SLEEP AWAY CAMP…


…is not something I’ve thought of in a long time, mainly because the kids are grown now.

I’d like to think it was something I could still do, because God knows I could use a break from them, but alas, the time for this has come and gone!

They (the children) haven’t gotten out yet, but they have matured some. Well, matured may be giving them a little too much credit at this point. Let’s just say they’ve encountered several birthdays since the old camp days.

God I love ‘em, but boy, what I could do with their rooms if they were empty. Just sayin…

When they were little, I’d send them off with their cute little bags, their socks stuffed with snacks I knew wouldn’t be allowed. I’d help them sneak in soda so they could maintain their sugar level. I was bad! But I was smart enough never to give them cell phones. Last thing I wanted was for those little buggers to pester me.

But….my cell-phone-less children loved me for it!

I was the Goddess who provided them with a sufficient amount of junk/crap/bad food, thus in their minds, I was good.

I was the perfect mother!

I had IT!

I rocked their world and that’s all that mattered!

But I knew.

I was the devil in disguise is what I was!

But I didn’t give a flying fuck.  It got them out of the house and out of sight for a while. I could R.E.L.A.X!

I wouldn’t have to pick up their dirty clothes, or make their bed, or cook for them, or chauffeur them, or do their homework, or drive them to school, or the dentist, or the doctor, or the park, or to a play date, or entertain and babysit their friends, which was often the case.

never took the blame when a zit popped up on their face, nor when they’d spike a little belly fat.

Never, ever,  once, did I blame it on the sugar or my poor choices.

I always put it back on them.  Told them it was because they never kept their face clean. It was plain old dirt that caused those zits, and as for the belly fat, well, that was caused by their lack of exercise, lazy little sots that they were. It was the damned video games that would take the fall for any excess bulges they encountered. I’ll be damned if they think I’m going to take the blame for that.

No.Fucking.Way!

So back to me…

I hadn’t really thought about sending myself off to sleep away camp until recently. It would be just what the doctor ordered!

No kids, no husband, no dog, no house, no house cleaning, no phone, no need to be anywhere, (kids) no…Mom where’s the…can we go…can I have…can you get me…will you…why can’t I… (husband) where’s dinner…can we walk now…how about a blow job…did you iron my shirt… (dog) where’s my damned breakfast…why isn’t the front door open…can I have a treat…where’s my toy…I need to walk now I have to poop…

Just thinking about eliminating all of the above makes. my. nipples. hard!

At his point in my life it takes a bit of effort to make that happen…but the thought of sleep away camp somehow sounds sooooo intriguing right now because I’m a homebody, a housewife, a mate, a mother, a teacher, a mentor, a negotiator, a referee, a sex slave, an organizer, a multi-tasker, a confidant, and chief cook and bottle washer.

Many times, in the middle of the night, (and I mean the middle of the night when the moon is straight over the house and most normal people are still sleeping), I am sitting at my computer googling far off places, people and things that are exotic, erotic, and far from home (should I also say far from my comfort zone?).

My imagination takes a journey (as it often does). I can visualize myself, off in the distance, where the water and sand come to life on my computer screen.

I’m lying on a beach (or depending on your budget an unfamiliar well stuffed couch). You’ve got a tall cool drink in one hand and a delicious novel (insert cough) or at least something novel in the other. Oh my! You let your mind wander around someone else’s words (or…well never mind) and you’re transported to wherever the story/person/thing takes you…

Meals magically appears before you, served by some young stud/man/boy who no doubtedly doubles as an actor later on in his day. You can’t help notice the tight black pants, the crisp white shirt, the smell of freshly showered skin, the…

Ah Jees!

It ain’t ever going to happen but dream we shall.

You are served morning, noon, and night. (again this is where a good imagination comes in handy)

There is nothing to pick up, clean up, put up with, or put out to.

It’s just you and this delicious dream.

But wait!

What is that I hear off in the distance as the sun crests the east.

Oh crap!

I’ll be back.

I have to get coffee for the hubby.

SIZE MATTERS…


…when it comes to certain body parts.

My size issue is my ‘Large Canadian Breasts’! At least that’s how the hubby refers to them.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am in no way complaining! I sooooooo love the girls! They’re not to small, nor are they too big! They are the syrup to my waffles, the cream to my coffee, the…well, you get the point. We’re close, in every sense of the matter! They love to go out and they love to stay home. They like playing dress up as much as they like to swing about wild and free.

Other than my clothes always having to compensate for said ‘grande’ boobs so those designer tops don’t make me look like I’m in a constant state of pregnancy, the biggest problem I’ve encountered is, I always seem to have a bruise on the inside of my upper right arm, which I firmly believe, is caused by brushing my teeth twice a day without a bra on.

I have to admit though, watching a breast gyrate sideways (even if it’s mine) is far funnier than when it bounces from your chin to your belly button. That chaotic arc always makes me bite my tongue. I don’t like that! Nor. Does. Ms. DoubleChin!

Good news is, I’ve recently come to discover that there really is a reason to call them ‘fun bags’!

My next-door-neighbor is like the worlds laziest bastard on earth. The only way he breaks a sweat is by standing in the sun in a supervisory position. He hires people to do just about everything around his house. There’s always a truck of some sort idling away as they repair, renovate, replant, repaint, etc. etc!

But there’s one thing he actually did himself, and this is where the fun bags come it!

He installed several of those clap on-clap off  [‘THE CLAPPER”] devices in every room of his house, including (and this ranks highest on the lazy scale) his garage!

This I’ve discovered allows me to mess with him on a regular basis.

My bathroom window overlooks said garage, and when Girl #1 and my inner upper arm get going, I can here the door opening and closing. I’ve seen him out there.

In the dark.

Staring at the garage.

Scratching his head.

Wondering what the fuck!

Oh, I so love that I have this power.

Since his livingroom is also close to the window, I can turn his TV on and off at will. I can also offer a wake up call in the middle of the night. I get up in the wee hours of the morning and immediately brush my teeth. I figure I save him a bit of electricity because he doesn’t have to use an alarm clock anymore. I brush my teeth, voila, his bedroom light comes on. The only thing I have to be careful about is, I have to pace myself because these devices are just as easy to uninstalled. I do not want the ‘fun bags’ to go idle!

The other morning I almost got busted! 

Lazy ass gets up to go to the gym every day around 5:30 am. Even though I’m usually up hours before, I put off brushing my teeth till then. I stand there in the darkness of my bathroom and wait till he’s about 15 feet from the garage, I see him begin to raise his hands……and then I brush.

I. BRUSH. HARD!

Up goes the door!

I wait for the reaction.

I have to see the look of astonishment on his face, and I can, because he’s standing in the ring of light from the motion-detector lights he had installed above his garage door a little over a week ago.

I can see him look around, trying to figure out why this keeps happening every morning since installing the device.

I have to cover my mouth to stifle my chuckling, which in turn makes me snort through my nose.

My Bad!

Guess my snort came out far louder than I anticipated. I see his eyebrow go up. I knew we should have sprung for those double paned windows when we remodeled.

His eyes start to roam over towards my property so now, I can’t move, because if I do then I risk detection. I hold my breath!

Then the unthinkable happens!

I don’t hear hubby coming down the hall to pee.

Suddenly the lights go on.

I STAND THERE!

LIKE.  A.  FUCKING.  DEER.  CAUGHT.  IN.  THE.  HEADLIGHT’S.  OF.  A.  CAR!

My boob and right arm are exposed. The tooth brush, which my lips have held in suspended animation, falls from my gaping mouth.

“What are you doing?” hubby asks when he sees me body slam myself against the wall next to the window.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you standing at the window half naked?”

“I’m brushing my teeth.”

He looks at my exposed boob and I see the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Can I help you brush your teeth?”

“No. Thanks. I’m done.”

“Hey…Just tryin’ to be helpful.”

I watch as he trudges back towards the bedroom.

“Can you turn the light off on your way out?” I ask, my back still pressed against the safety of the wall.

There is no response. But his hand slides down the wall to the switch.

The room goes dark once again. I step towards the window and realize the moment has passed.  He’s gone!

The thrill is gone.

My boob is cold.

Oh well!

Tomorrow’s another day, right?

10 Sexy Moves…


…that turn your guy on!

Now there’s a headline that’ll catch your eye when you’re menopausal! 

Of course, I had to read it just to see if there was anything that could make me less, you know, mom like and more the wild cougar I know that’s been screaming to be set free for the past decade.

Hell…I know I’ve been slipping, and so have a few other things, but that’s a story for a different story.

I perused the article top to bottom, because hell, I can use all the help I can get. Now don’t get me wrong here. I’ve tried plenty of tricks in my day and I’m sure I’ve still got a few up my sleeve………somewhere–Lurking. Up. By. My. Flabby. Upper. Arm.

