7th Grade Mom

8:00am: Phone call to my mom...

Mom: Hello?

Me: Goodmorning, Happy Halloween! Did I wake you?

Mom: (sounding like I just woke her up) no.

Me: What was your favorite song when you were in 7th grade? What did you want to be when you grew up? What were your fears? Your dreams? Your hobbies? Who did you have a crush on? This is Stuffanie by the way. Did you dream that one day you would have an amazing and cute daughter?

Mom: Well, I am not sure about 7th grade, but my favorite song in 6th grade was "Dizzy" by Tommy Roe. You know... Dizzy my head is spinning... but like I said that was 6th grade.

Pause

What else? Hmmm... well, I also liked Bobby Sherman. As far as what I wanted to be... well, I guess that is around the time when I thought I was aspiring to be a writer. I wrote a lot of plays and poems. Wonder whatever happened to those... I also had a crush on Brad Schwartz.

ME (realizing that my mom just answered my absurd barrade of questions without hesitation because she knows I am crazy): Well, thanks! I am dressing as you for Halloween today. Well, the 7th grade version of you. I am on my way to work... talk to you later. Love you.

My Mom in 7th grade:

Me...currently in my 30s as my Mom in her early teens:

One intern is green the other intern is telling me I need to diet.

Since Queenie is away this week at a conference (“away” meaning she is in Minneapolis), I have a license to eat and possess food that she abhors. I have stocked my refrigerator with items that make her guts wretch and her nostrils flare in repugnance. Pickled beets in all their red-counter-staining-juicy-goodness and a nice piece of salmon have made me a nice meal or two. Yum. Salmon.

Note: In all fairness, there are a couple of items that I would prefer Queenie not having. For example, under no circumstances can a...dare I say it, dare I even imagine the repulsive stink – banana make a home on the counter. She can certainly purchase them and eat them but, the little yellow purveyors of stench are not allowed to reside any place that I may catch whiff of them. Oh and don’t even get me started on that sickening squishy slobbery noise made when you eat that devil fruit… shudder.

Anyway, along with the Queenie-detested food, the other change is smaller portion cooking mostly in the microwavable genre of cuisine. I purchased a couple of those new fancy pants, single serving vegetables with the light rosemary butter sauce and brought one to work today. It made a nice side to my leftover pasta.

I was busy heating my little pouch of veggies when one of the interns came into the break room. We chatted it up for 3 and one quarter minutes while my vegetable packet cooked.

She is about 10 years my junior and sweet and quiet. She was discussing her view on living ‘green’ and I was bobbing my head along with what she was saying as if I were interested. In reality, my thoughts were on rosemary butter sauce and if I should rent a movie tonight.

When the microwave beeped and I pulled out my miniature pouch of buttered lunch carefully as not to burn my fingertips, she said with some recognition, “That smells like rosemary.”

I said, “Yup, that is rosemary.”

“Are those individual serving pouches?” Pause. Nose wrinkle. The word individual said with extra emphasis.

“Yeah, I know not good for the environment.” Sigh. Fake concern.

”Ah, well just make sure you rinse it and recycle. I don’t mean to sound snotty, but I’m just used to thinking about things like that.”

“Yeah, ok.”

With her lecture over I resumed my lunch preparation rolling my eyes and shaking my head. As she exited our break room another intern came in. Also 10 years my junior. Also sweet and quiet.

Today was her last day with our company and as I inquired about what her future plans were, she too smelled the pungent rosemary wafting from my veggies.

”That smells really good,” she said. “I didn’t know they made individual servings like that. How convenient.”

Ready to defend my actions against the environment, I replied, “Yes, I think so too.”

“Since I live by myself now, I think I may try those. I hate cooking a lot of food just for me.”

“I know what you mean. I am used to eating for two, but now I am eating for one.”

“Wow, I didn’t know!” She said this with a certain congratulatory sound in her voice. I was not sure what she meant at this point.

After a couple of moments, I thought perhaps I should explain that I have a roommate and not a husband because I was sure that the “wow, I didn’t know” comment was just her reaction to the fact that her interpretation of my depressing single with one cat life was incorrect.

She must be thinking I am married. I mean, why would she be so startled at my suddenly making less food.

So I said, “My roommate is at a conference and I usually make enough for two, but this week I am making one portion meals. Just for me.”

“Oh.” She said nodding and looking in the direction of my belly.

This very unsubtle gaze at my midsection made me understand what was going on in her head.

As my cheeks flushed, I realized I said “eating” not “cooking”.

Tuesday Titter

Today my boobies are making me titter. HeeHee boobie.

Disclaimer: The information contained in this post is not pertaining to the seabird belonging to the Sulidae family - Booby. I am actually referring to the breast

Now, I know you all are wondering why I don’t go for the obvious joke here and say, “Tits make me titter.”

Well, the word tit is too bovine. I don’t chuckle when I hear it. It conjures up images of a farmer straddling a small wooden stool tugging at pink utters dangling from a manure laden cow. It makes me think of strippers and porn and naughty things. Tit is just not funny.

