Chuckle #423 | September 29th, 2010
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The blond slowly ran her hands over my husband’s butt and down his inseam. He stood passively in the cubicle as I watched. It was both uncomfortable and titillating. She tugged seductively at his waistband and turned him to face me. I could barely meet his eyes I felt so embarrassed.
No, we weren’t in Amsterdam on the Oudezijds Achterburgwal. We were buying a suit. Still, this fitting room threesome felt way too ménage à wrong.
The suddenly business-like sales lady pronounced the pants “perfect”. “Flat front is the way to go for him, don’t you think?”
“Flat front is definitely sexy,” I replied, still reeling from the shock of watching another woman lasciviously handle my husband as he stood before a three way mirror. In public, on a platform. Like a Wall Street pole dancer.
“What do you think?” I asked, turning to my mother-in-law.
“They look great,” she said nodding her approval, and not looking the least bit titillated. (For which I am eternally thankful.)
“How about cuffs?” my husband asked.
“No cuffs”, said the saleslady.
“No cuffs”, agreed his mother.
He looked hopefully over at me. “I want cuffs”, he insisted, looking more like a mulish 16 year old than a successful man of finance.
“Sorry sweetie, I have to agree with your mom, no cuffs. These flat front pants have a very sexy European gigolo look and cuffs would ruin them.” I winked suggestively. Then I shrugged to show him how helpless both he and I were in the face of the combined force of his mom and the sales lady. Secretly I cheered. Finally, a pair of pant without pleats or cuffs!
Women have been telling men what to wear since the first colorblind husband emerged from his closet wearing a hideous “tan on tan” combination. You’d think guys would know by now what NOT to wear with khakis.
I don’t have a lot of rules about clothes. I’m not one of those wives who insists on “dressing” their husband. As long he doesn’t clash horribly or put on a Speedo, I am ok with whatever he chooses to wear.
Shopping for casual clothes is hard enough, but shopping for suits is sheer torture. For one, suits are expensive and a mistake will cost you a bundle. Plus, watching your husband get groped by a salesperson, male or female, is decidedly uncomfortable. And what the tailor does to a man’s pants is practically X-rated, or would be if he wasn’t a 90 year old Italian guy.
Some people are into that sort of thing. I have to look away.
So last weekend, even after I endured this thoroughly disturbing fitting on my husband’s behalf, he still complains that he doesn’t have cuffs on his new suit. He claims he was railroaded by a bunch of women. Well, he was. And he looks great because of it.
We ladies made it up to him by letting him pick out all his own ties, even some ugly ones.
All I can say is that these suits had better last a long, long time because I might never fully recover from sharing that experience with my mother-in-law. My husband should show some concern for my delicate mental state, and stop whining about his lack of cuffs!
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
My Rude Response to "Reply All"
Chuckle #422 | September 22nd, 2010
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The misuse, over-use and general abuse of “Reply All” is driving me crazy. Why are so many seemingly intelligent people unable to determine when to use “reply all” vs. “reply”? This is NOT a difficult distinction to make. Am I wrong?
Would you shout in a restaurant so that everyone could hear your conversation? Would you yell at all three of your kids when only one of them was in trouble? No you would not. But there are people out there who don’t think twice about hitting “reply all”. And those people need help.
“Reply all” is for super important, need-to-know stuff, like delays, cancellations, injuries, and acts of God. Using “reply all” for ANY other reason is unacceptably bad mannered.
Our inboxes are clogged with “reply all” messages from well-meaning moms who can’t make a distinction between stuff that is truly important and getting their hair highlighted. We have no choice but to read these emails on the miniscule chance that they contain critical information.
There is a mom on a “water related” team email distribution list who is a prime offender. She ALWAYS replies to group emails with consecutive group replies, such as “Thanks!” “Where is it?” and “Oops!” I kid you not.
This mom has become the “boy who cried wolf” of my inbox. I routinely delete her messages without reading them, knowing that 99.9% of the time, they will be a colossal waste of my time. One day she is going to email me something that could have saved my life, and I will have prematurely sent it into cyberspace.
Sometimes a “tree” should fall in the forest without being heard. George Berkeley would have had a metaphysical field day with people who compulsively “reply all”. He might have said that they are desperately trying to confirm their own existence by “emailing it” from the rooftops, and hoping for a reply. "Esse est percipi" (To be is to be perceived.)
Ok, so maybe that is complete drunken Irish philosopher psycho-babble. In my opinion, most people who over-use “reply all” are suffering from Digital Diva Disease or simply don’t have a clue. This column might help them get one.
Reply all is an important communication tool, assuming you can distinguish important information from hogwash. For example, for a group of 200, the fact that little Becky has lice is VERY important to all of us. The fact that Jane is having dinner with her husband at Tavern on the Green and can’t make the Parent Orientation Meeting is NOT.
Sadly, the over-use of “reply all” has made us extra suspicious. We systematically delete almost every email we receive. What if one of them contains the critical update that Becky, in addition to head lice, now has a highly communicable water-borne disease and should be avoided at all costs? It’s a risk we all take in a digital age.
So how do you stop the “reply all” epidemic? How do you tell your wife that she talks too much? Probably not going to happen. So you keep hitting delete and hoping that the Google brain trust is working on a solution.
In the meantime, if any “reply all” abusers are reading this column right now, take this message to heart. And maybe try something new for a change, like “forward this email to a friend.”
------------------------------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
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The misuse, over-use and general abuse of “Reply All” is driving me crazy. Why are so many seemingly intelligent people unable to determine when to use “reply all” vs. “reply”? This is NOT a difficult distinction to make. Am I wrong?
Would you shout in a restaurant so that everyone could hear your conversation? Would you yell at all three of your kids when only one of them was in trouble? No you would not. But there are people out there who don’t think twice about hitting “reply all”. And those people need help.
“Reply all” is for super important, need-to-know stuff, like delays, cancellations, injuries, and acts of God. Using “reply all” for ANY other reason is unacceptably bad mannered.
Our inboxes are clogged with “reply all” messages from well-meaning moms who can’t make a distinction between stuff that is truly important and getting their hair highlighted. We have no choice but to read these emails on the miniscule chance that they contain critical information.
There is a mom on a “water related” team email distribution list who is a prime offender. She ALWAYS replies to group emails with consecutive group replies, such as “Thanks!” “Where is it?” and “Oops!” I kid you not.
