Does This Make…

…my ass/gut/back/neck/face/thigh/calves/ankles look fat?  We’ve probably all been guilty of asking this stupid ass question once or twice. What possess’ us to ask it in the first place is beyond me because, point in fact, there is ONLY ONE ANSWER we want to hear–NO, NO, and NO! Any other answer could lead to, let’s just say–a good bit of damage control from the questionee.

There can be so many repercussions to this answer.

Of course this also explains why my husband never wants to shop with me I guess. Maybe he’s smarter than I think. The second he hears the words ‘does this make’…he’s up and out of the room faster than a Daytona race car. God bless him! That man has a survival instinct like no one else I know.

The first thing they teach you in school, if you can remember that far back is…

if you already know the answer, don’t ask the question’

…unless of course you really want to put someone in the hot seat. If you, after giving this some thought, still ask the question–well–you’re dumber than you look!

We’re not complete idiots about our body image. We know when all of the above looks good or not. We have mirrors! We can see as plain as day when our boobs have fluctuated in size and our cups runneth over, or the dry cleaners have shrunk our pants (AGAIN)!

At this age, most of us are in denial about what’s happening to our, for lack of a better word, flesh host. Yes, sometimes we put the blinders on for self-preservation, but we know. We feel “IT” move when we walk. This is why I don’t run anymore. I do not want my back-fat or ass gyrating and screaming “look at me–whoo-hoo” in public places. I figure the slower I move the better I can hide it.

I think the first inkling that change is upon us is when you start to lose those little hollows in your cheeks. You know exactly what I’m talking about. It that thing that makes your face look like you have those glorious cheek bones and can often make you appear thinner than you really are. It’s flattering and it’s youthful. Unfortunately, when the tides of youth start slipping into middle age things tend to get lost or buried in the shuffle. That’s right!  When that hollow fills, it means that extra weight is secretly being added while you sleep. (This has nothing at all to do with the second helping of cheesecake, or the loaf of bread you ate with last nights dinner.)

This is not good because it also means that jowls are right around the corner. Yeah! It seems cruel that the face is usually the first place this shows. I’ll admit, both my dimples have become buried amid the debris of the passing years. Well actually, the truth is, I just noticed that they’re not really gone, they just relocated to my ass. Traitors!

A lot of people judge what’s going on with their body by how their clothes fit. This I believe is a really good way to judge your GIRTH because, if they still fit you, it’s a win-win situation. No gain, no pain!  This falls under the category of reverse-reverse psychology. Think of all the money you’ll save not having to shop for skinny clothes or larger (fat) clothes.

I’ve learned my lesson over the years as my weight fluctuated up and down. I’ve come to the conclusion that after twenty-three years of yo-yo dieting, trainers, boot camps, and starvation, I am never going to lose my baby (pregnancy) fat. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I can actually use that term anymore when it comes to those little pudgy spots. The truth of the matter is that this is plain and simple fat-fat now. Yep. This is finally the time in our lives when we have to suck up and admit to ourself that our MILF (Mother I’d Like To F@#k) days are a thing of the past. CRAP!

I threw my scale out a long time ago because it always betrayed me. I’d strip down to nothing, stand on its hard cold surface, and the little hands would just start spinning out of control as it determined how much it was going to punish me. Well I’ll bet it really spun out of control as it descended towards the cold hard pavement after I threw it out the second story bathroom window. Bastard!

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not hideous, BUT, everything is relative isn’t it? When your waist expands it becomes more relative with your hips and your rib cage, as in–if they’re the same size, you actually can no longer refer to it as your waist. It is now considered part of your torso, or as I like to call it my boy shape, my masculine side. This isn’t always a bad thing because if you happen to have a little more junk in the trunk it will no longer stand out on its own. There will be no references to pears or any other fruit. This can be a good thing.

What I wonder is why don’t men ask this question? I mean, mid-life does the same thing to them so why do they remain silent? How are they able to maintain their calm, cool, and collected demeanor when their belly crosses the border before they do? What is their secret? Could it be that age changes us in different ways? Do they lose their peripheral vision first? Do they see only what they want to see? Or are they simply perfectionists at tom-foolery?

Maybe we should just rip that page out of their book and stick it in ours!

Oh well, I have to run. I just heard the timer go off. I think my chocolate cake is done!