A few years back I switched from old-fashioned granny panties to a thong thinking this was uber-sexy. Wrong! Hubby said to me one day, if I want to floss I’ll go into the bathroom and….you get my drift? Turns out he likes a little more coverage. Or, does it mean that there’s more to see than I think there is? Mmm………

I tried installing a stripper pole in the bedroom once but hubby said it was screwing up his direct view of the television. So, being the handy woman I am, I sawed it in two and installed it in my closet so I could hang more clothes, and I have to admit, my clothes actually do look a lot more sexy now. The pole thing really is the bomb!

Mmm……………

Okay, so RULE #1 Talks about makeup, or rather the lack of it.

“Oh, I love how she looks when she wakes up in the morning, fresh, clean, natural…..”

OH. KISS. MY. ASS!

How old are these people they’re talking to, twelve?

At my age, the first thing I usually have to do when I wake up is to pry my top lip off my teeth, because I’ve apparently snored all the moisture out of my body. Or better yet, if I’ve somehow managed to retain a little moisture and managed a drool or two, I have to scrape the 900 count egyptian cotton pillowcase off my cheek because, as far as I can tell, drool contains some kind of secret glue.

Worse case scenario, if I’ve had a few (or a hundred) hot flashes before the ‘rem’ cycle kicks in, which is what brings on the snoring, (no it has nothing to do with pre-bedtime tequila consumption), there’s a good chance that that bottom fitted sheet is going to leave the bed with me when I try to disengage from it because it’s gotten caught up in the crack of my ass like a menopausal wedgie.

The no make up thing?

I don’t think so!

I usually make it a point to sleep with my make-up on in order to prevent any accidental viewings of what I look like before the smoke and mirrors come out.

I remember a couple of years back, I woke up just as it was getting light, and I was feeling a little frisky. I rolled over towards the hubby and ran my hand across his back. This always get’s him going. A moment later he rolls over and slowly opens his eyes. I layed there quietly anticipating some soft sexy whimper to leave his lips telling me how much he wanted me. I think I even batted my eyelashes once or twice trying to build some steam. Instead, he raised himself up on one elbow and looked me directly in the eye with such concern it scared me a little.

He said, ‘What’s the matter, are you sick?”

That’s when I remembered  that I’d showered right before I went to bed and Washed. My. Fucking. Face!


Rule #1 got tossed immediately.

RULE #2 Talks about how men like a woman’s belly to be soft, not skinny and boney. How love handles were just that–love handles!

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…..WE HAVE A WINNER HERE!!!!!!!

I won’t even pontificate about this rule because I happen to have a soft round belly like most women my age!

RULE #3 States that men like our quirky habits.

REALLY?

One of my quirky habits is that I like to renovate, remodel, and rearrange.

I can rip a room down to its studs single-handedly in a couple of hours. This might fall under the premise of insanity rather that just quirky so I’m on the fence about this one really being a quirk. However, it is something I do on a fairly regular basis. My family has learned over time that they should not leave me at home alone longer that two days at a stretch because, on at least one occasion many years ago, I had a very intimate date with my sledgehammer. They were all away and I was trying to get used to some new ‘lose twenty pounds in 24 hours diet pills’ I bought from a middle of the night infomercial. I don’t know what was in said pills but I was bouncing off the wall. Literally!  They came home to an empty kitchen. As in the kitchen was gone…down to the studs, and, I only had to get one tetanus shot.

I think it would be fair to say that hubby definitely does not like my quirks, nor does our bank account!

RULE#4 Says that our significant others like it when we wear our hair natural.

I spend plenty of time trying to tame my long brunette lockes. When left on their own, they form what I call a ‘white afro’, more commonly known as Rosanna Dana Banana (SNL) hair. It’s not curly, yet it’s not straight. It falls into the frizz category. Or what some might call the ‘Medusa Syndrome’. This is where, on my lazy days, my collection of baseball hats comes in handy. You tuck that shit up, or ponytail it under that cap, throw some eyeliner on and a splash of lip gloss, well now you’re talking. I look like any other celebrity trying to dodge the paparazzi. (Remember I live in Hollywood!)

RULE# 5 Goes on about our eyelashes.

How we women use our ‘batting’ ability to drive our men wild. Now, the one thing I am not an expert on is applying false eyelashes. No-siree! This I suck at. I remember one event I was attending where everyone had to look pretty glamorous. I decided that I’d don the falsies just to give my eyes a little zing, you know, that extra little thing so people would notice my gorgeous green eyes. Like all the other women, I pranced around, flaunting my secret little wisps of beauty. I posed for photos. I felt like everyone’s eyes were on me. Some people were actually staring at me, and I thought to myself, all the extra care I took getting ready had been worth it. You know, I looked special! Well the next morning, I couldn’t wait to look on Facebook as there would be a gazillion pictures posted from the event. Sure enough there was post after post, and oddly enough there were several very close up shots of ‘ME’, which was thrilling. at. first. I have pretty bad eyesight so I had to click and enlarge each photo. I felt my heart sink as picture after picture revealed that I had inadvertently attached the false eyelashes on backwards making me look quite cross-eyed. I didn’t even have the heart to read the comments because I knew what it was going to say. The lovely Jacqui Brown, doesn’t she look “SPECIAL”! I think that was the last time I ever wore false eyelashes. If I’m going to bat anything now there’d better be a freaking baseball involved.

RULE #6 Glorifies the smooth leg. Well, whooped-de-do!

Do men actually understand what it takes to keep these legs of ours smooth? How much time we spend wielding a sharp tool against our delicate skin, or how many strips of hot wax we must endure for their silky pleasure?

Personally, this is one of those dastardly tasks I hate because my hair grows in so quickly. The good news for me is that I never wear shorts. Never. Ever! The bad news is I love, love, love linen pants, but linen happens to be one of those materials that can get caught up on things pretty easy. I recall one time walking around, thinking I looked spectacular, when by chance I happened to glance down towards my feet. Sure enough, I’d forgotten to shave that morning and my pant leg was stuck half-way up my shin on some unsightly stubble. Crap! 

RULE #7 Expands on how men like their women’s style.

I most certainly have my own style.

Actually, style might be pushing it.

I’m more like a uniform wearer. Black on top and bottom, black on top with jeans…that’s pretty much it. Only during the summer time does this vary. Then I’m apt to throw on the white linen pants (yes, the same ones that stick to my hairy legs) topped by a black tank top, and often times I cover that with a little vest type garment that allows me to not have to suck in my stomach all the time. As for my hair, it’s pretty much been the same style for thirty-some years. Long and straight, or long with a touch of Rosanna Danna Banana frizz. I usually get it trimmed once a year by a real professional, then I snip and clip it once a month between my yearly visit. This last trim was so that I could look like the menopausal version of Kim Kardashian. I knew this would turn on the hubby so long as his focus stayed above the waist. That bitch has got me so beat in the ass department. But hey, you can’t all!

RULE #8 Your Scent.

I’ve got this one covered now that I’ve stopped taking testosterone.

Who knew the side effects could make you smell like a trucker that’s been on the road too long.

After a few weeks of smelling like a skanky old man, I decided that my libido was going to have to find some other means of returning.

RULE #9 Asking For What You Want

After thirty two years of marriage I don’t ask any more. I blaze my own trail. I do what I want. I go when I want to go. I go where I want to go. I see who I want to see. Of course, since I’m a stay-at-home-mom, the only thing I ask for is enough money to do all the above.

RULE# 10 Your Job  

I can’t actually bust this one since I don’t have a ‘real’ job.

All I do every day, seven days a week is scrub floors, polish & dust, wash windows, wash clothes, iron, grocery shop, vacuum, garden, fix whatever needs to be fixed, cook all the meals, do dishes, referee family debates, placate everyone into happiness, apply medical attention to the accident prone, home school my son, drive and chaperone said son on dates, do the banking, pay the bills on time, renovate anything if I can get away with it,  throw in a blow-job here and there to keep the tension at it’s lowest possible level, and if there’s any time left–I write another book. 

This not working thing is really working for me! So there you have it. 10 rules their way, and ten mine. If you have any other rules you’d like to include, feel free to leave them in the comments and I will take them into consideration. 

My Boobs Have Moved South…


…for the winter or so it seems.

I woke up early one morning recently because my boob was suffering from a mysterious chill.

I pulled the covers up but that didn’t help.

That’s when I realized I was sleeping on my back and my boob had fallen off the bed and was lying on the hardwood floor.

Crap!

I knew I should have put carpeting in the bedroom.

Accidents like this are bound to happen. I’m old enough to know better.

“What the hell girl,” I said in my most scolding tone as I reeled it back  on to the bed–back under the covers where it belonged.

Thing one and thing two are developing a mind of their own.

They have some secret agenda is what I think!

Could this be that ‘physical discontent’ they talk about–the one that comes every winter–the one that comes as each decade passes?

Are our bodies searching to redefine how it will appear to the general public right now? Is this what happens, in the way of consequences, as we slack off on our maintenance of it?

Or was thing one actually searching for something in the form of that warm ray of sunshine that was lurking just beyond the curtains as the sun began to rise?