Boobie is funny. Boobie. Boobie. Boobie.

Anyway… on a normal day, my boobies are NOT a source of amusement. We aren’t on good terms most of the time. They give me backaches. They are large and awkward and they get super sensitive every 21 days or so. But, today… today they are hilarious!

First, a little background…

Since my family tree is filled with the genes of buxom beauties, I have inherited a pair of saggy large breasts. This “gift” of large bosoms poses challenges when I am hunting for a sling in which to hoist them for long periods of time.

It needs to lift. It needs to separate. It needs to have cup space for gargantuan sacs of mammalian flesh. Strong wire and fabric are key components. Pretty lace, bows and pearls take a backseat. You need to have a good balance of structure and comfort. The perfect bra would probably be made of steel beams covered in marshmallow clouds.

Since I live in the real world and marshmallow makes me sticky, I settle for the Balconette from Lane Bryant… this bra is AMAZING! It is like a large-breasted NASA engineer designed it after taking a trip to the moon where her boobies defied gravity. It lifts. It separates. It comes in large lady sizes.

I love the Balconette. I have several.

Today. They were all in the clothes hamper. I decided to wear the poor man’s Balconette that I picked up at a different store.

Boobies lifted – check
Comfort and adequate coverage – check
Separated – CHECK. CHECK. AND DOUBLE CHECK.

They are separated alright! VERY SEPARATED. There is at least a 3 inch space between them. Not only that, the cups are angled freakishly outward.

One boobie is pointed to my right arm. One boobie is pointed to my left.

My nipples are pointed at 45 degree angles away from my body like butterfly antennae.

If you stood next to me, I may whack you in the arm accidentally and then try sheepishly to explain that I wasn't trying to get your attention. You might then look at me and wonder what the heck is wrong with my enormous rack and why I think it is acceptable to go around whacking people with them. It is better that I stay at my desk.

I am assured by my sister that I am hallucinating and am the only one seeing this, but I laugh every time I look down.

Boobies. Angled Boobies. TeeHee

Breach of contract.

Dear Midsection,

We have been through a lot together. You were there resting peacefully above my tight rolled acid washed jeans and you were there when I wore my first pair of stirrup pants. You were ever present after puberty, but not everyone saw you… it was ok and I knew that you existed because of my habits.

However, it has come to my attention that you are jutting out a lot more than usual. You are starting to resemble a tire. This is in direct violation of our agreed upon terms. If you remember, I chose to allow you to exist because I could not give up Krispy Kremes or Cherry Coke. At that time you agreed to keep your presence to a minimum, showing yourself only when my shirt was off. I have started to notice you in EVERYTHING I wear and this is absolutely not acceptable.

We cannot coexist in harmony and unfortunately, I will have to take the necessary steps to kill you.

Since we have been through so much together, I am sending this as a fair warning. I have decided that depriving you of the very lifeblood that feeds your freeloading ass is the first step in your annihilation. Next will be exercise. This is will be harder on me than it will be on you… trust me.

So, goodbye old friend. If you have any questions, we can discuss them tonight when I unsausage you from the Spanx.

All my love,

Stuff

Finding love the virtual way

Here’s the thing… I have been a secret member of one of those online groups that help you find the perfect soul mate. I guess my secret is out... phew, I feel so much better. The particular one I am involved with has two levels. The free level allows me to get a weekly list of profiles and photos sent to me by the gods (I think it's from the gods). If one makes my heart skip a beat and causes angels to sing the hallelujah chorus, I can send them a canned ‘icebreaker’. In turn, there is a profile of me floating around the pool of sorry loveless souls…complete with a cheeky picture and a sad attempt to sell myself.

There is a second level to this virtual soul mate finder…for the price of a few trips to Caribou; one can have the privilege of sending a super-extended-pour-your-heart-out-into-cyberspace email. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but there have been on occasion a chap or two that claims to have seen my gorgeous mug and decided right then and there to dig into his piggybank and look under couch cushions to come up with just enough money to sign up and send me an email. I don’t answer them because I have not coughed up the extra dough to have this privilege. However, lately I have been feeling the dateless dark cloud over my head and I may just have to answer them. I may just have to give up my Café Americano fix once in awhile to take a whack at true love. I am not getting any younger for crying out loud!

If there is anyone out there with cupid wings and a love degree… will you help me decide?

Note… photos and names have been altered to help protect the lovelorn.

NiteShade
32

Dear Stuff, I'm a shy easy going eccentric recluse whose in to Anime & Movies. I saw your profile and gorgueous face and we sound like a match made in hevean. Give me a chance once and you will find a great guy and a nice man even tho I am a bit shy at frist but warm uup quicky if you give me a chance to. you say that u are shy to.

A statement taken word for mispelled word from his profile: I have been tested, it has been shown that I have a high IQ, but I have poor communication skills, do to my shyness.

