Wheel of Cleavage

Hooters… ta-ta’s… boobies… sweater puppies… or, as my husband has been known to call them – fun bags. Sighhhhhh. WHAT is our obsession with breasts? I mean, seriously – as a society, we seem to spend an inordinate amount of time staring at, critiquing, discussing, coveting or pining over women’s cleavage. I married a “tit man.” Sounds like a song, doesn’t it? “Ifffffffff I were a tit man… daidle deedle daidle…” Anyway… I know the first thing – well, THINGS – he looks at when a woman walks by or graces the television screen. Well aware of his particular affinity, I tend to point them out – just to gauge his reaction. I get a Victoria’s Secret catalogue in the mail and promptly search out the bra layouts. “Hey dear! Check out this set!” – and I’m not referring to the barely-there-yet-presumably-matching bras and panties. Walking through a store, I’ll remark “Those were nice, weren’t they? Next time you fart, be sure to catch your eyeballs!” Does he deny his interest? Pretend he wasn’t looking? Hell yeah. Do I believe him? Hell no. We have an understanding. Men are certainly not the only mammary manics these days, either. Women justify their jugs as works of art. They’re bought and paid for (or owned by the bank) so they intend to flaunt ‘em. Reality TV regularly thrusts them in our collective face, creating even greater feminine drive to the “high and tight.” Trust me – the military won’t mind sharing that term. They’ve bestowed many a “hooter HOOAH!” already. On a late-night dating show this week, where several women vie to be chosen by one available guy, a chick offered the whole group the chance to cop a feel – within minutes of meeting each other. She’d just gotten her boobs and wanted to show them off. Man… it’s like offering to let someone test drive your new car! At least one other woman took her up on the offer so the guy obviously thought he’d won the lottery. Speaking of “winning”… here’s what got me to thinking about all this. I read an item about a Canadian nightclub that just gave away a free pair o’ perkies! TV makeovers aren’t enough for us. Putting people under the knife of perfection isn’t adequately disturbing. 36 women, clad in tight dresses and mini-skirts, in a bar, tacked on their names and repeatedly spun the Wheel of Cleavage – my term, not theirs. They gradually eliminated each other until the one woman left standing took home the tits! She gets $3,000 to put towards implants. The other 35 drowned their sorrows and went home with their sagging self-esteem. Oh, and this event didn’t go uncontested. Mildred and her elderly gang from the “Holy Bible Movement” stood across the street, singing, dancing and banging a drum. They might have been more effective if they hadn’t headed home to bed long before the “Sextreme Makeover Competition” even started. Don’t get me wrong. I can appreciate a nice rack just as much as the next person and I’m straight as an arrow. I don’t intend to obsess over my own orbs but I will confess to Mildred that I’m definitely a member of my own “movement.” I’m hoping and praying that, in 15 or 20 years, they’ll still be worthy of the term “knockers” … but NOT for the sound they’ll make bouncing off my knees. And if I’m that fortunate? I’ll be standing across the street, singing, dancing and banging a drum!

Quit flappin' yer gums over nothin'!