WHAT?

Fuck that!

Both of those little buggers should be satisfied with the heat brought on by those gall-darned hot flashes that course through my aging body at a surprising rate of speed wherever and whenever they feel like showing up.

Or could it be I’ve reached the time in my life–once again–where a sleeping bra would make sense. I wore one during my pregnancy’s to keep the girls closer to home when all they wanted to do was play.

Oh yes! That was very interesting.

The word ‘undulation’ is what comes to mind when I think of how they used to misbehave then. Their favorite game was to imitate a yo-yo when I moved about.

Bada-Boing, Bada-Boing, Bada-Boing!

Up down, up down, and sometimes even, as an added treat, a loop de loop.

Yes, my boobs have a secret life of their own. They’re always looking for attention, good, bad, or indifferent!

I recall another occasion a few years back when I was rudely awakened in the wee hours of the morning because I couldn’t breathe.

What the hell, I thought to myself?


What on earth was happening?

The first thought that came to mind was that hubby had finally had enough of my crazy antics and was trying to off me. He sometimes has these little adventures in his sleep, which I think makes him far crazier than me.

Oops! Did I say that out loud…..sorry honey, but in my defense–you do have those wacky dreams that set you out on a mission of sorts.

My Bad!

When my eyes popped open–an auto-reflex due to lack of oxygen–I could see he was still sound asleep and facing in the other direction. He was off the hook.

I reached up towards my throat and that’s when I discovered that thing two had decided to sleep in the crook of my neck.

Little bastard! I take very good care of the girls so this kind of behavior is shocking!

Were my boobs screaming out for security once again?

Mmmmmmm…?

Or was it just a matter of weight distribution? Could it be the extra weight I’d recently acquired had chosen to settle in my boobs as it often does?

Anyone out there with large boobs knows that if you find a top to fit the girls the bottom always makes you look pregnant. If you find a top that fits the bottom, the boobs doth protest and will not allow buttoning, zipping, or snapping to happen.

Life’s a bitch sometimes!

Maybe this is yet another reason to keep duct tape in the drawer next to my bed.

The Middle Hours…


…the ones where sleep is elusive, the ones that fall between say–two and six in the morning–are like a secret garden for me. I plant a seed, a thought, then let the idea grow until creativity sparks like a firecracker.

Whatever happens in this time frame sets the tone for my day. It determines whether it will be a FUN day or just another one of those “FUNNY DAYS“!

Why I’m up during what should be my Rapid Eye Movement hours is beyond me…it just is what it is.

It always amazes me how we adapt and learn to tolerate that which makes us crazy–that which makes us freaking exhausted later in the day when we should be functioning like a well oiled engine!

But this time of day/night, however you want to look at it, is often my most creative time IF I can harvest the thoughts running through my brain…the ones that shoot out like bullets from a machine gun.

BAM–there goes another one!

Just when I think I’m coming into focus, honing in on the ramblings/ideas/thoughts scooting back and forth in my brain like a hockey puck being played by two trophy winning teams…

…Just when I think I can sit at my computer and force words to flow through my fingers onto the blank screen, words that should make sense…

BAM, BAM, BAM!

I realize I forgot to switch the laundry over before going to bed.

This sets off the train of frustration because I know I will have to run the wash again to get rid of the overnight stench of sitting water.

CRAP!

It’s the chain reaction theory working to keep me running behind, like a watch whose battery is on the verge of dying but not quite. It keeps a little time, the wrong time, but it’s moving just enough to keep me going even though I may reach the TOTAL FAIL POINT…the place where I give in and say time or lack of it wins–I lose.

I wonder whether or not I can achieve all the tasks ahead of me during the correct hours of being awake! Can I fit my creativity onto the list of the ‘honey do’ portion of my day?

What’s a girl to do?

Me–I do what I always do. I step away from the computer, go out to the laundry room, set the wheels in motion once again–and feel some odd sense of satisfaction rain down in my brain.

Score Card

Chores done–10 points!

Creativity–0!

Fuck!

This happens all too often.

Returning from the laundry room, I wonder what it was I was about to write? The idea eludes me and I feel, well, disappointed, put upon, and bummed out! Will the idea/thought return? Maybe, but maybe not!

I hate my brain some days.

But I’m a creature of habit and force myself to sit and think.

There’s an inkling of something lurking at the end of my finger tips waiting to spring free but the release is not there. It fades away…it’s like a rain cloud that’s moved in front of the sun. That’s right about the time when I notice a pile of crumbs on the floor next to the table upon which my computer sits. This would be a remenent of snacks ingested by my children long after I’d hit the sack the night before.

I try to ignore the distraction by focusing on the blank screen of my computer.

One word…just type one fucking word and you can break the spell I tell myself!

I see the broom taunting me like it always does. It leans against the cupboard all yellow and bristly trying so desperately to seduce me, to get and keep my attention.

“Come on…you know you want to feel my handle in your hands,” it whispers into the air as though I can really hear it…as though I will really truly give a shit.

“Fuck off…I’m trying to work here!” I let these words spin around in my brain silently!

“No, no, no,” it whispers. “You know you can’t write a God Damned thing now that you’ve spotted the mess on the floor!”

“Shut the hell up!” This time I say it out loud, but not loud enough to wake anyone else up.

I have, on occasion, said things too-out-loud during the wee hours and as a result one of my children have wandered out of their bedroom sleepy eyed to ask me who the hell I’m talking to at this unGodly hour.

I have to decide between telling an outright lie, or admit that I’m having a perfectly normal conversation with the broom!

They know I talk to myself…but admitting that I have a real honest-to-God relationship with most of my cleaning utensils may lead to a lot of unsettling questions later on.

I try to ignore it by Googling “Dealing With ADD”.

Focus daily on your overall health, both in mind and body!

Don’t fail to plan. Plan to succeed!

Surround yourself with a positive environment as much as possible!

BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH!

FOCUS…SCHMOKUS!

The authors of these great suggestions obviously do not know me or my family! They must be referring to those who are either only a tad affected by this syndrome or are medicated so heavily they turn into iron-clad-doer’s who TUNNEL VISION everything until they’ve accomplished everything on their list or the med’s have worn off!

My eye’s are once again drawn away from the empty computer screen to those BASTARD crumbs!

Now, call me a freak, but this time when I look at them I see they’ve somehow reshaped themselves to form words.

CLEAN ME NOW!

SON OF A BITCH!

The earth feels like it’s moving beneath me. I thank God for living in California because the earth does move here. If this is an earthquake it will relieve my of my creative duties, hallelulia, because now I’ll have to run into the kitchen and try to hold as many cupboards closed as I can in order to maintain damage control.

I wait for the bigness of it………………but NOTHING.

I realize as my eye’s turn towards the kitchen that it’s just the fucking broom doing the tango because it’s as ADD as me. It is demanding my attention!

At long last I close my computer in defeat!

SCORE CARD

CHORES…..20 POINTS

CREATIVITY…..0

Baby Fat…


…is something that all women have to deal with after that freaking blessed event of allowing a far too large object to slide out of the smallest portal on our body!

Let’s face it girls. We really don’t give much thought to our expanding girth when it’s falls under the guise of ‘baby fat’. As that little sucker grows inside of us we cling to that self-serving deception tactic of “I’ve got to feed the baby” or “I’m trying to protect the baby” with all this added cushion.

B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t!

Pregnancy brain makes us delusional is what I think.

What we’ve really done is stuffed our bloody faces until we look like we’re ready to explode because we think no one’s really watching our weight–they’re only watching the blessed progression of a developing baby.

So, flash forward a decade or two.

You realize your kids are nearly adults now and you’re still carrying around a pile of flab that’s been there since way back when.

Double CRAP!

With the recession like it is now, so many of us are left to our own devices to get in shape because gym memberships are still at a premium. The price of working out one-on-one with a personal trainer is also out of reach for most of us, so what do we do–we start looking around to find the cheapest possible way to get the most for our money.

Hubby and I usually walk every morning at our local park. If we go around the outside twice we can get in about two miles. Unfortunately, when it’s a little cooler outside, we take a shortcut so we can stay in the sun. Hello…short cuts will not get rid of said baby fat.

But the good part is, we find new inspiration during these little treks because every day we’d see different groups working out. You’ve got your boot camps, your one-on-ones, basketball games, joggers…there’s a plethora of people trying to get fit, or as I like to think of it–getting your J-ello to finally set.

One group I’ve notice over the past year is made up of several young mothers and their toddlers. They use the strollers for balance, use their kids as free weights, and all in all, they seem like their having a good time instead of just sweating their asses off alone. They’ve got that camaraderie going on, and from the look on their faces, they really don’t seem to mind the stretching, crunching, or jogging so long as they can do it together.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You grab a bunch of your ‘baby-fat’ friends who are stuck at home with their young children and you work out together. It’s the perfect world–like minded women at the same place in their life.

So after pondering this idea I finally got brave enough to go ask them if it was an open group and how much did it cost to join.