This mom has become the “boy who cried wolf” of my inbox. I routinely delete her messages without reading them, knowing that 99.9% of the time, they will be a colossal waste of my time. One day she is going to email me something that could have saved my life, and I will have prematurely sent it into cyberspace.
Sometimes a “tree” should fall in the forest without being heard. George Berkeley would have had a metaphysical field day with people who compulsively “reply all”. He might have said that they are desperately trying to confirm their own existence by “emailing it” from the rooftops, and hoping for a reply. "Esse est percipi" (To be is to be perceived.)
Ok, so maybe that is complete drunken Irish philosopher psycho-babble. In my opinion, most people who over-use “reply all” are suffering from Digital Diva Disease or simply don’t have a clue. This column might help them get one.
Reply all is an important communication tool, assuming you can distinguish important information from hogwash. For example, for a group of 200, the fact that little Becky has lice is VERY important to all of us. The fact that Jane is having dinner with her husband at Tavern on the Green and can’t make the Parent Orientation Meeting is NOT.
Sadly, the over-use of “reply all” has made us extra suspicious. We systematically delete almost every email we receive. What if one of them contains the critical update that Becky, in addition to head lice, now has a highly communicable water-borne disease and should be avoided at all costs? It’s a risk we all take in a digital age.
So how do you stop the “reply all” epidemic? How do you tell your wife that she talks too much? Probably not going to happen. So you keep hitting delete and hoping that the Google brain trust is working on a solution.
In the meantime, if any “reply all” abusers are reading this column right now, take this message to heart. And maybe try something new for a change, like “forward this email to a friend.”
------------------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
So When Exactly IS "Losing" an Option?
Chuckle #421 | September 15th, 2010
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I am descended from warriors. And like most warriors, competition brings out the beast in me. It has never been enough for me to simply participate in sports. I want to win. I want to crush my opponents, rob them of their dignity, cast them naked into a roiling sea, and if necessary, disembowel them. I don’t know what gets into me. It must be the Viking blood.
Luckily, I have a couple of friends who are exactly like me. Mongols at heart. Otherwise I would have no one to play with.
I can try to blame genetics, but I am what I am mostly because I was raised by intensely competitive parents. I learned to take no prisoners – even in CandyLand.
My kids are not like me.
This makes them very hard for me to understand. My kids enjoy playing sports for the fun of it, for the physical challenge and the camaraderie. They have no problem with participation trophies and consolation prizes. They invariably win the “coaches” award…for being good natured, supportive of their teammates and trying their best. Of course I am very proud. And no, I am not grinding my teeth.
After watching their games I try not to say things like, “You call that defense?” or “Next time, try to shoot more and bleed less.” But sometimes I can’t resist. My husband counters my “constructive” criticisms with inane comments like “You were great!” Thank goodness for my husband.
My kids think I am a lunatic. (Until I agree to a psychological evaluation they can’t prove a thing.) Mostly they ignore me, until I embarrass them. Oddly enough, this happens quite often.
The lure of the “parent/child” volleyball game this past weekend was too hard to resist. Let me just say that there is no such thing as a “friendly” game for any group of ex-athlete parents.
Let our kids beat us? I don’t think so. Cheat to win? Absolutely.
We parents toasted those freshman girls even after I went down with a serious hand injury in the first 15 minutes of play. Shameful, I know. Luckily my hand wasn’t broken, which I found out only after I shelled out $345 to Dr. Raj at the emergency medical care center.
My daughter suggested that $345 might have been better spent on therapy for my competitive personality disorder. She didn’t say it out loud, but I’m pretty sure she thought I got what I deserved. She could be right.
What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants. The fact that the body can no longer consistently deliver is a serious bummer. This year I pulled 4 major muscles, rolled an ankle, jammed a finger, twisted my neck, and nearly broke my wrist. I have incapacitated myself at least 6 times in recent memory.
I might be a lunatic (still unproven), but I am not a complete idiot. I get the message that my body is trying to send. Diving for balls is no longer such a good idea.
It’s time I lightened up and learned something from my surprisingly well-adjusted kids.
Winning isn’t everything. There is a certain JOY to simply being on the court and playing. I learned this during the 4 days I just spent in a wrist brace. And as soon as I recover, I plan to participate more and get hurt less. I’m also going to take up a new activity with less potential for fractures and where no one keeps score.
Yoga for Beginners here I come. If I work hard, I bet that I can be the best “stretcher” in my class. So don’t crowd my yoga mat, okay?
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email. Sign-up at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
I am descended from warriors. And like most warriors, competition brings out the beast in me. It has never been enough for me to simply participate in sports. I want to win. I want to crush my opponents, rob them of their dignity, cast them naked into a roiling sea, and if necessary, disembowel them. I don’t know what gets into me. It must be the Viking blood.
Luckily, I have a couple of friends who are exactly like me. Mongols at heart. Otherwise I would have no one to play with.
I can try to blame genetics, but I am what I am mostly because I was raised by intensely competitive parents. I learned to take no prisoners – even in CandyLand.
My kids are not like me.
This makes them very hard for me to understand. My kids enjoy playing sports for the fun of it, for the physical challenge and the camaraderie. They have no problem with participation trophies and consolation prizes. They invariably win the “coaches” award…for being good natured, supportive of their teammates and trying their best. Of course I am very proud. And no, I am not grinding my teeth.
After watching their games I try not to say things like, “You call that defense?” or “Next time, try to shoot more and bleed less.” But sometimes I can’t resist. My husband counters my “constructive” criticisms with inane comments like “You were great!” Thank goodness for my husband.
My kids think I am a lunatic. (Until I agree to a psychological evaluation they can’t prove a thing.) Mostly they ignore me, until I embarrass them. Oddly enough, this happens quite often.
The lure of the “parent/child” volleyball game this past weekend was too hard to resist. Let me just say that there is no such thing as a “friendly” game for any group of ex-athlete parents.
Let our kids beat us? I don’t think so. Cheat to win? Absolutely.
We parents toasted those freshman girls even after I went down with a serious hand injury in the first 15 minutes of play. Shameful, I know. Luckily my hand wasn’t broken, which I found out only after I shelled out $345 to Dr. Raj at the emergency medical care center.
My daughter suggested that $345 might have been better spent on therapy for my competitive personality disorder. She didn’t say it out loud, but I’m pretty sure she thought I got what I deserved. She could be right.