I like to consider myself a pretty non-judgmental person. Heck, I live in one of only about three countries that has now legalized same-sex marriage. Who am I to care what goes on behind other people’s closed doors? They’re CLOSED doors for a reason. MYOB, I say. I entrust others with their own beliefs and they should leave me alone with mine. I do like to keep up with the happenings in the world. I regularly check headlines on the various Internet homepages and search engines, I read the paper, I listen to radio news… whatever. There’s a hell of a lot going on in the world right now. The things that upset me, I eventually tune them out. I call it “information overload” and, when I get to the point of anger against or about other people, I know it’s time to take a step back and readjust my thinking. One has to stay objective to take in and digest all the important things that happen every day. I was looking around online today and, lo and behold, I catch a headline about a “flip flop scandal” at the White House. WELL! Echoes of Kerry’s failed Presidential bid spring quickly to mind and I have to see what the media’s drummed up now. Whose opinions are swaying with the breeze today? Imagine my surprise… and “complete and utter stunned-ness” when I realized they were talking about REAL FLIP FLOPS. THONGS. BEACH SANDALS. Call ‘em what you want … they are FOOTWEAR. My mind was off and running. What kind of scandal could possibly involve a President and footwear??? Does Dubya have a foot fetish? Harbor fantasies of a dominatrix in five-inch stilettos? Did someone find an online order to Frederick’s of Hollywood confirming a gift to Mrs. Dubya? Clinton had his cigars… maybe George has his… “Candies”?? I could hardly wait to view the video! Talk about disappointment! It seems that Northwestern’s women’s lacrosse team visited the White House in connection with Championship Day. Some of the ladies, while dressed in skirts and dresses for the occasion, chose to wear flip flops. #$%#$#$%#!!!! Call the Secret Service! Alert the National Guard! Someone broke with decorum! Get serious, people. Yes, I know. There are “rules” to be followed. Etiquette dictates closed-toed shoes when one greets a Head of State. But this was CHAMPIONSHIP DAY. These are sports-minded people in attendance. They are athletic. They spend their lives in casual, comfortable, activity-appropriate attire. You are celebrating their achievements in those activities! You are NOT celebrating their ability to walk on the White House lawn without breaking a heel! “Back in the day” some folks considered flip flops quite scandalous in their own right. For those enamored with such things, “toe cleavage” is apparently a pretty big deal. Well it seems to me that more than one head honcho in that big ol’ white building down there in D.C. has been far too comfy with cleavage of the “standard” kind. Parents and families of some of the “flip flop floozies” are mortified. Yeah, well… guess what? Those quick-thinking, hard-working, “championship” women have a plan. The flip flops are going to be auctioned off and the proceeds are going to help a 10-year-old girl with a brain tumor. That’s what I call thinking on your feet… or WITH your feet. In his Championship Day address, the President said, “you have a responsibility as a champ, not only to win contests for your respective schools and set personal goals and achieve them, but I think you have a responsibility as a champ to set a good example.” Maybe these ladies aren’t adhering to the standards of “dressing for success” but I hold them up as a much more important example of using every possible opportunity to CREATE success. One 10-year-old little girl and those who love her are going to remember those flip flops long after the White House is in the news for ITS next big flop!

Under My Big Top (and it's NOT what you think!)

In the past, I’ve referred to our home as “the circus.” Today, it dawned on me JUST how accurate that really is. I’m the ringmaster. So… LAAAAAAADIES AND GENTLEMEN! CHILDREN OF ALL AGES! Welcome to the “Ding-a-ling Members, Laugh-at-‘em-daily Circus!” We’ll entertain you for hours! Let me introduce our line-up of performers… First we have Dad - or Dee Dee, as he’s known under THIS big top. He’s multi-talented! He’s our strong man - with the mettle to lift and move all manner of furniture, appliances and sleeping children. You’ll be amazed at his ability to focus on a video game while simultaneously blocking out all interference (you know… ringing phones, screeching children, his WIFE). You’ll be in awe of how many hours he can actually sleep without any appearance of stirring! You’ll wonder how he can possibly avoid the slamming doors, thudding laundry baskets and heavy sighs of the ringmaster, LITERALLY IN HIS EAR, and continue to snore with such tenacity. You’ll be shocked and astounded at the sheer volumes and variations of sounds he can emit – from all possible locations! Then we have our acrobat! The elder of our two female performers, this beautiful young lady is capable of walking any tightrope extended between what she wants to do and what her parents want her to do! She’s an escape artist, without equal! She manages to get out of anything. Doing laundry! Cleaning her room! No matter how often a task is thrown at her, she wiggles her way free. It’s astounding, ladies and gentlemen, how one acrobat has the talent to almost DISAPPEAR completely from view when there’s work to be done. Her slight of hand is unparalleled. She can shuffle objects around and make you BELIEVE she’s tidied up. Just don’t look in the closet! And here comes our youngest performer! You’ll marvel at nature’s rare creation and wonder out loud how monkey, clown, magician, caricaturist and ferocious lion have been rolled together into one small package – that GIGGLES when you poke it! This squeaky toy of a child will keep you guessing… you never know WHAT’S going to come out when you give her a squeeze. A mess of pre-pubescent hormones, she laughs! She cries! She emits several “Dee-Dee-worthy” noises at the drop of a top hat! Maybe you’d like a visit from our traveling show? Stand wayyyy back and gape in amusement as three out of four performers – all over the height of 5’7” – emerge from the bowels of a two-door Honda Civic hatchback. Then participate in a rousing round of “find the squeaky toy child” – first one to find what corner she’s been crammed into and successfully extract her – wins a prize!! I’m your ringmaster! It’s my job to crack the whip and keep this two-ring act in motion. Admission’s free. Enter at your own risk! Everyone is WELCOME to feed the animals. That’ll be one LESS job for the ringmaster! Please rescue… errr… JOIN me for the frivolity and insanity that is OUR FAMILY CIRCUS.