“We don’t pay anything, we just work out together because it’s more fun to do it this way,”  says the girl who kind of looks like she’s leading the group.

“Oh,” I said.

I notice that they’re all kind of staring at me in that odd kind of way because it’s obvious I’m a lot older than all of them.

“Could I come?” I ask.

“Well…you’re..um…I think you’re a little old for our group,” she says looking me up and down with that smug superior look on her face.

I want to bitch-slap her but I refrain from doing so because this might be my ticket to shed a few pounds without spending a dime so I keep my cool.

“No…I don’t think I’m too old,” I say as I crush the urge to take this bitch down right then and there. “I’m not as old as I look you know.”

The whole pack of them exchange a look, you know the one. I can see them trying to formulate a reason to get me to go away.

“Do you have kids?” she asks because I’m pretty sure she can see the daggers flying out of my eyeballs right towards her heart.

“Yeah, I’ve got kids,” I reply waiting to see where she’s going to go next.

She looks around at the others in the group trying to surmise by the looks on their faces whether or not she should offer me a place in the group. They pull themselves into a little huddle and have a short conference. A moment later they separate and the spokesgirl takes another long look at me.

“Why don’t you come Wednesday…WITH your kid,” she says. “We’ll see if you can keep up with us.”

Oh no you didn’t girl!

I can’t believe she went there so fast!

Yep, she upped the ante by attacking my competitive side. She may very well have opened Pandora’s Box!

Oh well, maybe this was exactly what I needed to hear to motivate me to undo what time and gluttony had done to me.

“Okie-dokie, I’ll see you Wednesday then,” I say.

I can hear them giggling as I walk away.

CRAP!!

I may have bitten off more than I could chew!

So here’s one of the only perks of home schooling. My son is constantly available, and fortunately for me, he has the same warped humor that I do. I know he’ll be game for this, and besides, he loves to work out so it’s game on.

Tuesday rolls around and I go to my neighbor and ask if I can borrow her jogger stroller.

“What do you need a stroller for?” she asks.

I lie and tell her I’m going to be babysitting a friend’s kid on Wednesday.

“Oh, okay,” she says.

Wednesday morning, I get up early, wash my hair, do my makeup, dress in my best workout clothes. I’m not going to let these young she dogs see the real morning me under any circumstances!

I get my son up, feed him so he won’t get cranky, and we head off to the park.

When I pull into the parking lot I can see them off in the distance. There’s five or six of them and they’re already stretching, and sucking back the last drops of their coffee. Why the hell do they look so perky already? I slap my face a few times trying to get that ‘warmed up already’ redness in my cheeks.

I get the stroller out of the back of my car, set it on the ground and try to open it.

Crap!

I guess we should have done a run through at home.

I realize it has some kind of dam fangled lock on it somewhere but I just can’t find it. I look around in desperation, and like a mirage before my eyes, there appears another health nut, a mother, with her kid, in the same kind of stroller, and I know she’s not part of the mommy group I’m about to join. She sees my plight and comes to my aid.

She flicks a little toggle and the god damm buggy springs to life just like when you pull the toggle of the life jacket on an airplane. Oh yeah! That’ll be a story for another time!

I jump out of the way and she laughs at me.

“Sometimes these things have a  life of there own,” she offers.”They take some getting used to.”

“No shit!” I say thinking these things must be manufactured by Toyota.

The smile on her lips turns sour and she glares at me.

I slap my hand over my mouth.

My bad!

I look down at her beautiful little girl who is also staring at me now.

“I’m sorry…that just kind of slipped out,” I say trying to salvage my bad self.

She say’s nothing in return for my apology. She just turns away and heads off with an air of indignation.

My son looks at me and we both burst out laughing.

Okay, so now we’ve got the stroller ready for loading. I look at my son then look at the stroller and wonder how this is going to work.

At six-feet-five inches this is definitely going to be interesting.

Knowing that my son’s in pretty good shape I figure we should be all right. It might take a minute or two to finagle his gangly limbs into it—but come hell or high water—it was going to happen!

My pride and mid-life fat was on the line here.

After ten minutes of pushing, shoving, contorting, and cramming his gangly body parts this way and that, he was sufficiently trapped in the damn blasted contraption.

Was he a happy camper? No!

“I can’t breathe,” he said. “My balls hurt!”

“Oh shut up you big baby,” I said slamming the sunshade down over his head.

Then it hit me. This was so uber-perfect because he was acting like a two-year-old.

I win!

As I approach the group I am met with stares, glares, and more of those WTF looks they’d given me on my initial approach.

I still win.

They never mentioned anything about an age limit—their loss—my gain!

“You didn’t say anything about your son being…well…older,” Miss Perky Boobs says.

“You never asked,” I say smugly because I know she can’t think of one damn thing to come back with.

I could see a couple of these young girls checking out my son and it brang a smile to my lips. He’s pretty damn cute if I don’t say so myself. He’s tall for his age and I’m pretty sure there’s a few gutter thoughts breezing through one or two of these young mother’s minds. But you know what? I don’t mind so much as long as they let me work out with them…FOR FREE!

Oh the sacrifice’s we mother’s make to save a dime here and there.

“Well, let’s just start then,” Miss PB says.

Now here’s where having my son in the stroller pays off big time. We’re starting out with squats.  I can see that these young girls are really going to have to use their leg muscles in order not to tip over their strollers as they use them to keep their balance. I watch as they check the safety straps and harnesses that will keep their littuns’ safe and sound.

My son is an anchor for me. His hundred and seventy five pounds of lean muscle hunkering down in that stroller means that I can disperse the muscle usage equally between my double chinned arms and my less than toned legs.

“Just hang on dude,” I warn him because the straps on this stroller are unusable with his size.

He unfurls his thirty-six inch inseam limbs, adjusts his gonads, then pushes the sunshade away so he can watch me. I here the first hint of a giggle sneaking out of him because he knows this is my least favorite exercise and I really have to concentrate so I don’t start laughing.

Miss PB starts the drill.

“One…hold it………………..Two…………..breathe.”

During the second squat, I start to feel that old familiar gurgle that emanates from my five-decade-old gas pipes.

CRAP!

Remember: mid-life and squats are not the best combination for me, especially with the absence of GasX . That’s what got me into this situation in the first place.

I take a deep breath and squeeze the old sphincter muscle as tight as I can in hopes that I can avoid the possibility of my butt actually erupting.

OOPS!

There goes the first warning shot! I count my blessings immediately because there’s no obvious noise.

Smell…well that’s another thing. Thank God I was down wind.

Dipping for number three felt a little better. I guess the warning shot had relieved enough pressure to let me continue without fear.

WRONG!

When I finally get all the way down—my butt, which has acquired it’s own life cycle, has decided it’s time to party. Oh yeah…bells and whistles—drum roll please—it was time to blow the party horn. The best I could hope for is that it wouldn’t react like a piñata that might actually spill its guts.

“WOW, THIS FEELS FANTASTIC,” I scream at the top of my lungs hoping it will drown out the sound of the thunderous blasphemy that seems to be taking its time exiting the building.

Of course my outburst is greeted with more WTF stares. I fight fire with fire and stare back because I don’t really care because, if I had my druthers, I’d rather they think I was a crazy old bitch instead of a stinking rotten smelly one.

I’d been so worried about the noise I didn’t notice that the wind had changed direction.

My first hint that something was way wrong was when my son clutched, first his nose, then his throat before making that gagging face over and over. About five seconds later he keeled over and played dead.

One of the girls noticed him slumped over while he was playing possum and pointed towards him.

“Is he okay?” she said with real concern in her voice.

“Oh yes, he’ll be fine in a minute,” I assure her.

I kick the bottom of the stroller to get my point across, to tell him to quit it. If he blows this for me there’d be a steep price to pay later.

That’s when he throws in a full body twitch just to make sure he gets his point across—that being that I’d nearly killed him as last night’s broccoli regurgitated itself.  I guess there’s only so much a person can do to reign in our personal carbon footprint.

“He just needs a little fresh air,” I say and start squatting again.

“Noooooooo…!”

It comes out of his mouth like a little childish whisper.

“OMG! Don’t do it Mom!” he says seeing me as I prepared to do the fourth squat.

“Can you just shut up?” I say to him.  “You don’t see any of the other kids making a scene.

“Hello…What are they, six months old…a year?” he says in his own defense.

I look over at their sweet little faces. They look like little angels ‘NOW’ and all I can do is smile.  They have no idea what’s to come ten, fifteen years from now.

Miss PB calls off the squats, announcing that we’re now going to jog around the park twice.

Oh Lord!

I knew I should have quit smoking a long time ago.

My mind starts to reel as I anticipate the possibility of respiratory failure. I know if I keep a fairly slow pace I can probably do it, but it’s much, much harder than I’d anticipated. I am comforted by the fact that I can see the giant hospital directly across the street from the park. I’m sure that if anything happens, like me going face down, the six of them can surely drag my sorry ass across the grass and deposit me in the emergency room in a timely manner.