In Passing…

…gas that is, I’ve come to the conclusion that every time I let one rip I’m adding yet another X on my carbon footprint. CRAP! That’s why I never attend those ‘green’ conferences. Without a doubt I’d be the one walking around with the big neon sign hovering near my ass that say’s “guilty, guilty, guilty”. I’ve tried to do my part for the environment.  I’ve been pretty diligent about changing my light bulbs and unplugging appliances, but this internal gas thing it seems is completely out of my control now.

Age tends to load us up with lots of aches and pains, and from my experience, after you let cheek-flapping farts loose, many of those aches and pains disappear. I swear to God, ninety-nine percent of the time I’m spot on. I’ve always been a big believer that everything that ails you boils down to gas.

My kids tell me their stomach’s hurts.

“Once you fart you’ll feel better”, I say. “Let her rip.”

“But Mom!”

“I think I have appendicitis.”

“Fart, you’ll feel better. Trust me.”

“But Mom!”

“I think I broke my arm”.

Just fart…oh…wait…maybe we should see the doctor.”

I hate it when they throw a wrench in the engine.

Okay, sometimes it’s not gas and you actually have to do something to cure what ails them, but for the most part, it’s a pattern they follow as they reach for attention.

In mid-life I’ve come to the conclusion that gas is one of life’s perks as you age. It’s a glorious thing too! We can write off nearly everything that’s going on in our body as gas related. Who wants to think of the alternative? Yes, I tend to live in the mind-set where ‘ignorance is bliss’.

When we were kids, we never thought too much about it, we just let it go whenever. We didn’t care who heard it. As a matter of fact, the grosser we made it sound the better we felt. It became a job well done! Oh yeah, if you could press your butt against something solid, something that would enable the noise to become this thunderous crescendo, whoo hoo!

We used it as a tool to gross out our friends. We did it in the classroom because we knew no one could escape from the foul air.

We did it in the car when we knew our parents had the safety locks on the windows so none of us could accidentally fall out of the moving vehicle. We waited patiently for the aroma to waft forward from the backseat waiting for signs of recognition on our parents face, and then we waited with great anticipation for that age-old question of ‘WHO FARTED’?

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

“Not me”.

It was a game we all played very well.

It was always a giggle inducer as my sisters and I sat piled on top of one another watching as my mother secretly surveyed my fathers face out of the corner of her eye to see if she could detect any signs that he was the culprit. Even if she did suspect him she’d never say anything because it was never good to embarrass the husband in front of the children. She’d just crack the window a little and maintain her presumption that it was one of us kids. Why is that father’s don’t need an excuse for this kind of behavior? They just do as they please and expect everyone to ignore it?

Fortunately, or unfortunately, somewhere along the way we developed this sense of  pride and that took all the fun out of it. If we got gas we’d undo a button, let a zipper open an inch or two to help relieve the pressure, or we’d suck back some kind of bubbly drink hoping it would diffuse the bubbles in our belly without having to let them pass naturally. We suffered through countless seconds, minutes, or hours until we could find a private place to let our suffering go. We had reached the age where it just wasn’t polite to fart in public anymore because we knew we would suffer ridicule if we got busted. It didn’t matter how bad you felt holding it in, you just sucked up, squeezed your butt-cheeks together and waited until an appropriate time and place arrived where we could undo the evil that lurked within.

On a recent visit to my local grocery store, the one that offers seniors shopping day every Friday, I was inexplicably possessed with joining my elders in their unpretentious symphony of sound. I showed up at the store with that awful gurgling feeling in my gut. I tried to wait it out at home but realized I was running out of time to get all my errands done so off I went. I knew the evil was lurking and ready to go but pride was fighting me tooth and nail. I sucked up, walked up and down the aisles squeezing my cheeks together like I was doing some kind of cardio-muscular exercise to improve the look of my butt.

But try as I might, there was no doubt in my mind that there was no holding this one back. I started to become desperate because there were more people in the store than usual, and most of them seemed to be around my age. I began searching for that ‘golden aisle’, the one that had a couple of senior citizens ambling along. BINGO!

“Hello shoppers, we’ve got two old farts on isle ten.”

I think by this point there was even a tear in my eye as I approached them. I’m not sure if it was relief or disbelief that I was going to blow and let them take the fall. The fact was, I didn’t care at this point. I managed to manouver myself between the two of them. I reached up and grabbed a can of something from the shelf in order to maintain my position. I felt ‘it’ move and prepared myself for release. Ahhhhhhh! There was no sound, thank God, but it took longer than anticipated.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see one of the seniors slowly approaching my position. Unfortunately, just beyond her was this very handsome guy also making his way towards ground zero. “Oh no”, I thought to myself. I knew I had to bust a move so I set the can down and headed directly towards the two of them. If I could get next to that old gal then I’d be home free. Like most things in life, timing is everything.