Leader of the Pack

All my life, I’ve been somewhat of a packrat. Not in the slobby, “can’t see the dust on top of the furniture” way. I just have the unfortunate tendency to attach far more sentimental value to “things” than they deserve. For that reason, I’ve moved boxes from house to house to storage locker to house without opening them. I just keep loading and re-stacking. Why do I do this, you may ask? Well because I NEED that stuff, of course. The fact that I don’t actually know what the stuff IS gets shoved aside… and probably resides somewhere under the stack of decorating magazines with all the great ideas I’m going to clip… umm… soon. Lately, my sister and I have been sorting, sharing, packing, donating, selling and even trashing, some 40 years’ worth of items from the house where we grew up. The house recently sold and we came face to face with the demon task of deciding what to do with everything. Each having a home of our own, it’s hard to accept that we simply don’t have enough space to keep everything we think we “should” keep. Why should we keep ornaments that we don’t need or even really want? Well, mainly because we grew up in a home where everything “might be worth something someday!” Honestly. The day that mass-produced trinkets suddenly turn to dust in every home across the world but ours, I guess we’ll be rich. In the meantime, reality has set in. We have to keep things that have meaning to us and let other items go to people who truly need them. It feels really good to be told that some of Mom’s belongings are making other people happy. She’d have wanted nothing less. Now, I’m faced with bringing more boxes and bins into my own house. Great. Where exactly will THOSE GO? Oh wait… I know… just stack them there alongside the craft supplies I might someday find time to use and the picnic dishes that – oh, forget it. I have no excuse for even OWNING those. All this movin’ and shakin’ has inspired me to take a good, long look at my own closets and basement and I’ve apparently become a hard-ass. No more keeping things for “someday.” If I haven’t even touched something in six months, out it goes. My husband stares at me, awestruck and probably more than a little worried, as I become a tossing tornado. “Chuck this, honey” “I can get more of these if I ever really need them” “Crap… I can buy this stuff at the dollar store these days!” “Hurry up, for crying out loud!! The trash guys will be coming by any minute!!” I knew I’d gone over the edge when I came upon two sonogram printouts of my younger daughter and stared at them, filled with memories and emotions. My husband said, “Well those you sure have to keep!” and I actually replied, “Oh… I can????” Whack me upside the head and jiggle my brain back into place. I’ve become the ANTI-rat! I’ve developed a severe allergy to cardboard! If it’s in a box, I don’t want it. If it’s wrapped in tissue paper, I don’t need it. I won’t be stopped until my house is CLEAN and CLUTTER-FREE!!! MWAHhahahahahaha!!! Sorry. Wow. Frightening. But it does explain why the kids disappear, shrieking “I REALLY DO NEED THIS!!!!!” whenever I walk into a room. My husband has also taken to strapping himself to the bed when he goes to sleep. I thought he had some exciting new game in mind. Imagine my disappointment when I realized he’s just worried that, one of these mornings, he’s going to wake up next to a Hefty bag – and it won’t be me!

Mom's 7 Rules

Do people understand the concept of “overstaying your welcome” anymore? I’m thinking the answer to that is a hearty and annoying “NO.” When it comes to some teenagers, it seems that the only way to get them to go home is to pick them up by the scruff of the neck and deposit them on the curb, while simultaneously reaching for their cell phone and hitting speed-dial to Mom or Dad for a ride. Actually, it’s even more efficient to toss ‘em in the trunk of your car and drop ‘em off on the curb in front of their OWN house – but they seem to find that unpleasant. Much the same way I find “yeah but… ya know… like when I… like ya know…” (for the 10th straight hour) unpleasant. Back in 1998, W. Bruce Cameron wrote the now-famous-and-appearing-on-televisions-across-the-nation 8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter. Borrowing his concept, I now present… “Mom’s 7 Rules for Visiting My Teenage Daughter” Rule #1: Wait for an invitation. Calling and saying “Tell your mom that you want me to come over” is not an invitation – that’s a fabrication. Although you’re welcome in my house, I don’t actually “want” you to come over. I rather liked the plans I already had for the day. Chances are, they didn’t include changing into a “daughter-approved, friend-appropriate outfit” and cleaning the house so messing it up again will help you pass the time. Rule #2: Once you’ve been “invited,” don’t offer me the privilege of giving you a ride. If you want to visit, expect to get here under your own steam. If you’re out of steam, ask me to stop working, save my files and jot down notes so I remember what I was about to do, just so I can drive 5-10 minutes away to save you the inconvenience of … GASP! … walking or riding your bike. Then, watch my ears. Presto! Steam! Rule #3: You may hear me refer to my house as “the zoo.” This is a joke. It is not really a zoo. Therefore, please quell the urge to regress to primate form and climb all over my furniture. I cannot afford to replace it. You, I can replace for free. Rule #4: Good manners = Happy Mom. I will like you more if you say, “Could I have something to drink, please?” instead of “Got any soda?” Waiting for me to offer you a snack is preferable to prodding me with “Got anything to eat?” No, actually, I don’t eat. I maintain this big ol’ booty by swallowing my words. Every “Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s rude to ….” nets me at least 200 calories. Rule #5: You are not automatically invited for dinner. Sitting around, pretending not to notice the time, does not cause four steaks to magically morph into five. I will gladly invite you when there is more than enough to go around. If, by 5 p.m., I have not requested the honor of your presence at my dinner table, please present yourself at your momma’s dinner table. Rule #6: I am not stupid, old or feeble. My senses are all in fine working order. Trying to pull wool over my eyes irritates me. Do not bring substances into my home that are not age-appropriate. If I don’t offer it, you can’t have it. Do not engage in behavior (with my daughter or anyone else) that you would not like captured and broadcast over the Internet. Yes, I DO know how – so it’s up to you to decide whether or not I would. Have fun with that! Rule #7: You are a teenager. This means you struggle out of bed promptly at the crack of noon. I, on the other hand, do not. When I suddenly appear in the room, devoid of all makeup and fashionably decked out in bunny slippers and a ratty-ass bathrobe I keep just for such occasions, it is TIME TO GO HOME. You remember it, right? You confirm that yes, indeed, you know where you live. It’s the place where your parents are already making headway on their full eight hours of sleep because they have to work in the morning. Crap. Back I go to exchange my ratty-ass bathrobe for a ratty-ass sweatsuit so I can have the pleasure of driving you home. You see, while there are seven rules for you, there is only one for me. To care about you (and all my children’s friends) enough to be sure that you are delivered home safely and in the same condition I received you… far too many hours ago.