The six of them take off leaving me in a heap of dust. Bitches! I watch their perky little asses and am fascinated by the fact that they don’t flop up and down like mine. WTF?

Before I can even think about running we have to reconfigure my sons legs back into the stroller so we don’t get tripped up and end up on a gurney for other reasons.

Okay, so we’re off. It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be except for the fact that I can’t remember the last time I ran anywhere while trying to push a car in front of me.

My son decides he’ll help out by unfurling his legs and straddling the stroller trying to run along with me. Each time his foot hits the ground however, the stroller zigs in the opposite direction and we end up looking like we’re drunk.

“Put your damn feet up,” I yell. “You’re gonna kill us both.”

“I can’t, you have to stop first.”

“No way Jose,” I say looking over my shoulder. The girls are about to lap me.

He somehow pulls his legs up so we can keep moving. I try desperately to keep ahead of them, but it’s no use. One by one they zoom past.

CRAP!

I hate failure!

Try as I might I cannot keep up. Plan B starts to formulate in my befuddled, not enough morning coffee brain. I can see the group is about to round the last corner of the track, the home stretch, and realize that if I don’t act now I’ll have to go down in defeat.

I tell my son to get out and we cut across the center of the track. If I time this right, not only will this put us ahead of them, we’ll also have enough time to squish him back into the stroller and build up a little sweat.

When the girls finally ‘catch up’ with us they look confused.

“I know…I know, you didn’t even see me pass you huh?” I say pretending to be breathless. “Evelyn Wood’s Speed Running…took that course last year.”

This seems to impress them or at least this is what I tell myself.

Really, all I want to do is sit down, slug back some water, have a smoke, and rest for a few minutes.

No such luck. Apparently this workout group works like a ‘real’ boot camp. No rest for the weary.

This is really fucked up! How come I didn’t notice the ferocity of their regime during my walks? Guess that boils down to the old adage of ‘you only see what you want to see!’  But then again, this is probably why Miss PB’s boobs are still perky, and why all their butts are so firm. Guess I’ve been out of the loop a little too long.

Miss PB barks out that we are about to use the children as free weights so we should unleash them from their stroller seat.

I gasp, my son sighs!

We are instructed to lie on our backs, pull our legs up to a fetal position and then place our child up onto the lower part of our legs so we can do callisthenic leg lifts.

As I lie there on my back looking up towards the sky and the smirk on my son’s face, it hits me that I should have brought a towel because now my back will be scratchy all day as the dead grass penetrates my t-shirt.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face son, this is serious business,” I say.

“Oh I know, I can’t wait to see how this works out,” he says getting down on his knees.

He maneuvers his chest onto my lower legs. About two seconds later as his dead weight hits home, I feel all the air in my lungs disappear.

OMG!

Where oh where had my lower body strength gone?

I’m the handy man/woman of the house! I’ve framed in walls, built fences, framed out and built concrete stairs, hung drywall, plastered walls, moved two tons of pebbles, sand and rocks, planted trees out of their twenty four inch boxes, changed tires on cars, reworked plumbing, and gave birth twice vaginally.

How was it that this had not strengthened my legs. Why was this hundred and seventy-five pound punk suffocating me?

I looked to my left then my right, and each one of these girls was breezing through the routine.  Well no shit! They were balancing maybe fifteen or twenty pounds at the most.

Miss PB is glaring at me by this time. I’m sure she’s formulating the words she’s going to say to me after all is said and done that will make me go away and let them get on with their business of getting fit.

My son is looking down at me with that ‘what are you going to do now’ look and all I can do is smile.

“You know, you could help me out here you little Peckerhead! Put your hands on the ground and take some of the pressure off,” I say to him.

“But Mom…that would be cheating wouldn’t it?”

He says this not knowing that these words were, in reality, a death wish on his part.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t help me out here your gonads might just meet up with an unsightly accident,” I say smiling through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” he says as the smile evaporates from his lips.

He realizes that he’s in a compromised position. He lowers his hands to the ground in self-defense.

Okie Dokie then! In this position I can actually lift him. We manage to get about ten leg lifts done. Just as I really start to get the rhythm down Miss PB says we’re done.

She stands up and sets her oh so sweet daughter down in the middle of the circle with the other toddlers. She looks over at me, smiles her movie star smile, and I start to wonder whether or not my family can sue her for unnecessary cruelty in the event that I actually drop dead from exertion.

OMG! I know she can see the sweat pouring off me like Niagara Falls, and that my face must be red as an apple at this point, but she doesn’t say a word—nor do I.  It’s just another moment where I want to bitch slap her for pushing me to, or rather, beyond my limit.

I am older and wiser and she is not going to win!

I need to gather myself here and pull my t-shirt up so I can swab away some of the fluids that have leaked out of me. Not a good move on my part because now they all see the body sucker I’ve been sporting under my clothes to reveal only my curvy side.

OOPS!

I can see them staring at me.  Yep! There were twelve eyes bearing down on my girdled midriff.

“I have a bad back. I need the pressure to hold my spine in place,” I say returning my t-shirt to where it should have never left.

Crap!

This is going to hell in a basket!

Miss PB rolls her eyes back in her head. I imitate her so she’s aware that I am not going to let her throw me. She announces that she’ll stay with the children while we go free jog.

WHAT? Free jog? She can’t be serious! That last stint nearly killed me even at the piddly-assed pace I tried to maintain. If I had to move faster than that, which I assumed she would want us to, I might never see my family again.

My son plopped down amid the toddlers and waved me off.

“Go on Mom, don’t worry about me,” he said right before he burst out laughing.

I put one foot in front of the other and made my way back to the track. Without the distraction of the added weight (my son and the stroller) I figured I could ace this portion of the workout for at least for one lap—maybe even two.

Unfortunately, my boobs, otherwise known as thing one and thing two, had other plans. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about doubling up on the sports bra, I just know that I hadn’t. Big mistake!

I was now being bitch-slapped by my own flesh.

My breasts had turned into out of control Slinky’s—undulated up, down, side-to-side—stretching in ways that could—in no way—be considered flattering.  I slowed down in order to stop this hideous circus act. I hadn’t even reached the second turn on the track when two of the young mothers lapped me.

Son of a bitch!

I did the only thing I could. I stopped.

I made my way back to the center of the track.

With my shoulders slumped in defeat I headed directly to Miss PB.

“You win! I’m done.”

“But we’re just getting started,” she says flashing her chicklet-white smile.

I’m so tired I can’t even be witty. I glare at my son who is currently sucking his thumb mimicking the other toddlers. I have just enough wherewithal to pull my shoulders back and stand as proud as I can.

“Let’s go son,” I say.

“Where we going Mom?”

“To lick my wounds!”

As we finish packing everything back into the car I catch sight of a group of seniors doing Thai Chi under the shade of several giant eucalyptus trees next to the parking lot.

“Ah-so young grasshopper,” I say smiling at my son. “There is a God after all—I’ll be right back.”

…is something that all women have to deal with after that freaking blessed event of allowing a far too large object to slide out of the smallest portal on our body!

Let’s face it girls. We really don’t give much thought to our expanding girth when it’s falls under the guise of ‘baby fat’. As that little sucker grows inside of us we cling to that self-serving deception tactic of “I’ve got to feed the baby” or “I’m trying to protect the baby” with all this added cushion.

B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t!

Pregnancy brain makes us delusional is what I think.

What we’ve really done is stuffed our bloody faces until we look like we’re ready to explode because we think no one’s really watching our weight–they’re only watching the blessed progression of a developing baby.

So, flash forward a decade or two.

You realize your kids are nearly adults now and you’re still carrying around a pile of flab that’s been there since way back when.

Double CRAP!

With the recession like it is now, so many of us are left to our own devices to get in shape because gym memberships are still at a premium. The price of working out one-on-one with a personal trainer is also out of reach for most of us, so what do we do–we start looking around to find the cheapest possible way to get the most for our money.

Hubby and I usually walk every morning at our local park. If we go around the outside twice we can get in about two miles. Unfortunately, when it’s a little cooler outside, we take a shortcut so we can stay in the sun. Hello…short cuts will not get rid of said baby fat.

But the good part is, we find new inspiration during these little treks because every day we’d see different groups working out. You’ve got your boot camps, your one-on-ones, basketball games, joggers…there’s a plethora of people trying to get fit, or as I like to think of it–getting your J-ello to finally set.

One group I’ve notice over the past year is made up of several young mothers and their toddlers. They use the strollers for balance, use their kids as free weights, and all in all, they seem like their having a good time instead of just sweating their asses off alone. They’ve got that camaraderie going on, and from the look on their faces, they really don’t seem to mind the stretching, crunching, or jogging so long as they can do it together.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. You grab a bunch of your ‘baby-fat’ friends who are stuck at home with their young children and you work out together. It’s the perfect world–like minded women at the same place in their life.

So after pondering this idea I finally got brave enough to go ask them if it was an open group and how much did it cost to join.

