four year old girl with a bad attitude.  I also think she is a chain smoker but that is a different issue entirely.

      My therapist buddy told me that I needed to find that four year within and I needed to hug her and let her cry and assure her that everything is going to be alright.

    So I indulged the plan.  Last night as I lay me down to sleep I thought of that little me pressed behind the dresser with her hands over her face crying because she knew her dad was never going to come home.  I envisioned the big me coaxing her from behind the dresser and then sitting on the floor Indian style.  I held her little body in the cradle of my legs and rubbed her hair and told her that it was okay to cry for herself today but that her life would change for the better in her future.

     Apparently my subconcious has a hard time with a serious heartfelt therapy moment because the little four year old me looked up at me with my own adult eyes and she said, "Good luck with the swim capri's chica.  Dad's leave and they never come back...how about a cigarette?"

    So much for the hugging the child within therapy.  I think she needs a spankin' and some more time in the corner.  

     

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12:59:56 PM EST
Feeling Loopy

Every time I see it happen I wonder:  Why do men spit?

 

     In my experience there are two types of men that spit.  There is the type that harks a loogie into their mouth and then excuses themselves to spit and then there is the type that simply:  “kkkrrrwack—pttuu!” and launches the loogie from their mouth.

 

    I know that this is a regional phenomena and that there are many men that do it.  I have noticed the bleached out spots on concrete and in parking lots.  I know that these little bleached out spots are where loogie’s have melted because I have been dodging parking lot loogie’s for quite some time—especially since I’ve had children.  Seeing the bleached spots makes me wonder if perhaps man spit is so toxic that they have to get it out of their mouths lest it fall into their stomach and poison them.

 

      I have never witnessed a woman spit for no apparent reason.  I have seen women spit when something flies into their mouth—but who can resist spitting when they feel the tickle of wings on their soft pallet?

 

     I have also noticed then men are in awe of women who are brave enough to swallow.  When I was a cocktail waitress I was often asked if I spit or swallowed.  I always proclaimed that I was a sallower.  Apparently men are fascinated with women who are not afraid of their own spit because after proclaiming my swallowing status I was usually asked for my phone number.

 

       Saturday Martin and I were in the garage watching the snow fall and talking about normal everyday things when he had to excuse himself to spit.  Surely whatever we were talking about was more important then my thoughts on spit and I have to admit the rest of the conversation with him was lost because I was thinking in the text of how I would write this post. 

 

    Even though I don't remember the rest of our real conversation I did say something about swallowing to my husband.  He was so impressed with my swallowing talk that he gazed at me with the eyes of love for the rest of the weekend. 

      

 

     

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