What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants. The fact that the body can no longer consistently deliver is a serious bummer. This year I pulled 4 major muscles, rolled an ankle, jammed a finger, twisted my neck, and nearly broke my wrist. I have incapacitated myself at least 6 times in recent memory.
I might be a lunatic (still unproven), but I am not a complete idiot. I get the message that my body is trying to send. Diving for balls is no longer such a good idea.
It’s time I lightened up and learned something from my surprisingly well-adjusted kids.
Winning isn’t everything. There is a certain JOY to simply being on the court and playing. I learned this during the 4 days I just spent in a wrist brace. And as soon as I recover, I plan to participate more and get hurt less. I’m also going to take up a new activity with less potential for fractures and where no one keeps score.
Yoga for Beginners here I come. If I work hard, I bet that I can be the best “stretcher” in my class. So don’t crowd my yoga mat, okay?
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email. Sign-up at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
Eight is MORE than Enough
Chuckle #420 | September 8th, 2010
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I am flattered that my in-laws find my family so simpatico that they are thinking of moving up to CT. But staying with us for eight days while they house hunt is probably not the best way to get us excited about a permanent relocation.
Don’t get me wrong. We adore having family members and friends visit. But eight days is more than enough. Even the dog is starting to wonder when he’ll get his favorite spot on the couch back.
Did I happen to mention the number “eight” yet?
I told the kids to have patience. That it is “better to light a candle than curse the darkness.” Cryptic advice for my 12 year old, but after three glasses of wine what can you expect? I think she understood.
Ahhh…the extended-stay house guest. Quite honestly, I don’t even need to write this column. It writes itself. There is a reason why there are already dozens of sayings explaining precisely why house guests should keep their visits short.
These sayings are so indisputably UNIVERSAL that I feel compelled to ask my husband the delicate intergalactic question, “exactly which universe are your parents from?”
Some of these sayings originate from the time Homo Erectus built his first stick shelter and then couldn’t get rid of his annoying inbred cousin. (Back then if people stayed too long you could simply club them to death.) Now it’s not so simple. Other one-liners came to me just this week during some long escapist hours spent soaking in the bathtub. I do my best thinking in the tub.
So forget the column. The list of proverbs below is for everyone out there who has ever had a guest stay just a wee bit too long. Starting with the classic…
• Even fresh fish and favorite guests start to smell after three days.
• A constant guest is never welcome.
• House guests should be perishable.
• Until his parents leave the house, hubby gets no love from spouse.
• His balls are in their court.
• Prolonged exposure to anything is hazardous to your health.
• While you can’t hold your finger over the candle flame, you can pass through it many times.
• He Kiore Kai Whata (Maori saying in the Tainui dialect) Translation: The rats are eating the stored-up food
I have a second list of helpful clichés for people who somehow got through life without learning that perfect visit ends after three days. Take these to heart.
• Keep it short and sweet.
• Leave them wanting more
• Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
• The garbage doesn’t take itself out.
• Can one desire too much of a good thing? (Rosalind to Orlando, As You Like It)
Think about it. Even adorable little Goldilocks managed to annoy everyone in the bear family, and she only stayed ONE night.
And quite honestly, visiting us is not that great. We run around like crazy people, rarely sit still for more than 20 minutes at a time, the food is marginal, and the house is always a bit of a wreck.
On the other hand, one of the truly great things about family is that they don’t care about any of that. They love you, tolerate you, and want to be with you no matter what. I understand. We love them back.
But if I’m being perfectly “Candide”, wouldn’t it be the best of all possible worlds if that mutual “love” could be expressed in visits of a slightly shorter duration?
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email. Sign-up online at http://www.laughtouloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
I am flattered that my in-laws find my family so simpatico that they are thinking of moving up to CT. But staying with us for eight days while they house hunt is probably not the best way to get us excited about a permanent relocation.
Don’t get me wrong. We adore having family members and friends visit. But eight days is more than enough. Even the dog is starting to wonder when he’ll get his favorite spot on the couch back.
Did I happen to mention the number “eight” yet?
I told the kids to have patience. That it is “better to light a candle than curse the darkness.” Cryptic advice for my 12 year old, but after three glasses of wine what can you expect? I think she understood.
Ahhh…the extended-stay house guest. Quite honestly, I don’t even need to write this column. It writes itself. There is a reason why there are already dozens of sayings explaining precisely why house guests should keep their visits short.
These sayings are so indisputably UNIVERSAL that I feel compelled to ask my husband the delicate intergalactic question, “exactly which universe are your parents from?”
Some of these sayings originate from the time Homo Erectus built his first stick shelter and then couldn’t get rid of his annoying inbred cousin. (Back then if people stayed too long you could simply club them to death.) Now it’s not so simple. Other one-liners came to me just this week during some long escapist hours spent soaking in the bathtub. I do my best thinking in the tub.
So forget the column. The list of proverbs below is for everyone out there who has ever had a guest stay just a wee bit too long. Starting with the classic…
• Even fresh fish and favorite guests start to smell after three days.
• A constant guest is never welcome.
• House guests should be perishable.
• Until his parents leave the house, hubby gets no love from spouse.
• His balls are in their court.
• Prolonged exposure to anything is hazardous to your health.
• While you can’t hold your finger over the candle flame, you can pass through it many times.
• He Kiore Kai Whata (Maori saying in the Tainui dialect) Translation: The rats are eating the stored-up food
I have a second list of helpful clichés for people who somehow got through life without learning that perfect visit ends after three days. Take these to heart.
• Keep it short and sweet.
• Leave them wanting more
• Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
• The garbage doesn’t take itself out.
• Can one desire too much of a good thing? (Rosalind to Orlando, As You Like It)
Think about it. Even adorable little Goldilocks managed to annoy everyone in the bear family, and she only stayed ONE night.
And quite honestly, visiting us is not that great. We run around like crazy people, rarely sit still for more than 20 minutes at a time, the food is marginal, and the house is always a bit of a wreck.
On the other hand, one of the truly great things about family is that they don’t care about any of that. They love you, tolerate you, and want to be with you no matter what. I understand. We love them back.
But if I’m being perfectly “Candide”, wouldn’t it be the best of all possible worlds if that mutual “love” could be expressed in visits of a slightly shorter duration?
-----------------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email. Sign-up online at http://www.laughtouloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
The "Bike Butt" Blues
Chuckle #419 | September 1st, 1020
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Once upon a time I was a Yuppie living in Brooklyn. I bought a good racing bike and a sweet little pair of Lycra bike shorts. I did gratuitous laps around the park on weekends to impress guys. New York City was my oyster and the mother of all STDs was virtually unknown. Life was good.