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AveJoe
Hi Stuff, Read your profile, and I thought you sounded like a cool person. I think we might have a lot in common,... quirky humor, a bit of cynicism, and a gift for pop culture,... actually, I'm just looking for someone who can hold their own in pop culture trivia. ;) Well, take a look at my profile and let me know if you're interested.

From his profile:
Age: 23 Stuff’s Age: 32
Height: 5’7’’ Stuff’s height: 5’11”


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Harv

You caught my eye. I signed up for this service to meet you. If you think we have what it takes together to make it, I would enjoy hearing from you. In my opinion, we do have the makings of a beautiful friendship.

From his profile:
Age: 47 Stuff’s Age: 32
Children: 2 daughters
Age: 26 and 23 Stuff’s Age: 32

Stuff thinks that perhaps Harv’s daughters may like AveJoe.

I chose to write this as the first entry?

“I am going to officially start this blog today!” she says out loud to her cat that is perched on his favorite spot over her shoulder. Groaning both to show he doesn’t care and to acknowledge she is talking to him, he turns his head and resumes his nap.

Let’s see…. I wanted to sound so educated, witty, lovable, sarcastic yet charming and most importantly in control of my life on this first entry that I over thought it and it turned into an entry 2 weeks in the making. Why do I do this? Why do I choose to analyze everything I say to the point that it loses its bones and becomes an undecipherable pile of word vomit turning everyone off? Who cares if I make them laugh… or worse yet, don’t make them laugh? Who cares if I piss off someone when I over use ellipses? Who cares?

Now that my neurosis is out in the open… I shall begin. Recently the author of this bit of text has turned 32. I am not sure what that means to me yet. I haven’t gotten to that age where I want to hide it, but I certainly don’t like to embrace it. I am pretty sure I went through my major age crisis/meltdown around my 29th birthday, so at least I got that out of the way. I hated turning 29. I didn’t like that it was my last year as a 20 – something. And I especially didn’t like that my actual 29 self was nothing like the 29 self I pictured as a teen. Where were the husband, journalism career and 2.5 kids, dog and minivan? I was single working in retail management, living with a cat and driving a Jeep on its last leg. That wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst of it all was the future I was working toward. I was plopped right in the middle of the Snow Belt thanks to a transfer and my pesky way of being good at my job (damn, why did I have to be so cute in my blue collar?). In the retail world small towns that are far removed from larger ones are perfect places to put your store and tend to do the most volume. This Upper Michigan store (that shall remain nameless) needed an assistant manager and I was a good candidate. Being the naïve, yet career minded gal that I was, I jumped at the chance to show what I could do with a higher volume store. I said goodbye to family, friends and life and headed NORTH to trade in my old dreams for this new one. This was October in my 26th year.

I stayed in that small town for a little over 2 years. My days consumed with work. My nights consumed with work. True, I did make some new friends and I picked up some snow inspired hobbies, but I was more interested in working toward what I had adopted as my new dream. My dream of managing my very own prized store. Did I mention I was naïve? Did I mention that I thought I looked incredible in a blue collar? Then, when the sand was about to run out in my 20’s hourglass, there was talk about my substitute dream coming true.

In another small U. P. town there was another high volume store with another substitute life waiting for me to take it on. This was the end of my 28th year and the beginning of my meltdown and what I like to call my 1/3 life crisis. Now, without being too dramatic and for the interest of time… I am going to sum up what happens next.

I quit retail hell.

There are many other factors that contributed to this and I look forward to sifting through them and relaying them with a bit of sarcasm and word vomit.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Year 5 and Tangerine Paint
Brian Timm was my first friend. As I am fast approaching my 32nd year on earth, I often find myself drifting back to simpler times in my life. Lately, the time machine dial is set to "Stephanie: Year 5". Most of that year has been blocked out, but I do remember Brian Timm. His toe-headed image is stuck in my mind where my favorite memories live. We were neighbors. We were inseparable. We didn't care that there was a gender difference. We didn't care that our families were completely different. My family was falling apart and my house was full of crazy. He was my escape to normal.

We were cohorts in some major crimes. Our spree started with an enticing can of orange paint. I remember the look of the can and the smell as it sat on the steps of the home next door beckoning us to come and investigate. We were attached at the hip so I can't tell you for sure who noticed it first, but we ran like the wind to it. Some silly adult in all their hastiness left the lid off and the circa 1970's bathroom tangerine orange looked like a pool of melted sherbet. To this day, I fully blame those careless painters for what transpired next on that sunny day in year 5 of my life.

It plays out like a slow motion scene in a movie… My head slowly turns towards Brian and I give him an evil little look which he completely understands. With a stifled giggle, he hands me a big clean brush. I plunge the bristles deep into the can to capture the beautiful orange hue. The paint drips a little, but I quickly move to my canvas. Mimicking the great painters of the past, I brush back and forth creating a 3'x 3' splotch on the gleaming white siding.

Years later, I still can't tell you our motive. Was it to be malicious? Was it to be helpful? Or, were we just simply curious? Whatever the motive, I am glad I have the memory… and some incriminating photos thanks to my Mom.