I got next to her, and because my nose is very sensitive, I knew that foul odor had followed me. I took two steps beyond her, which put me about five feet from the handsome guy. He looked my way and I reverted to my old acting chops. I grimaced. I pointed my thumb towards the old lady and then appropriately waved my fingers under my nose. Then I made that ‘whew’ expression and kept on moving. It was going to be okay.

In the check out line, I stood there waiting for them to slide everything over the scanner. Low and behold both the old gal and the handsome guy got into the same line as me. I tried to ignore them but suddenly found the front of her cart bumping into my hip. When I turned to look at her in protest of this physical intrusion I couldn’t help but notice this odd look on her face.

Girl, you should take something for that,” she says to me. “Jesus Christ, you just about bloody killed me back there.”

The handsome guy of course is privy to this dialogue and starts to laugh uncontrollably.

I left the store vowing that I will never, ever again, pass gas at the grocery store no matter how old I get!

Funny How…

we can look at ourself in the mirror without recognition sometimes. Maybe it’s self-preservation. Maybe it’s denial. Maybe it’s a little of both. Let’s face it, we’ve all had that gasp, heart pounding, gut wrenching moment when we realize who is looking back at us in that mirror. In my book, if you don’t acknowledge things like muffin-tops or back-fat, then they just don’t exist. When you get to my age you learn so many cool tricks to fool yourself into believing that time has been kind to you.  

Unfortunately, we sometimes get caught between that bloody rock and a hard place [the mirror and reality] and we finally have to accept what’s there in that reflective surface. CRAP! So I have to wonder…who’s fooling who? Does everyone else see what I’m in complete denial over? 

Just the other day I caught sight of my bare ass, and thought to myself, who in their right mind would let something like that go around uncovered?

“Have you no shame girl”, I said to myself as I inspected my mid-life ‘junk’!

Okay, it’s not like I run around naked all the time, although I have to believe my husband would like that since he is, without a doubt an ass man. Oh yes, he’s been known to shimmy his hand down the back of my pants at the most inopportune time like on an escalator at the mall, or when I’m standing next to him talking to someone, or for that matter, any time he can. He is purely evil in this way but at least I know he still likes my ass. [thank God for small favors and let’s just pray he never gets his sight checked]

Now let’s get one thing straight here. I would never, ever, on purpose, put myself in the position of watching this massive flesh floe undulate freely. This was purely an ACCIDENTAL VIEWING. On occasion I get dressed in the bathroom since my closet doesn’t have a heater vent so accidents like this can happen. [Flab and goosebumps are not a good combination under any circumstances]

Now–my B-U-T-T–is not a horrific looking thing by any means [self-denial] but, TIME HAS PROVEN A WORTHY OPPONENT. I remember [yes, my mind is still somewhat in tact] when I used to go shopping for jeans and never ever once gave the idea of ‘shaping jeans’ a second thought. I didn’t have to back in the day because I had a little junk-in-the-trunk as they call it! You know what I mean? I proudly flaunted those lovely round chunks of flesh like a peacock strutting its plume of feathers for all to see.

There used to be definite delineations between my butt cheeks and the back of my thighs. I’d never really given any thought about lift and separation in THAT area because I’d always believed that you only had to consider that problem when it came to your boobs. Those puppies, well, that’s a whole different animal. 

Just recently I went to the mall with the sole purpose of buying a new hipper, ripped up, stone washed, gem studded, flesh sucking  pair of jeans hoping it would trick the onlookers eye. Yes, mid-life does this to women, at least to those of us who are trying to hold on to the past in hopes that it will make us better looking people in the future. We have to maintain some kind of standards don’t we girls? The last thing I want is for my kids to accuse me of wearing frumpy old ‘granny’ jeans.

Admit it, we’ve all got at least one pair of those hideous baggy denim’s stashed away in our closet somewhere for THOSE’ days when our excess is apparent. You know the ones I’m talking about. They have those big old pleat’s in the front to hide that child-bearing trophy bulge that protrudes between your crotch and your bellybutton. [The one they said would dissipate when you were breastfeeding. Well after 24 years I finally had to give up on that idea because it really doesn’t work.] And even worse, they have those big-ass deep front pockets so you always have a place to put your boobs once the spring has sprung.  [If you look hard enough you’ll probably find a few pair of grannie underpants to go with them, the ones we used to refer to as period panties, the ones sitting right next to your now treasured thongs that eliminate fat separation from your first butt-cheek to the little one that grew just below it.]