Twenty years later, much has changed. Not the least of which is the size and shape of my BUTT.
Back in the old days I wore bike shorts because they made me look fit and attractive. Now I need my bike shorts just like Superman needs his spandex. For support.
Bike shorts are no longer just a fashion statement; they are a transformational piece of athletic equipment. The extra padding makes biking tolerable for butts over 40. And just between you and me, a super wide, gel-filled granny seat can’t hurt either. So go ahead, pimp your ride.
I recently dug my old bike shorts out of my closet. By some fluke (maybe because I stored them next to my cryogenically preserved wedding dress) the Lycra fibers were still intact. And most importantly, they still fit, albeit like an extra small book sock forcing itself War & Peace.
Still, Lycra is a miracle product. It can be stretched to fit over almost anything, including my age altered buttocks. I think most women would continue to wear Lycra even if they had to kill puppies to make it. I’m sorry, but you know it’s true.
When my husband saw me in my bike shorts he did not faint, nor did he swoon with desire. Like I said, my butt has changed. Then he disappeared into his closet and emerged 20 minutes later wearing his ancient bike shorts. His shorts also “fit”. (See book sock analogy above for elaboration.)
We were pretty much ridiculously proud that we could squeeze into our old shorts. We felt cool. Whether we LOOKED cool is debatable. Luckily our youngest daughter was on hand to set us straight.
“Are you going OUTSIDE in those?” she asked incredulously. Then she refused to bike with us, even after we tried to bribe her with ice cream. She said it would be too embarrassing, especially since the start of school was just days away. If we made her go, her life and reputation would be ruined. We might as well smear her with bacon fat right now and leave her outside for the coyotes.
We began to have second thoughts about the shorts.
Bike short padding has the unfortunate effect of making one’s butt appear even larger than it is. Like objects in rear view mirrors. And when you are seductively hunched over your handle bars, every car approaching from behind has a clear view of what your behind has become.
A daunting thought.
I admit that I have, when the occasion called for it, made insensitive and possibly derogatory comments about other peoples’ bike butts. I am not proud of this. And knowing, from my own sad example, how cruel women can be, I refuse to let my butt become a topic of conversation.
So before heading out on our ride, I tied a sweatshirt around my waist as a defensive tactic. My husband looked at me as if I were nuts because it was 96 degrees.
He said, “Its 96 degrees. I don’t think you are going to need that”.
And I said, “That is where you are wrong, mister. This sweatshirt is strictly for protection. What if my butt looks enormous? What if people talk?”
Then he said, quite brilliantly, “They won’t talk because you don’t need that sweatshirt.”
And this is exactly why I married a smart guy with superior powers of observation, and the uncanny ability to tell me what I wanted to hear.
Despite these assurances (aka little white lies), I still wore the sweatshirt, plus a helmet and sunglasses. You just can’t be too incognito when wearing Lycra. Even Superman knew that.
--------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
Once upon a time I was a Yuppie living in Brooklyn. I bought a good racing bike and a sweet little pair of Lycra bike shorts. I did gratuitous laps around the park on weekends to impress guys. New York City was my oyster and the mother of all STDs was virtually unknown. Life was good.
Twenty years later, much has changed. Not the least of which is the size and shape of my BUTT.
Back in the old days I wore bike shorts because they made me look fit and attractive. Now I need my bike shorts just like Superman needs his spandex. For support.
Bike shorts are no longer just a fashion statement; they are a transformational piece of athletic equipment. The extra padding makes biking tolerable for butts over 40. And just between you and me, a super wide, gel-filled granny seat can’t hurt either. So go ahead, pimp your ride.
I recently dug my old bike shorts out of my closet. By some fluke (maybe because I stored them next to my cryogenically preserved wedding dress) the Lycra fibers were still intact. And most importantly, they still fit, albeit like an extra small book sock forcing itself War & Peace.
Still, Lycra is a miracle product. It can be stretched to fit over almost anything, including my age altered buttocks. I think most women would continue to wear Lycra even if they had to kill puppies to make it. I’m sorry, but you know it’s true.
When my husband saw me in my bike shorts he did not faint, nor did he swoon with desire. Like I said, my butt has changed. Then he disappeared into his closet and emerged 20 minutes later wearing his ancient bike shorts. His shorts also “fit”. (See book sock analogy above for elaboration.)
We were pretty much ridiculously proud that we could squeeze into our old shorts. We felt cool. Whether we LOOKED cool is debatable. Luckily our youngest daughter was on hand to set us straight.
“Are you going OUTSIDE in those?” she asked incredulously. Then she refused to bike with us, even after we tried to bribe her with ice cream. She said it would be too embarrassing, especially since the start of school was just days away. If we made her go, her life and reputation would be ruined. We might as well smear her with bacon fat right now and leave her outside for the coyotes.
We began to have second thoughts about the shorts.
Bike short padding has the unfortunate effect of making one’s butt appear even larger than it is. Like objects in rear view mirrors. And when you are seductively hunched over your handle bars, every car approaching from behind has a clear view of what your behind has become.
A daunting thought.
I admit that I have, when the occasion called for it, made insensitive and possibly derogatory comments about other peoples’ bike butts. I am not proud of this. And knowing, from my own sad example, how cruel women can be, I refuse to let my butt become a topic of conversation.
So before heading out on our ride, I tied a sweatshirt around my waist as a defensive tactic. My husband looked at me as if I were nuts because it was 96 degrees.
He said, “Its 96 degrees. I don’t think you are going to need that”.
And I said, “That is where you are wrong, mister. This sweatshirt is strictly for protection. What if my butt looks enormous? What if people talk?”
Then he said, quite brilliantly, “They won’t talk because you don’t need that sweatshirt.”
And this is exactly why I married a smart guy with superior powers of observation, and the uncanny ability to tell me what I wanted to hear.
Despite these assurances (aka little white lies), I still wore the sweatshirt, plus a helmet and sunglasses. You just can’t be too incognito when wearing Lycra. Even Superman knew that.
--------------------------------------------------
Get your Weekly Chuckle via email at http://www.laughoutloudmom.com/
Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
A River Outing “Outs” American Education
Chuckle #418 | August 25th, 2010
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If the people who go “River Tubing” are representative of America, then America kind of scares me. Have you recently spent the afternoon Tubing? If the answer is a resounding and mortified YES, then you are now aware (as am I), that America does not spend nearly enough time and money trying to fix our broken education system.