“We don’t pay anything, we just work out together because it’s more fun to do it this way,”  says the girl who kind of looks like she’s leading the group.

“Oh,” I said.

I notice that they’re all kind of staring at me in that odd kind of way because it’s obvious I’m a lot older than all of them.

“Could I come?” I ask.

“Well…you’re..um…I think you’re a little old for our group,” she says looking me up and down with that smug superior look on her face.

I want to bitch-slap her but I refrain from doing so because this might be my ticket to shed a few pounds without spending a dime so I keep my cool.

“No…I don’t think I’m too old,” I say as I crush the urge to take this bitch down right then and there. “I’m not as old as I look you know.”

The whole pack of them exchange a look, you know the one. I can see them trying to formulate a reason to get me to go away.

“Do you have kids?” she asks because I’m pretty sure she can see the daggers flying out of my eyeballs right towards her heart.

“Yeah, I’ve got kids,” I reply waiting to see where she’s going to go next.

She looks around at the others in the group trying to surmise by the looks on their faces whether or not she should offer me a place in the group. They pull themselves into a little huddle and have a short conference. A moment later they separate and the spokesgirl takes another long look at me.

“Why don’t you come Wednesday…WITH your kid,” she says. “We’ll see if you can keep up with us.”

Oh no you didn’t girl!

I can’t believe she went there so fast!

Yep, she upped the ante by attacking my competitive side. She may very well have opened Pandora’s Box!

Oh well, maybe this was exactly what I needed to hear to motivate me to undo what time and gluttony had done to me.

“Okie-dokie, I’ll see you Wednesday then,” I say.

I can hear them giggling as I walk away.

CRAP!!

I may have bitten off more than I could chew!

So here’s one of the only perks of home schooling. My son is constantly available, and fortunately for me, he has the same warped humor that I do. I know he’ll be game for this, and besides, he loves to work out so it’s game on.

Tuesday rolls around and I go to my neighbor and ask if I can borrow her jogger stroller.

“What do you need a stroller for?” she asks.

I lie and tell her I’m going to be babysitting a friend’s kid on Wednesday.

“Oh, okay,” she says.

Wednesday morning, I get up early, wash my hair, do my makeup, dress in my best workout clothes. I’m not going to let these young she dogs see the real morning me under any circumstances!

I get my son up, feed him so he won’t get cranky, and we head off to the park.

When I pull into the parking lot I can see them off in the distance. There’s five or six of them and they’re already stretching, and sucking back the last drops of their coffee. Why the hell do they look so perky already? I slap my face a few times trying to get that ‘warmed up already’ redness in my cheeks.

I get the stroller out of the back of my car, set it on the ground and try to open it.

Crap!

I guess we should have done a run through at home.

I realize it has some kind of dam fangled lock on it somewhere but I just can’t find it. I look around in desperation, and like a mirage before my eyes, there appears another health nut, a mother, with her kid, in the same kind of stroller, and I know she’s not part of the mommy group I’m about to join. She sees my plight and comes to my aid.

She flicks a little toggle and the god damm buggy springs to life just like when you pull the toggle of the life jacket on an airplane. Oh yeah! That’ll be a story for another time!

I jump out of the way and she laughs at me.

“Sometimes these things have a  life of there own,” she offers.”They take some getting used to.”

“No shit!” I say thinking these things must be manufactured by Toyota.

The smile on her lips turns sour and she glares at me.

I slap my hand over my mouth.

My bad!

I look down at her beautiful little girl who is also staring at me now.

“I’m sorry…that just kind of slipped out,” I say trying to salvage my bad self.

She say’s nothing in return for my apology. She just turns away and heads off with an air of indignation.

My son looks at me and we both burst out laughing.

Okay, so now we’ve got the stroller ready for loading. I look at my son then look at the stroller and wonder how this is going to work.

At six-feet-five inches this is definitely going to be interesting.

Knowing that my son’s in pretty good shape I figure we should be all right. It might take a minute or two to finagle his gangly limbs into it—but come hell or high water—it was going to happen!

My pride and mid-life fat was on the line here.

After ten minutes of pushing, shoving, contorting, and cramming his gangly body parts this way and that, he was sufficiently trapped in the damn blasted contraption.

Was he a happy camper? No!

“I can’t breathe,” he said. “My balls hurt!”

“Oh shut up you big baby,” I said slamming the sunshade down over his head.

Then it hit me. This was so uber-perfect because he was acting like a two-year-old.

I win!

As I approach the group I am met with stares, glares, and more of those WTF looks they’d given me on my initial approach.

I still win.

They never mentioned anything about an age limit—their loss—my gain!

“You didn’t say anything about your son being…well…older,” Miss Perky Boobs says.

“You never asked,” I say smugly because I know she can’t think of one damn thing to come back with.

I could see a couple of these young girls checking out my son and it brang a smile to my lips. He’s pretty damn cute if I don’t say so myself. He’s tall for his age and I’m pretty sure there’s a few gutter thoughts breezing through one or two of these young mother’s minds. But you know what? I don’t mind so much as long as they let me work out with them…FOR FREE!

Oh the sacrifice’s we mother’s make to save a dime here and there.

“Well, let’s just start then,” Miss PB says.

Now here’s where having my son in the stroller pays off big time. We’re starting out with squats.  I can see that these young girls are really going to have to use their leg muscles in order not to tip over their strollers as they use them to keep their balance. I watch as they check the safety straps and harnesses that will keep their littuns’ safe and sound.

My son is an anchor for me. His hundred and seventy five pounds of lean muscle hunkering down in that stroller means that I can disperse the muscle usage equally between my double chinned arms and my less than toned legs.

“Just hang on dude,” I warn him because the straps on this stroller are unusable with his size.

He unfurls his thirty-six inch inseam limbs, adjusts his gonads, then pushes the sunshade away so he can watch me. I here the first hint of a giggle sneaking out of him because he knows this is my least favorite exercise and I really have to concentrate so I don’t start laughing.

Miss PB starts the drill.

“One…hold it………………..Two…………..breathe.”

During the second squat, I start to feel that old familiar gurgle that emanates from my five-decade-old gas pipes.

CRAP!

Remember: mid-life and squats are not the best combination for me, especially with the absence of GasX . That’s what got me into this situation in the first place.

I take a deep breath and squeeze the old sphincter muscle as tight as I can in hopes that I can avoid the possibility of my butt actually erupting.

OOPS!

There goes the first warning shot! I count my blessings immediately because there’s no obvious noise.

Smell…well that’s another thing. Thank God I was down wind.

Dipping for number three felt a little better. I guess the warning shot had relieved enough pressure to let me continue without fear.

WRONG!

When I finally get all the way down—my butt, which has acquired it’s own life cycle, has decided it’s time to party. Oh yeah…bells and whistles—drum roll please—it was time to blow the party horn. The best I could hope for is that it wouldn’t react like a piñata that might actually spill its guts.

“WOW, THIS FEELS FANTASTIC,” I scream at the top of my lungs hoping it will drown out the sound of the thunderous blasphemy that seems to be taking its time exiting the building.

Of course my outburst is greeted with more WTF stares. I fight fire with fire and stare back because I don’t really care because, if I had my druthers, I’d rather they think I was a crazy old bitch instead of a stinking rotten smelly one.

I’d been so worried about the noise I didn’t notice that the wind had changed direction.

My first hint that something was way wrong was when my son clutched, first his nose, then his throat before making that gagging face over and over. About five seconds later he keeled over and played dead.

One of the girls noticed him slumped over while he was playing possum and pointed towards him.

“Is he okay?” she said with real concern in her voice.

“Oh yes, he’ll be fine in a minute,” I assure her.

I kick the bottom of the stroller to get my point across, to tell him to quit it. If he blows this for me there’d be a steep price to pay later.

That’s when he throws in a full body twitch just to make sure he gets his point across—that being that I’d nearly killed him as last night’s broccoli regurgitated itself.  I guess there’s only so much a person can do to reign in our personal carbon footprint.

“He just needs a little fresh air,” I say and start squatting again.

“Noooooooo…!”

It comes out of his mouth like a little childish whisper.

“OMG! Don’t do it Mom!” he says seeing me as I prepared to do the fourth squat.

“Can you just shut up?” I say to him.  “You don’t see any of the other kids making a scene.

“Hello…What are they, six months old…a year?” he says in his own defense.

I look over at their sweet little faces. They look like little angels ‘NOW’ and all I can do is smile.  They have no idea what’s to come ten, fifteen years from now.

Miss PB calls off the squats, announcing that we’re now going to jog around the park twice.

Oh Lord!

I knew I should have quit smoking a long time ago.

My mind starts to reel as I anticipate the possibility of respiratory failure. I know if I keep a fairly slow pace I can probably do it, but it’s much, much harder than I’d anticipated. I am comforted by the fact that I can see the giant hospital directly across the street from the park. I’m sure that if anything happens, like me going face down, the six of them can surely drag my sorry ass across the grass and deposit me in the emergency room in a timely manner.