Well as it turns out, those newer, hipper jeans are not always the best for hiding loose flesh. What I discovered as I hid behind the curtain, is that spandex, as girdle like as it is, is not always as flattering as it professes to be. Yes, it takes an inch off your thighs, and yes it can push and shove your butt into its correct posture, BUT,  it also pushes a lot of other things to places you were trying to forget about, ie: the muffin top! Just what I want, something that makes it even worse that it was before!

Another problem with these new jeans, if you don’t happen to be a shaver, is that your belt buckle will always have a little afro. Who on this bloody earth came up with that one-inch zipper? On a Barbie doll this works perfectly fine, but in real life, come on, there is NO WAY this is going to be enough to hold back your pubic hair.

And another thing…whose brilliant idea was it to shred the thigh area? I have to admit, it looks pretty cool when you’re standing up but when you sit down and that stretchy denim pulls itself taut against your skin, well, what comes to mind for me is that old play dough machine you used when you were a kid that allowed you to make spaghetti. WTF?

I guess there’s just no denying that age changes us, remolds us, and sometimes leads us to the place where every quiver, every step, shows our ability to transform into Jello.

I don’t know, maybe there’s something to be said about Granny pants after all!

How It All Began…

I guess the only place to start this is somewhere around the beginning of time…mine that is. Holy shit that was a long time ago. I think they were actually still filling in dinosaur footprints then. Yikes!

Yes, I was born to parents who married young as a means of escape. My father had just returned from the ‘great war’ and stole my mother away from a home where love and abundance were not exactly the talk of the day as she tells me. As a matter of fact my mother’s feeling of loneliness and abandonment, provided by a mother that did not necessarily like children, was basically the catalyst for their union. My mother, who was French-speaking, married this young handsome soldier and together they forged their way out into the world. They packed up whatever possessions they had, which according to her was not a whole hell of a lot, and moved to another province to further their escape from parental control.

In 1952 my oldest sister, the calm cool and collected first child ,was born and it was then my mother began to get that weird inkling in her gut that something was up. Something was boiling away on the back boiler and she’d have to wait and see what would transpire as time rolled along.  It wasn’t exactly clear what was going on in their relationship but it became very apparent as the years rolled by. She was not happy!

In 1954 my next big sister popped into the world all googly and gangly.  I showed up in 1956. What a fine year that was, at least in my opinion. I thought I’d struck gold because I was the baby and we all know what that means. I would be the one to get spoiled, get everything I wanted, be doted upon by both my parents and my siblings. Did I take advantage, you bet I did. I milked those years for all they were worth. I went places they didn’t even though there was really no place that great to go on the kind of budget my parents had to work with, but still, it was something. That was all well and good until, oops, eight years later, my baby sister was born. So much for the spoiling shit. I’d been moved up the ladder to ‘half-of-the-middle-child’ status. There would be no book dissing my parents unless my sister was willing to share the load of writing at least half of it. 

I grew up with this weird-ass nickname that no one seems to really know how or why it came into existence. It was “Kinny”. WTF?  What the hell did that mean? Was it an insult? Was it derogatory? Did it mean I was kin, or related to these people? Couldn’t they have come up with something more lyrical like, I don’t know, pumpkin, or sweetie pie, or angel [since I was such a perfect child], but no, Kinny stuck for years and years.

Maybe that was the beginning of the mental foraging I went though in order to uncover my true identity. Growing up in overalls and hand-me-downs was the way it was done back then. How much land, or cattle, or pigs determined your status in the grand little town we resided in. Oh yes, it was grand alright. We had a corner store, the one where my sister and I got busted for stealing watermelons, and there was a volunteer fire department. The doctor had an office but usually you just called him up and a short time later he’d show up at your door with his little black bag tucked neatly in his arm pit. He and I had a pretty good relationship because I was a pretty clumsy kid. Yes there are parts of my body that read like a roadmap of my younger days. If I could fall, or it could fall on me, well, that’s usually how everything seemed to happen. 