The flaws are almost too numerous to list. Not only have our schools failed to provide American youth with one or two adjectives that could be used in place of “effing” (might I suggest “very”?), they have also failed to encourage common sense limits on tattoos and body piercings.
My recent tubing experience is certifiable proof that our schools have also failed to provide kids with the basic nutritional and health information that would have enabled them to make better lifestyle choices and “tube” in relative safety as adults.
Despite the generous weight limits on tubes, many tubers still ran aground. Those who tried to smoke and tube simultaneously suffered oddly circular third degree burns, and were charged for similarly damaged tubes. Had they been taught, as part of a robust science curriculum, that heat melts plastic, they’d still be merrily afloat.
Our tubing trip made me sad. I've been taught how to properly conjugate verbs, yet have done very little to promote education for all. I have failed my country. This must change.
Delivering the American educational system from its hillbilly black hole will not be easy, but for starters, I suggest this…
EVERY American president (and school principal, chancellor, superintendent, and board of Ed member) should be required to spend some quality time on the Delaware River in New Jersey with his/her butt stuck in a bright blue inner tube. Because in my personal experience, THAT is where he or she will come face to face with the adult product of our schools. At a float speed of approximately 1 MPH, there is plenty of time to get to know your fellow Americans. And to weep.
Now it’s possible that I am being statistically unfair. We chose to tube on a Sunday when the church going population who might otherwise have raised the education/morality bar was NOT in attendance. The representation of Jersey shore Snooki types was therefore higher in the studied sample than they might have been, say, on a Wednesday. Let’s just say that this “study” is not entirely scientific.
I realize that I sound like the privileged, east coast, public school educated, middle class, self-made, easily grossed-out woman that I am. (Even Disney crowds freak me out.) And I’m not proud for thinking that a hefty price tag of $27 per person to tube (plus $15 for the VIP line) would have kept the riff raff off the river. But I was wrong, so very wrong.
For one, the “VIP” line was a total waste of money. We had to use the same porta-potty and sketchy bus as everyone else. But at least my civic duty has been awakened.
Besides, I now have a personal interest in fixing the educational system. Thanks to the river trip, my kids just got their Eliza Doolittle education in reverse and can now creatively conjugate basic verbs like “to have” into “I don’t got no.” It’ll take a lot of work to undo the damage…
On the flip side, there is nothing like an afternoon spent tubing with the swearing, smoking, tattooed, and vocabulary challenged public to make your kids appreciate the lifestyle and educational opportunities you have provided. At the end of our tubing trip, my kids actually told ME how lucky and privileged and EDUCATED they felt. Maybe that’s what the $27 bucks was really for. If so, it was a bargain.
Yes, our tubing trip made me sad. But it also made me mad.
Being born into a poor, under-educated home in the inner city, rural Georgia or even central Jersey is America’s hidden caste system. Public education, or lack thereof, is our nation’s biggest “dirty little secret” and pardon my newly acquired River French, it’s “effing” unfair.
So in the end, I’m RECOMMENDING a river tubing trip. The experience will turn us all, young and old, into education activists. There’s a river of knowledge out there, and Americans have a right to do more than simply float on top of it.
-------------------------------------------------------------
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If the people who go “River Tubing” are representative of America, then America kind of scares me. Have you recently spent the afternoon Tubing? If the answer is a resounding and mortified YES, then you are now aware (as am I), that America does not spend nearly enough time and money trying to fix our broken education system.
The flaws are almost too numerous to list. Not only have our schools failed to provide American youth with one or two adjectives that could be used in place of “effing” (might I suggest “very”?), they have also failed to encourage common sense limits on tattoos and body piercings.
My recent tubing experience is certifiable proof that our schools have also failed to provide kids with the basic nutritional and health information that would have enabled them to make better lifestyle choices and “tube” in relative safety as adults.
Despite the generous weight limits on tubes, many tubers still ran aground. Those who tried to smoke and tube simultaneously suffered oddly circular third degree burns, and were charged for similarly damaged tubes. Had they been taught, as part of a robust science curriculum, that heat melts plastic, they’d still be merrily afloat.
Our tubing trip made me sad. I've been taught how to properly conjugate verbs, yet have done very little to promote education for all. I have failed my country. This must change.
Delivering the American educational system from its hillbilly black hole will not be easy, but for starters, I suggest this…
EVERY American president (and school principal, chancellor, superintendent, and board of Ed member) should be required to spend some quality time on the Delaware River in New Jersey with his/her butt stuck in a bright blue inner tube. Because in my personal experience, THAT is where he or she will come face to face with the adult product of our schools. At a float speed of approximately 1 MPH, there is plenty of time to get to know your fellow Americans. And to weep.
Now it’s possible that I am being statistically unfair. We chose to tube on a Sunday when the church going population who might otherwise have raised the education/morality bar was NOT in attendance. The representation of Jersey shore Snooki types was therefore higher in the studied sample than they might have been, say, on a Wednesday. Let’s just say that this “study” is not entirely scientific.
I realize that I sound like the privileged, east coast, public school educated, middle class, self-made, easily grossed-out woman that I am. (Even Disney crowds freak me out.) And I’m not proud for thinking that a hefty price tag of $27 per person to tube (plus $15 for the VIP line) would have kept the riff raff off the river. But I was wrong, so very wrong.
For one, the “VIP” line was a total waste of money. We had to use the same porta-potty and sketchy bus as everyone else. But at least my civic duty has been awakened.
Besides, I now have a personal interest in fixing the educational system. Thanks to the river trip, my kids just got their Eliza Doolittle education in reverse and can now creatively conjugate basic verbs like “to have” into “I don’t got no.” It’ll take a lot of work to undo the damage…
On the flip side, there is nothing like an afternoon spent tubing with the swearing, smoking, tattooed, and vocabulary challenged public to make your kids appreciate the lifestyle and educational opportunities you have provided. At the end of our tubing trip, my kids actually told ME how lucky and privileged and EDUCATED they felt. Maybe that’s what the $27 bucks was really for. If so, it was a bargain.
Yes, our tubing trip made me sad. But it also made me mad.
Being born into a poor, under-educated home in the inner city, rural Georgia or even central Jersey is America’s hidden caste system. Public education, or lack thereof, is our nation’s biggest “dirty little secret” and pardon my newly acquired River French, it’s “effing” unfair.