The six of them take off leaving me in a heap of dust. Bitches! I watch their perky little asses and am fascinated by the fact that they don’t flop up and down like mine. WTF?

Before I can even think about running we have to reconfigure my sons legs back into the stroller so we don’t get tripped up and end up on a gurney for other reasons.

Okay, so we’re off. It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be except for the fact that I can’t remember the last time I ran anywhere while trying to push a car in front of me.

My son decides he’ll help out by unfurling his legs and straddling the stroller trying to run along with me. Each time his foot hits the ground however, the stroller zigs in the opposite direction and we end up looking like we’re drunk.

“Put your damn feet up,” I yell. “You’re gonna kill us both.”

“I can’t, you have to stop first.”

“No way Jose,” I say looking over my shoulder. The girls are about to lap me.

He somehow pulls his legs up so we can keep moving. I try desperately to keep ahead of them, but it’s no use. One by one they zoom past.

CRAP!

I hate failure!

Try as I might I cannot keep up. Plan B starts to formulate in my befuddled, not enough morning coffee brain. I can see the group is about to round the last corner of the track, the home stretch, and realize that if I don’t act now I’ll have to go down in defeat.

I tell my son to get out and we cut across the center of the track. If I time this right, not only will this put us ahead of them, we’ll also have enough time to squish him back into the stroller and build up a little sweat.

When the girls finally ‘catch up’ with us they look confused.

“I know…I know, you didn’t even see me pass you huh?” I say pretending to be breathless. “Evelyn Wood’s Speed Running…took that course last year.”

This seems to impress them or at least this is what I tell myself.

Really, all I want to do is sit down, slug back some water, have a smoke, and rest for a few minutes.

No such luck. Apparently this workout group works like a ‘real’ boot camp. No rest for the weary.

This is really fucked up! How come I didn’t notice the ferocity of their regime during my walks? Guess that boils down to the old adage of ‘you only see what you want to see!’  But then again, this is probably why Miss PB’s boobs are still perky, and why all their butts are so firm. Guess I’ve been out of the loop a little too long.

Miss PB barks out that we are about to use the children as free weights so we should unleash them from their stroller seat.

I gasp, my son sighs!

We are instructed to lie on our backs, pull our legs up to a fetal position and then place our child up onto the lower part of our legs so we can do callisthenic leg lifts.

As I lie there on my back looking up towards the sky and the smirk on my son’s face, it hits me that I should have brought a towel because now my back will be scratchy all day as the dead grass penetrates my t-shirt.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face son, this is serious business,” I say.

“Oh I know, I can’t wait to see how this works out,” he says getting down on his knees.

He maneuvers his chest onto my lower legs. About two seconds later as his dead weight hits home, I feel all the air in my lungs disappear.

OMG!

Where oh where had my lower body strength gone?

I’m the handy man/woman of the house! I’ve framed in walls, built fences, framed out and built concrete stairs, hung drywall, plastered walls, moved two tons of pebbles, sand and rocks, planted trees out of their twenty four inch boxes, changed tires on cars, reworked plumbing, and gave birth twice vaginally.

How was it that this had not strengthened my legs. Why was this hundred and seventy-five pound punk suffocating me?

I looked to my left then my right, and each one of these girls was breezing through the routine.  Well no shit! They were balancing maybe fifteen or twenty pounds at the most.

Miss PB is glaring at me by this time. I’m sure she’s formulating the words she’s going to say to me after all is said and done that will make me go away and let them get on with their business of getting fit.

My son is looking down at me with that ‘what are you going to do now’ look and all I can do is smile.

“You know, you could help me out here you little Peckerhead! Put your hands on the ground and take some of the pressure off,” I say to him.

“But Mom…that would be cheating wouldn’t it?”

He says this not knowing that these words were, in reality, a death wish on his part.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t help me out here your gonads might just meet up with an unsightly accident,” I say smiling through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” he says as the smile evaporates from his lips.

He realizes that he’s in a compromised position. He lowers his hands to the ground in self-defense.

Okie Dokie then! In this position I can actually lift him. We manage to get about ten leg lifts done. Just as I really start to get the rhythm down Miss PB says we’re done.

She stands up and sets her oh so sweet daughter down in the middle of the circle with the other toddlers. She looks over at me, smiles her movie star smile, and I start to wonder whether or not my family can sue her for unnecessary cruelty in the event that I actually drop dead from exertion.

OMG! I know she can see the sweat pouring off me like Niagara Falls, and that my face must be red as an apple at this point, but she doesn’t say a word—nor do I.  It’s just another moment where I want to bitch slap her for pushing me to, or rather, beyond my limit.

I am older and wiser and she is not going to win!

I need to gather myself here and pull my t-shirt up so I can swab away some of the fluids that have leaked out of me. Not a good move on my part because now they all see the body sucker I’ve been sporting under my clothes to reveal only my curvy side.

OOPS!

I can see them staring at me.  Yep! There were twelve eyes bearing down on my girdled midriff.

“I have a bad back. I need the pressure to hold my spine in place,” I say returning my t-shirt to where it should have never left.

Crap!

This is going to hell in a basket!

Miss PB rolls her eyes back in her head. I imitate her so she’s aware that I am not going to let her throw me. She announces that she’ll stay with the children while we go free jog.

WHAT? Free jog? She can’t be serious! That last stint nearly killed me even at the piddly-assed pace I tried to maintain. If I had to move faster than that, which I assumed she would want us to, I might never see my family again.

My son plopped down amid the toddlers and waved me off.

“Go on Mom, don’t worry about me,” he said right before he burst out laughing.

I put one foot in front of the other and made my way back to the track. Without the distraction of the added weight (my son and the stroller) I figured I could ace this portion of the workout for at least for one lap—maybe even two.

Unfortunately, my boobs, otherwise known as thing one and thing two, had other plans. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought about doubling up on the sports bra, I just know that I hadn’t. Big mistake!

I was now being bitch-slapped by my own flesh.

My breasts had turned into out of control Slinky’s—undulated up, down, side-to-side—stretching in ways that could—in no way—be considered flattering.  I slowed down in order to stop this hideous circus act. I hadn’t even reached the second turn on the track when two of the young mothers lapped me.

Son of a bitch!

I did the only thing I could. I stopped.

I made my way back to the center of the track.

With my shoulders slumped in defeat I headed directly to Miss PB.

“You win! I’m done.”

“But we’re just getting started,” she says flashing her chicklet-white smile.

I’m so tired I can’t even be witty. I glare at my son who is currently sucking his thumb mimicking the other toddlers. I have just enough wherewithal to pull my shoulders back and stand as proud as I can.

“Let’s go son,” I say.

“Where we going Mom?”

“To lick my wounds!”

As we finish packing everything back into the car I catch sight of a group of seniors doing Thai Chi under the shade of several giant eucalyptus trees next to the parking lot.

“Ah-so, not so fast young grasshopper,” I say smiling at my son. “There is a God after all—I’ll be right back.”

Part 2…(Libido boosters)


…PLEASE REFER TO PART ONE  FIRST…


“Libido Steel…make you…” he finishes by gesturing with his groin moving in that humping motion.

Holy crap. This guy suddenly looks like he’s ready to go right then and there. I immediately scan his crotch in search of a spontaneous boner, my bad,  but it’s as flat as a pancake.

“You’re sure I’m gonna wanna…” I finish by gesturing the same humping motion because, at this point, I figure I’ve got nothing to lose here.

His eyebrows go up and down as though he’s trying to dislodge something from his forehead and he grins at me.  He sets the bottle into my sweaty palm and I wrap my fingers around it like it’s some kind of treasure.

But wait, out of the corner of my eye I see his other hand reaching towards my right breast.

WTF?

Did this mean I still had it? Did he get all worked up by my push, push, groin thrust? Was I hot to him? Were my girls turning him on?

OMG!

I instantly react with the speed of a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun. I intercept his approaching paw with my best jiu-jitsu move and my do-jo cry–Keyah. I give him the evil eye!

He steps back and rubs his wrist. As close as we’re standing I can see a red welt rise where I’d just smacked him.

He stands there in complete shock, complete disbelief! His eyes fill with fear.

He takes two more steps back from me then raises his shaking hand and points at my right breast.

I look down and see there is a rather large ball of white thread sticking to my black sweater. It probably came loose from the coat I’d been wearing earlier.

“You got shit on your shirt lady,” he says in his defense.

“OMG…I’m so sorry!” I say as I pull the straggler off and toss it to the ground.

“Maybe you need hormone too bitch…help brain relax,” he says making his move towards the cash register.

I’m thinking this guy must be fucking telepathic because I had run out of estrogen. I’d been out of it, and out of my mind, for nearly a week because I’d forgotten to order it.

I try to hand him my credit card.

“No lady, you set card on counter, I pick up myself.”

I try to gather what’s left of my brain and defend my action but the second I try to speak his shushes me.