As kids we rode our bikes everywhere or stuck our thumbs out to get around. Back in those days we never thought about the worst case scenario. Never dreamed some stranger would want to steal us and do bad things. We were just young and dumb farm kids. I’m sure there were plenty of perversions unfolding all around us be we were blind to them. We didn’t watch the news, read the paper, or listen to gossip. That was something that adults did not us. Well, actually on the gossip end, when we could get away with it, we would quietly pick up the phone and listen in on our neighbors conversations. Yes, that was back in the day when there were party lines and we shared air time so to speak. It’s amazing what people will say when they think no one else can hear them. We’d discover who was pregnant, who was in jail, who was breaking up, who was fucking who–it was always interesting to know these things even though we never really gave a damn about them. So long as they weren’t talking about us–who cared.

Anyway it was the time of my life when I didn’t have to worry about what was coming next because nothing really ever happened. The most excitement I can remember was playing baseball. I had acquired a bit of a reputation for my pitching and even got a trophy one year that had a pink bubble coming from the lips of the statue they handed to me; a tribute for always having bubble gum in my mouth during the game. Yes, that was my sure thing. Blow a bubble–throw a strike. Those were the days.

Growing up in the 50’s and 60’s was a rather amazing time. We of course, during that era, had our own version of previous ancient wars, the ones we would eventually learn about in school. We had Vietnam, and we became part of a movement that entailed peace, love, sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Although I was never into the whole drug thing, many people drifted in and out of consciousness for nearly a decade until they started figuring out that they were never going to have a life in this fucked up annihilated state. Now, you gotta remember that Canada was not in the war, but because there were so many young men that fled there in order to keep their freedom and to stay alive, we felt very much a part of the United States. The thing I remember most about these boys is that they were pretty damn good-looking. Didn’t do me a bit of good though because I was still jail-bait. You see, this just proves that timing is everything

Anyway, the 70’s came and went in a flurry. When you’re in your twenties time flies as you stumble about trying to discover just who you are. I tried on marriage to my childhood sweetheart. Yep, I hit nineteen and thought I knew it all. Of course, it turned out that I didn’t know anything yet and got divorced a year and a half later. Somehow I could not stay married to a boy who had moved from husband status to brother status inside of a year. As much as we professed to love each other we both eventually agreed it was time to move on and so we did.

Working and living in a steel town where fabulous careers were unheard of just d-u-l-l-e-d me out. Your choice was to work at one of two steel factories, become a nurse [okay so that’s a great career and I would have made a good one I think], or you could work for someone who would wreak the benefits of all your hard  labor. That was not what I had in mind for myself.  I had dreams, BIG DREAMS, and I was not about to squander the rest of my twenties at a dead-end job. I took a leap of faith, bought a one-way ticket to paradise, and jumped on a plane to sunny opportunistic California. I knew it was my destiny. I wanted something bigger and better than settling on ho-hum, have a baby or two and put on 300 pounds kind of life. I admit now, it was a pretty gutsy move because I only had a few hundred dollars to my name. That didn’t matter though. I was going on an adventure to a new place with my two suitcases, to a place where I didn’t know a soul, TO START A NEW LIFE. That’s the beauty of youth, you think you know everything, know what you’re doing, and you’re stupid enough to believe it. Yep, that’s me. I’ve always loved to stretch my belief in myself and this challenge was right up my alley. Hell I’ve been here now for more than thirty years, married to the same guy for all those years, with two lovely children, so I guess it’s safe to say that things worked out.

So there you go. Now you know how I got here, the rest will come in the form of short stories based on my observations about life, love, family, parenting, and whatever else decides to fall out of my brain only to land on my fingertips.

Life Throws Us A Challenge Once In A While…

So many times we get caught up in everyday life we forget to smell the tulips.

Sometimes we don’t want to smell the FREAKING TULIPS because we are susceptible to bloody sinus allergies [or so we tell ourselves] so we simply negate these urges and file them safely away into the mental vault we call our subconscious. It is our way of sidelining all the shit we don’t want to deal with–good, bad, or indifferent. So I was thinking to myself…Okay…I was talking to myself and somehow convinced myself to set up a challenge in regards to writing. 


So, what is this going to entail you might wonder? I’m sure many of you won’t really give a shit but I thought it might be a fun way to work out my next book.   EGADS! Another project!!!!! WTF?

Oh well, perhaps this is the final moment where I embrace my Attention Deficit Disorder. I hope to create some essays here that will allow anyone who might chance upon this blog, to understand how the mind of a warped mother works. Please feel free to leave any comments, good, bad, or indifferent because my sorry ass always needs motivation!

The font changes are here to serve a purpose, they are not just liberally added so it’s colorful. If you read together it tells another story, or the same story in a slightly different way. I did tell you I was warped didn’t I?

So stay tuned, the best is yet to come! [Ewww…did I say come publicly?]