So in the end, I’m RECOMMENDING a river tubing trip. The experience will turn us all, young and old, into education activists. There’s a river of knowledge out there, and Americans have a right to do more than simply float on top of it.
-------------------------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, All rights reserved.
Napping our way to Economic Recovery
Chuckle # 417 | August 18th, 2010
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A good nap is a glorious thing. I love those delicious drowsy moments between waking and sleeping. Your eyelids feel as heavy as a calculus textbook and you know that just minutes separate you from a deep sleep – in the middle of the day. That’s how a perfect afternoon NAP begins.
Some Americans believe that napping is, well, un-American. I mean, look where it’s gotten Europe’s PIGS. It’s no coincidence that the most financially distressed countries are those in which people regularly waste away entire afternoons in blissful siesta (and prefer their beverages without ice.)
Go ahead, call me a crackpot theorist, but consider this. If certain nations had spent a little less time napping, they might now find themselves in less of an economic pickle.
Sure, those well-rested citizens might have sunnier dispositions than us, but their economies are in the proverbial toilet. Let’s face it, if you spend 1/6th of your potential working hours asleep, it’s going to have a negative effect on GDP. Trust me, I’ve tried to buy a bottle of wine in Italy between 2PM and 6PM. It can’t be done. If they would give up just ½ their afternoon nap, the negative balance of payments would disappear.
I can’t believe that the IMF or the World Bank, the Group of Eight/Twenty, or at the very least, the non-napping very productive euro-zone dominating GERMANS, haven’t imposed some kind of nap reduction requirement as part of the debt re-negotiations with the PIGS.
Why am I the first person to suggest that napping is the key to economic recovery? Probably because I am a mom and see everything through that very special lens. And probably because like other people with big ideas, namely Sarah Palin, I refuse to let real macro-economic theory get in the way of creative thinking. That’s the American way.
I’m not saying that we should completely eliminate the afternoon nap. I like a good nap as much as the next person. It’s a beautiful thing. The midday NAP can improve moods and increase productivity, for everyone from preschoolers to presidents. Every mother knows this.
Everyone wakes up refreshed from a 20 minute. (Back in the 80s this was called “power napping” and you were supposed to do it at your desk.) It was the topic of several books that purported to increase the productivity of the American worker. For some reason, it never really took off. Americans are too self-conscious to sleep (and drool) in public. Most of us also won’t wear monokinis in the Riviera for the same reason.
I urge the economic powers of the world to action. As some guy once said…“This is the moment. This is our time.”
To save the world from financial ruin, we must harness the power of the nap. The American worker must learn TO nap. The citizens of certain European nations should learn to nap LESS. (And Americans should continue to wear tank-suits in Cannes for the good of everyone.)
How much nap is the right amount? I’ll leave that to the economists who have the most experience with this sort of thing. The one’s who totally get what I’m talking about…the ones who understand the VALUE of the nap. The ones with kids.
-----------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, All Rights Reserved
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A good nap is a glorious thing. I love those delicious drowsy moments between waking and sleeping. Your eyelids feel as heavy as a calculus textbook and you know that just minutes separate you from a deep sleep – in the middle of the day. That’s how a perfect afternoon NAP begins.
Some Americans believe that napping is, well, un-American. I mean, look where it’s gotten Europe’s PIGS. It’s no coincidence that the most financially distressed countries are those in which people regularly waste away entire afternoons in blissful siesta (and prefer their beverages without ice.)
Go ahead, call me a crackpot theorist, but consider this. If certain nations had spent a little less time napping, they might now find themselves in less of an economic pickle.
Sure, those well-rested citizens might have sunnier dispositions than us, but their economies are in the proverbial toilet. Let’s face it, if you spend 1/6th of your potential working hours asleep, it’s going to have a negative effect on GDP. Trust me, I’ve tried to buy a bottle of wine in Italy between 2PM and 6PM. It can’t be done. If they would give up just ½ their afternoon nap, the negative balance of payments would disappear.
I can’t believe that the IMF or the World Bank, the Group of Eight/Twenty, or at the very least, the non-napping very productive euro-zone dominating GERMANS, haven’t imposed some kind of nap reduction requirement as part of the debt re-negotiations with the PIGS.
Why am I the first person to suggest that napping is the key to economic recovery? Probably because I am a mom and see everything through that very special lens. And probably because like other people with big ideas, namely Sarah Palin, I refuse to let real macro-economic theory get in the way of creative thinking. That’s the American way.
I’m not saying that we should completely eliminate the afternoon nap. I like a good nap as much as the next person. It’s a beautiful thing. The midday NAP can improve moods and increase productivity, for everyone from preschoolers to presidents. Every mother knows this.
Everyone wakes up refreshed from a 20 minute. (Back in the 80s this was called “power napping” and you were supposed to do it at your desk.) It was the topic of several books that purported to increase the productivity of the American worker. For some reason, it never really took off. Americans are too self-conscious to sleep (and drool) in public. Most of us also won’t wear monokinis in the Riviera for the same reason.
I urge the economic powers of the world to action. As some guy once said…“This is the moment. This is our time.”
To save the world from financial ruin, we must harness the power of the nap. The American worker must learn TO nap. The citizens of certain European nations should learn to nap LESS. (And Americans should continue to wear tank-suits in Cannes for the good of everyone.)
How much nap is the right amount? I’ll leave that to the economists who have the most experience with this sort of thing. The one’s who totally get what I’m talking about…the ones who understand the VALUE of the nap. The ones with kids.
-----------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT, All Rights Reserved
My Man has Misplaced his Mojo
Chuckle #416 | August 4th, 2010
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After months of assuring my husband that his lawn looked fine, (despite obvious evidence to the contrary) I finally had to agree that the grass was indeed, dead. I did my best to soft pedal the diagnosis out of respect for the delicate male ego, but he still cried like a baby.
A suburban man’s MOJO is so closely tied to the condition of his lawn that to even suggest that something isn’t right in the land of green can cause a disturbing slide into depression.
For months I’ve been trying to be the upbeat buffer between my hubby and his badly performing blades. But the lawn is definitely DOA. An epic fail. The problem is that this has never really happened before. My poor husband is in shock. He’s incredulous. He needs to know WHY.