A little privacy, please?

Do you believe in ghosts? Spirits? Angels? Life after death? Reincarnation? There are many choices out there, with an equally varied number of advocates for each one. Personally, I don’t know what I believe. I like to believe in guardian angels. I like to believe that my family that has gone before me still loves me enough to watch over me and protect me from totally screwing up. I like to believe that my mom and dad are together and arguing over whether or not 4:30 p.m. is a realistic time to eat dinner. I like to believe that my grandfather still gets out on the water and fishes every day – and I really hope that someone up there finally taught the man how to swim! My dad passed away when my first daughter was three months old. He had waited his whole life to be a Grandpa. I have a photo of him cradling her in his big arms, smiling ear to ear. I remember having to convince him to hold her – he was afraid he’d break her. In an instant, I knew a bond was created that I could never break. Skip ahead a few years, about three. She grew up hearing about Grandpa occasionally… maybe seeing a picture here and there. Then, one day, Grandma was babysitting her. She was toddling around the house and then asked, out of the blue, “Grandma? Who’s dat man in your room?” Trust me when I say there was never a man in my mother’s room from the night my dad passed away. Grandma asked her “What man, honey? The one in the picture?” My daughter impatiently said “NO! Come!” Together, they went hand in hand to my mom’s bedroom. My daughter pointed to one corner, where the walls met the ceiling, and said “Dat man! D’ere!” My mom was comforted by the belief that my dad was standing watch over his domain. I… (for the record)... would… never… sleep… in… that… room… again. I’ve seen the TV shows. The ones where people ask questions about messages from loved ones “on the other side.” The ones where people “feel a presence” in their house or get help from someone who then mysteriously disappears. Always pragmatic, I think there are logical explanations. Or, I did. One night a few months back, driving home from work, a truck suddenly stopped right in my lane. I had enough time to avoid it but just barely. I had been listening to the radio and, as the song ended, I heard very clearly – and quite loud – ELAINE! The voice was so real that, without a thought, I turned to look behind me to see who it was. It was when I turned back around that I saw the truck. Ok, Mom? If that was you… as I fully suspect it was… I’m a little wigged out but thank you. I’m starting to give this much more serious thought. People watching over us. People just plain watching us. Do we come with a rating? Do they know when our day is G-rated and when it switches to PG-13 or even X? This concerns me. Our parents know everything about us – well, everything that we choose to share with them plus whatever they discover through their covert FBI techniques (“Family Business Investigation,” that is). I wouldn’t have appreciated my parents hovering around the foot of my bed, critiquing my marital ministrations when they were alive – the idea that they’re doing it from “the other side” is disturbing. If it’s true that there are always people around us, do they tattle? Does Granny run to Mom when I use inappropriate language? Does Mom tell Dad when I’m not exactly behaving like a lady? If she does, it really explains those sudden, ill-timed leg cramps. Man… I am SO grounded some day!