“You pay me, get out,” he hisses at me.  “You no come back.”

He rips my card a new asshole through his machine and tosses it back on the counter, then sets the sales slip down so I can sign it. As I reach for the pen he steps back as though he knows what my arm span is.

“Can I have a bag?”

“No.”

“Okie dokey then.”

I hang my head in embarrassment and do as I’m told. As I head towards my car I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. I know he’s watching through the slats of the window blinds to make sure I’m really leaving and I’m pretty sure I hear the clank of a lock being engaged.

But then I thought to myself, who cares, I’m about to get my horny on. I’m about to get my mojo back. I’m going to be that sex machine I once was. The boner goddess. The MILF! I may actually find that spontaneous orgasm. Whehaw!!!!!

I get in my car and nearly have to pry my fingers off the bottle so I can read the label.

I look at the main ingredient and burst out laughing.

‘Horny Goat Weed.’

It’s then I realize I probably could have just as easily gone to the local feed store to get this shit.

No one’s home when I get there so I crack the bottle, tip it towards the light so I can inspect the pills inside.

WTF?

Was I supposed to swallow these things or were the suppositories? I have panic attacks when I have to take those little Advil tablets, how was I possibly going to manage these? I look at the label and read the instructions.

Take one daily for maintenance and up to four two hours before sexual activity. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my brow.

OMG! Now I was going to have to get anxiety medicine just to be able to swallow these suckers.

But I was on a mission. I’d just have to bite the bullet, literally, and down these horny goat weed suckers any way I could.

Flash forward one week.

I wasn’t feeling the sex thing yet but one thing I did notice immediately was that whenever I was driving, my attention kept wandering towards the long tall grass that runs parallel to the freeway. I’d start to feel hunger pangs followed shortly thereafter by the urge to pull over and graze.

I even started noticing barn yard animals in the most odd places. In Los Angeles proper it’s pretty rare to see anything other than a cat or dog.

I found myself wanting to visit a friend of mine’s ranch up in the Santa Monica mountains because I’d recently attended a woman’s horse retreat there and had a vague recollection of a very handsome billy goat wandering about.

I started answering questions and responding to statements in an odd way.

My son came bursting through the door after school one day so he could tell me a joke he’d heard that day. It was one of those really sick jokes if you know what I mean.

All I could say was “Eweeeeeeeeee,” followed shortly by a few “Bah, bah, bah’s” as his warped humor wrapped around my brain.

I’d catch myself late at night staring down at my front lawn from my bedroom balcony.

I ordered every version of “Grazin In The Grass Is A Gas” from iTunes.

One day my husband came home and I was laying face down in the tall cool green grass.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Mowing the lawn,” I said.

“Why is your hand down your pants?”

“I got an itch.” I respond.

What? Wait a minute!

Maybe it was starting to happen. Maybe it wasn’t just an itch. Maybe, just maybe, my vagina was finally getting the message.

BINGO!

I looked up at him staring down at me and cocked my eyebrow.

“Kids aren’t home yet. Would you like to step into my office?”

Oh yes, the world we live in, the world I live in, is a far better place when we can chemically alter it!

Suppleness is…


…a major concern for women of every age. Many of us who’ve passed the hormone marker, as in we have none any more, are constantly searching for the perfect combination of serum’s that will lift, soften, and moisturize our skin.

We’re constantly in pursuit of these miracle fluids or creams that can reduce those wretched wrinkles we lovingly refer to as smile lines that form around our eyes. We want something that will rid us of those hideous brown spots that seem to manifest themselves out of nowhere. We want something that will reduce the swelling and dark circles that appear underneath our eyes while we’re sleeping. You know the ones I’m talking about–the ones that make it seem as though you’ve recently been involved in some sort of brawl. We want something that will eliminate those spidery veins that leave parts of our body looking like road maps. We want, we want, we want!

It’s an endless quest. It’s expensive and time-consuming trying to track down these products that promise the fountain of youth but we do it anyway.

No big deal right?  Vanity know’s no boundaries I guess.

But here’s my new dilemma.

Because I’m a major insomniac I watch television in the middle of the night when my writer’s mind experiences what is known as writer’s block. You can pretty much be guaranteed that most of what’s on during these early morning hours are infomercials.

What’s amazing and particularly cool about that is that it makes me realize I’m not alone, I’m not the only woman who rises at these ungodly hours because most of these adverts pertain to women’s problem.

I’ve witnessed women losing 20 pounds of belly fat in ten days, women growing a full head of hair back in less than a month, women losing weight by popping a pill a day without having to change their diet, women getting a face lift in under ten minutes, and eewwww, women getting their butt-hole bleached for some God awful reason. The list goes on and on.

The exercise infomercials that really irk me are those freaking cardio routine ones. You know the ones. You can’t keep up, you trip over your own feet, and you have to take a five-minute break between every rep because your lungs no longer have the capacity to suck air in at that kind of speed.

What’s really a pisser is that usually there’s not one single female in the video who needs to lose one single stinking pound. Most of these bitches…I mean girls… are between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. They already have protruding rib cages, and that perfect little line that runs down their perfectly concave belly defining their tight little abs. Their hair remains perfectly in place. Their makeup does not run. Their perfect teeth glow like neon chicklets as their highly glossed pink surgically altered gargantuan lips part in smile. Their breasts, which are usually bursting out the top of their little skin-tight half-shirts, remain pert and immovable, and not one single ass cheek bounces around.

Never ever do they show some fat-ass woman wearing baggy ass clothes, sweating her fat ass off while gasping for air as they try to keep up the pace. What the hell is up with that?

Where is the reality here?

Okay, so I have to admit that once in a while I’ll bite the bullet and work out with them to make the time pass quicker. I’ll grab my resistance ropes or my little weights and follow along. I’ll work hard enough to get to the burn they talk about and I’ll continue until the fail point but then I stop because my heart is sending out that message ‘you stop or I’ll stop’.  At that point all I want to do is bitch slap the smile off their faces.

Oh yeah, I’ve been sucked in many times. I’ve picked up the phone within that golden ‘ten minute time limit’ to get the deal on their program or pill or cookie or whatever. I now own more exercise equipment than most gyms, most of which can be found hidden away in my 15 year old man-childs room. He loves that I like these infomercials.

Yes, I am constantly being barraged in the middle of the night with a plethora of images and information on how I should be taking care of my body.

With so many things to already worry about in order to have a somewhat reasonable appearance,  the last thing I ever thought I’d have to worry about is VD.

Yes, you heard me right–vaginal dryness.

At my age I’m apparently supposed to be worried about this. From what I understand now, almost forty percent of women my age suffer from this affliction.

‘That’s just fucking great’ I’m thinking to myself as I watch this stupid commercial that’s somehow slipped under the FCC’s critical eye . Like I don’t have other things to worry about, now I have to worry about that little sucker too!

What a bitch!

So there I am at three in the morning wondering whether my vagina is worn out after fifty some years of workin’ it.

Has it gone the way of my face?

OMG!  Say it isn’t so!

The thought of wrinkles and whatnot down there sends a shiver right through me. Should I go get this stuff and moisturize just in case, or should I just let sleeping dogs lie?

If you think about it a vagina get’s put through its paces over the years.

A good night of sex is like sending your ‘gina’ to the gym. Sometimes the work out’s slow and steady and sometimes it’s fat- burning cardio speed. Either way I’ve always considered this a good thing.

Aside from the good exercise as stated above our poor old vagina’s have to endure years of menstruation, which is both a blessing and a curse. Then, when we decide to have babies, we pray that it’ll play along when it’s time to give birth because it’s got to stretch itself far beyond what it signed of for as that little pink bundle slides out into the world. That’s a work out like no other and all we can do afterwards is pray that it’ll use common sense and somehow return to its normal size.

Seeing this commercial brought to mind a question my daughter asked me several years ago.

“Have you ever queef’d during sex?” she asked.

That was the first time I’d ever heard that word.

“Of course I have”, I replied without blinking an eye.

My assumption was that it was when some  sort of epiphany that happened during sex.

She laughed her ass of then went back to her room at which point I hightailed it into my office to look it up in the dictionary.

“Queef: (verb)…a vaginal fart during coitus.

No wonder she laughed. I’d definitely experienced that once or twice but I’d never given it a name.

All this time I’d thought it was just my vagina trying to catch its breath. My bad!

I digress.

Maybe those ‘queef’s’ were a sign of some sort. Maybe that’s the signal that you’re headed towards a vagina that will soon be reminicent of the Sahara Desert. One that is awaiting the presentation of an oasis in the form of vaginal moisturizer.

Based on its location it’s not easily accessible to your own eyes. The thought of asking the hubby about what he see’s down there is completely out of the question. This is in line with ‘if you don’t draw attention to a problem people won’t notice it’.

I think this is a gimme here!

I guess all I have to do now is decide which way to go here. Will I work under the premise that  ‘knowledge is power’ or ‘ignorance is bliss’ on this issue.