So now, much to my chagrin, we need to talk about it. A lot. It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good lawn post mortem as much as the next wife, but there is a limit to how much quality “couples” time I want to spend discussing it. “Do you think it was mold?” he asks. “Could it be bugs?” he moans. “What about water? Too much, too little? Acid Rain? Environmental effects beyond our control?” “A jealous neighbor?”
He even tried to blame the dog until I gently pointed out even a 140lb Saint Bernard could not produce enough toxic urine to kill half our lawn. Certainly not an adorable 25lb Cockapoo. And I definitely didn’t spill weed and grass killer on it like I did last year. I’ve categorically denied any involvement.
Maybe our lawn is just bored. It needs a change of scenery, new seed, new mowing patterns, a little thatching… While the lawn is a man’s “turf” might I suggest that my husband shake things up a little? Perhaps he should talk to the lawn, praise it more…tell it how beautiful it is.
Maybe if he treats his lawn like a woman, she might respond. What’s he got to lose? He can always rotor-till and re-seed her in the fall. Nothing brings a man’s mojo back faster than the need to buy or rent a big new power tool.
-----------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT All Rights Reserved
scroll down to leave a comment
After months of assuring my husband that his lawn looked fine, (despite obvious evidence to the contrary) I finally had to agree that the grass was indeed, dead. I did my best to soft pedal the diagnosis out of respect for the delicate male ego, but he still cried like a baby.
A suburban man’s MOJO is so closely tied to the condition of his lawn that to even suggest that something isn’t right in the land of green can cause a disturbing slide into depression.
For months I’ve been trying to be the upbeat buffer between my hubby and his badly performing blades. But the lawn is definitely DOA. An epic fail. The problem is that this has never really happened before. My poor husband is in shock. He’s incredulous. He needs to know WHY.
So now, much to my chagrin, we need to talk about it. A lot. It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good lawn post mortem as much as the next wife, but there is a limit to how much quality “couples” time I want to spend discussing it. “Do you think it was mold?” he asks. “Could it be bugs?” he moans. “What about water? Too much, too little? Acid Rain? Environmental effects beyond our control?” “A jealous neighbor?”
He even tried to blame the dog until I gently pointed out even a 140lb Saint Bernard could not produce enough toxic urine to kill half our lawn. Certainly not an adorable 25lb Cockapoo. And I definitely didn’t spill weed and grass killer on it like I did last year. I’ve categorically denied any involvement.
Maybe our lawn is just bored. It needs a change of scenery, new seed, new mowing patterns, a little thatching… While the lawn is a man’s “turf” might I suggest that my husband shake things up a little? Perhaps he should talk to the lawn, praise it more…tell it how beautiful it is.
Maybe if he treats his lawn like a woman, she might respond. What’s he got to lose? He can always rotor-till and re-seed her in the fall. Nothing brings a man’s mojo back faster than the need to buy or rent a big new power tool.
-----------------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT All Rights Reserved
I Confess! I am a Harbinger of Death & the Nemesis of Nature
Chuckle #415 | July 28th, 2010
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I’ve just returned from an awesome “girl’s weekend” at our NH cabin. My daughters and I had a great time communing with nature, reading, and just hanging out. It was one of those truly zen-like, memorable weekends…until things took a murderous turn…
Somehow I became a harbinger of death, responsible for the untimely demise of no fewer than three living creatures in a single weekend (albeit a long weekend.)
Let me just say that I am not an evil person, though a certain amphibian might beg to differ.
I have enough lawyer friends to know that I have the right to remain silent, but I prefer to explain in order to shed a little guilt. The fond memories of my mother-daughter weekend are otherwise ruined. By ‘fessing up, I hope to silence those three tell-tale hearts. Surely it’s what Poe would have me do.
First, I’d like to ask the frog, fish and snake communities of NH to take this as an official and heartfelt apology. Unlike Montresor, I feel deep remorse. (And if necessary, this column can serve as evidence for the defense, should PETA decide to file charges.)
Before madness renders me entirely insensible, I will now admit to three counts of unintentional creature-slaughter.
The Fish: The mother fish and her eggs were in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was hungry and tired. So when the worm dangled so tantalizingly near, she took the “bait.” I couldn’t get the hook out. I should have cut the line and let her go, but I attempted to remove the hook from deep within her guts. Let’s just say that revival efforts failed. The Bass immediately moved in and ate the eggs. An entire family was wiped-out by a single cast of my line. I’ll never, ever, fish for “fun” again.
The Snake: For many years now the dog and the snake have played among the rocks on our point; the dog chasing; the snake slithering away. Now that I think of it, maybe this wasn’t so much fun for the snake. Maybe I should have put a stop to the game before it was too late. On Sunday the dog barked but the snake did not slither. Despite a clear lack of evidence, I’m guessing the dog had something to do with it. Since the dog is mine, I accept full responsibility.
The Frog: The frog was clearly suicidal. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. As I was mowing our tiny patch of grass with our eco friendly push mower, a frog suddenly leaped from the bushes directly into the 12 hypnotically spinning blades. I had to put the twitching frog out of its misery. It was the merciful thing to do. Sparing you the gory details, let’s just say that I am now scarred for life.
And while I’m in the nature confessional, I might as well come clean about the dozens of mosquitoes and horseflies that I intentionally did away with without a flicker of conscience. They deserved it. I also attempted to drown six spiders that did NOT deserve it, but were in my kayak. So much for communing with nature.
Now that all of this is off my chest, I’m hoping the nightmares will end along with the imagined midnight frog calls. They say that bad things happen in threes. I sincerely hope that “they” are right.
------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
scroll down to leave a comment
I’ve just returned from an awesome “girl’s weekend” at our NH cabin. My daughters and I had a great time communing with nature, reading, and just hanging out. It was one of those truly zen-like, memorable weekends…until things took a murderous turn…
Somehow I became a harbinger of death, responsible for the untimely demise of no fewer than three living creatures in a single weekend (albeit a long weekend.)
Let me just say that I am not an evil person, though a certain amphibian might beg to differ.
I have enough lawyer friends to know that I have the right to remain silent, but I prefer to explain in order to shed a little guilt. The fond memories of my mother-daughter weekend are otherwise ruined. By ‘fessing up, I hope to silence those three tell-tale hearts. Surely it’s what Poe would have me do.
First, I’d like to ask the frog, fish and snake communities of NH to take this as an official and heartfelt apology. Unlike Montresor, I feel deep remorse. (And if necessary, this column can serve as evidence for the defense, should PETA decide to file charges.)
Before madness renders me entirely insensible, I will now admit to three counts of unintentional creature-slaughter.
The Fish: The mother fish and her eggs were in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was hungry and tired. So when the worm dangled so tantalizingly near, she took the “bait.” I couldn’t get the hook out. I should have cut the line and let her go, but I attempted to remove the hook from deep within her guts. Let’s just say that revival efforts failed. The Bass immediately moved in and ate the eggs. An entire family was wiped-out by a single cast of my line. I’ll never, ever, fish for “fun” again.
The Snake: For many years now the dog and the snake have played among the rocks on our point; the dog chasing; the snake slithering away. Now that I think of it, maybe this wasn’t so much fun for the snake. Maybe I should have put a stop to the game before it was too late. On Sunday the dog barked but the snake did not slither. Despite a clear lack of evidence, I’m guessing the dog had something to do with it. Since the dog is mine, I accept full responsibility.
The Frog: The frog was clearly suicidal. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. As I was mowing our tiny patch of grass with our eco friendly push mower, a frog suddenly leaped from the bushes directly into the 12 hypnotically spinning blades. I had to put the twitching frog out of its misery. It was the merciful thing to do. Sparing you the gory details, let’s just say that I am now scarred for life.
And while I’m in the nature confessional, I might as well come clean about the dozens of mosquitoes and horseflies that I intentionally did away with without a flicker of conscience. They deserved it. I also attempted to drown six spiders that did NOT deserve it, but were in my kayak. So much for communing with nature.
Now that all of this is off my chest, I’m hoping the nightmares will end along with the imagined midnight frog calls. They say that bad things happen in threes. I sincerely hope that “they” are right.
------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
The Happy Grasshopper & the Uptight Ant
Chuckle #414 | July 21st, 2010
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Ever the optimist, I put my bikini on and gazed hopefully into the three-way/full length/no place to hide mirror. And...GASP! I took the bikini off. For an entire week I ate only carrots. I prayed. I tried again. No luck. My squishy “muffin top”, now carrot enhanced, stared back at me in defiance.
Ever since I was a wee Catholic girl I’ve been told that miracles can happen. But even though I’ve been asking very nicely, God has politely declined to step in and transform my 40 something jiggly mom body into that of a 17 year old Swedish nanny. I believe I’ve been misled.
Apparently God is not that interested in helping self-serving postulants like me. I can’t say I blame her (or him.) If it is true that God only helps those who help themselves, then I am certainly NOT worthy.
Each spring I have excellent intentions of getting in shape. And each spring I fail. I am incapable of making the intellectual connection between what needs to be done to get into bikini shape, and actually doing it. The reality is that I am not willing cut out, or even cut back on my Chardonnay intake in order to don a bikini in daylight. And as it turns out, walking the dog is not really exercise. Who knew?
I lack discipline. I have vices like drinking wine, eating cheese, and sitting around reading the New York Times. I hate to admit it, but if I’m going to blatantly ignore such obvious causal relationships, I DESERVE to be in a tankini.
I am the Lazy Grasshopper of the Grasshopper / Ant story. And I’m pretty sure that the Grasshopper died at the end of that fable. Yet I continue to eat cheese.
What I need to do is simply “accept who I am”…says my daughter, sanctimoniously parroting my own words back at me. The good news is that she actually listens to me when I talk. The bad news is that I now know exactly how annoying I sound.
Actually, what I need to do is visit a place where women aren’t ashamed of their womanly bodies. I need to go to a country like France where even 80 year old grandmas wear bikinis despite being more shockingly veined than the venerable “fromage bleu”. Then I could accept my less than perfect body, (including handles d’amour), be a role model to my daughters, and not have to cut back at all on cheese or wine. Yes, we are talking win/win scenario.
But since I’m stuck in America and deep in denial, I’m still hoping for a miracle to save me from myself this summer. You never know, if God wasn’t able to squeeze into his Speedo this year, I might just score a last minute empathy miracle.
And if that doesn’t work out, I need, at the very least, a new tankini. I’m sure the Grasshopper would agree.
---------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
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Ever the optimist, I put my bikini on and gazed hopefully into the three-way/full length/no place to hide mirror. And...GASP! I took the bikini off. For an entire week I ate only carrots. I prayed. I tried again. No luck. My squishy “muffin top”, now carrot enhanced, stared back at me in defiance.
Ever since I was a wee Catholic girl I’ve been told that miracles can happen. But even though I’ve been asking very nicely, God has politely declined to step in and transform my 40 something jiggly mom body into that of a 17 year old Swedish nanny. I believe I’ve been misled.
Apparently God is not that interested in helping self-serving postulants like me. I can’t say I blame her (or him.) If it is true that God only helps those who help themselves, then I am certainly NOT worthy.
Each spring I have excellent intentions of getting in shape. And each spring I fail. I am incapable of making the intellectual connection between what needs to be done to get into bikini shape, and actually doing it. The reality is that I am not willing cut out, or even cut back on my Chardonnay intake in order to don a bikini in daylight. And as it turns out, walking the dog is not really exercise. Who knew?
I lack discipline. I have vices like drinking wine, eating cheese, and sitting around reading the New York Times. I hate to admit it, but if I’m going to blatantly ignore such obvious causal relationships, I DESERVE to be in a tankini.
I am the Lazy Grasshopper of the Grasshopper / Ant story. And I’m pretty sure that the Grasshopper died at the end of that fable. Yet I continue to eat cheese.
What I need to do is simply “accept who I am”…says my daughter, sanctimoniously parroting my own words back at me. The good news is that she actually listens to me when I talk. The bad news is that I now know exactly how annoying I sound.
Actually, what I need to do is visit a place where women aren’t ashamed of their womanly bodies. I need to go to a country like France where even 80 year old grandmas wear bikinis despite being more shockingly veined than the venerable “fromage bleu”. Then I could accept my less than perfect body, (including handles d’amour), be a role model to my daughters, and not have to cut back at all on cheese or wine. Yes, we are talking win/win scenario.
But since I’m stuck in America and deep in denial, I’m still hoping for a miracle to save me from myself this summer. You never know, if God wasn’t able to squeeze into his Speedo this year, I might just score a last minute empathy miracle.
And if that doesn’t work out, I need, at the very least, a new tankini. I’m sure the Grasshopper would agree.
---------------------------------------
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Copyright 2008-2010, LOLmom.com, Greenwich CT
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