Beauty Tips

I was having a very relaxing shower, you know the kind when your mind starts to wander and in turn wonder if in the near future, when gravity really starts to take hold, I will be able to fend it off.  I loathe this particular thought but, nonetheless, I still dwell on it.  My solutions are many just not real to life.  I think to get a hold on all the parts that need help, I'm thinking I need to be dipped in a vat of a special concoction that will zone in on all areas.  I've noticed the tops of my knees are getting some light lines.  My hands are looking a little less freckled and little more aged spot if you know what I mean.  My butt sags, it always has, there was never anything to hold up the skin, except bone. My elbows are slouching, my neck is beginning to practice gobble-gobble noises.  My eyebrows are getting a little too close to my eyelashes.  What a sight that will be.  I'll probably be able to glue the eyelashes into the eyebrows to make my eyes open.  We'll work on that formula.

Anyway, you see the need for the vat.  I suggest we do this in layers. Bottom layer to smooth and firm my legs and butt. I have always been told I have beautiful legs. No one dares to go so far and say anything positive about my tush.  Not even my beloved.  He's always been accepting of my flaws and I of his (the fact that he's lite in the hair department).  Too many magazines with the themes of making yourself over (the latest being O Magazine).  Oprah has reinvented herself many times, I would too if I had $400 Million to keep the process moving along.  Hell if I had an extra $10,000 oh what I would do.  First, I would begin the makeover in the kitchen... no wait, this is about me.  $10,000 could help me, I'm sure.  I promise after I'm done and then when I'm dead, they can pull all the stitches out and un-tuck everything, God will recognize me when I get to Heaven.  Then I don't have to listen to my mother go on about how she glided right by me and didn't even know who I was.  Go figure, my own mother. 

Back to the vat, so we have the bottom layer for smoothing and firming, probably lifting agent as well for the ass.  Then onto the stomach. This is particular tricky, multi-area workspace.  There are stretch marks for one thing. Several sets, don't think because you have twins it counts for one set.  Nope, two babies were stretching you stomach this way and that, so two sets plus the damage the older one did.  It does add up.  Plus, when they stitched me up after the emergency C-section, they did it crooked.  One side, more than the other.  So there is smoothing, lip, sandblasting, major firming needed in the mid-section.  Now as we travel north to the boob area we need needles for injecting a special solution that could have been taken from my stomach area as well, there's enough to go around and carefully inject into the left and right to make them symmetrically perfect.

The vat must also take care of my upper arms and the jiggling that doesn't seem to tire me out.  Arms must be smooth with firm, lightly muscled arms.  At this stage I'm not going to try and pick up men (I mean physically pick them up to see how far I could get them off the ground).  As a result of having brothers there was a need to have a "show of strength" when I was out and about.  I was trying to catch a man but I would lose to the girl who would just drop a dollar or twenty.   Eventually, I caught a man, a damn fine man after all.  He politely asked me years ago to stop picking guys up.  I complied.

The neck, face and hair are the areas we first see when we greet another human being.  The vat at this stage must also be multi-faceted.  The jowls have just begun to slide.  The wrinkles are around my eyes and above my nose. You can still see my eyes but I do need a lift there.  Some of these makeover products don't include invasive surgery.  Don't know if I can trust this as I think Dr. 90210's workload would begin to suffer.   Another  unfortunate aspect of aging is the unwanted hairs that pop up wherever they want.  Oh wait, the chin area is prominent.  Let's start there and when you get in silhouette or profile, the person your talking to will automatically go for her chin to feel around to see if she has any.  At least that's my cue, I don't know about you.

So, what I'm looking for is a huge vat that can dip me and do everything I need done on a daily basis. I'm too busy, tired and helpless to do this by myself every day.  Sometimes twice a day at that. To put me where I want to be would be a full time job.  I'd have to start working for Macy's or Bloomingdale's to get all the products I need to do what one daily vat dipping would do.  Think about how much money could be made with an all-in-one woman pleasure dip.  It could jump start the economy.

Dark Tales from the Mudroom

Today, boys and girls I am going to use you as my sounding board instead of my therapist.  Today, I am going to talk about cleaning the house.  Firstly, I think I should tell you that when you walk into someones house, you initially look around to get a overall view of the place.  You make your internal comments about the furniture, intensity of dust or lack thereof, maybe you search out decorating hints for your own place, who knows.  I did this same thing when I walked into my mudroom this morning.  I stopped dead in my flip flops and let out a squeak.  I didn't want to alarm my sons that I was in distress about the look of this room.  After all, this is the main entrance to our house.  We don't use the front door much.  Everyone comes into my house through the back door.   The rug needs to be replaced.  After all, what idiot leaves a rug in the MUDROOM.  Soooo much dirt from people and dog has made its way onto and into this poor Berber.  It is past its prime.  Thank you dear rug for sacrificing yourself for these past 18 years. Time to retire you to the trash heap.  Like you'll know the difference.

I panned to the shelving above the washer and dryer and sink.  So much junk shoved up there and teetering on the brink.  Team baseball hats that fit heads when said heads played baseball too long ago.  I'll admit to my glove being up there and some other things put up there in haste years ago.  It was this particular area that I began to hone in on. Yes, I would begin my conquest of the mudroom by starting with the shelves and what lies behind the dreaded washer and dryer.

One's motivation should come from the knowledge that you haven't looked behind your washer/dryer since the painters were in 3 years ago.  Oh and don't get me started on that topic because they forgot to come back and paint that area.  Don't get me started.  Okay, moving along now, I know I flooded that part of the room on more than one occasion. There was money, former white socks that allowed a fungal menagerie to linger for way too long.  Unfortunately, those socks have been forever retired to the trash.  Everything that ever fell off the washer/dryer when they were shaking from too big a load. I was happy to be able to squeeze where I could squeeze between and behind each unit.  My vacuum stretched and made sounds of pain but it complied.  I dusted and wiped down everything I could reach.  I'm proud of that area now.  You know that area, the one that no one sees because its behind doors.  But I know, I have a new sense of pride now.  I could throw away everything that belongs to THEM. THEM leave things wherever THEM dumps them.  Even when they think (ha ha) they are putting things away, they aren't.  Distressing, I know. Thus, is my plight in this lifetime.  Next time, my world will be filled with a place for everything.  Yes, that is my plan. 

My Summer of MaleTeenagers

The fireworks began in my head long before the 4th of July arrived. Such is the fun of having a teenage boy who has friends. Lots of friends. I applaud my son for being so likeable and having nice friends to hang around with. But the much adored, overly abused phrase "boys will be boys" has been applied once too many times so far. I have just ended June and begun July when both menopause and the summer of teenage boys have hit like a Ryan Howard homerun. Like I need the hot flash hell-go-round. I think science is better off hotwiring teenage boys' brains than trying to figure out how to get us to Mars. This particular point in my life is at the mercy of a 15 year old male brain. A brain that can recite statistics from football games, tell you who sang what song in what year and can inform you that he will capitalize majorly when he is in the job world because he just knows how smart he truly is. This same brain forgets what homework is but can hit the 99th percentile in the PSSAs. My school district is proud he performs so well on this test but must be scratching their cumulative heads when looking at his regular test results. I don't scratch anymore. Too much scratching leaves holes.

My 15 year old female brain was filled with not so much knowledge about statistics of football games, but how good football players looked in their uniforms. What color eyeshadow will make my eyes pop, and which hairspray can really hold it all in place. Will my breasts ever look as good as the other more developed girls in gym class (they never did). Its funny to me that our brains weigh the same, look the same and find themselves located above the shoulders in the same cranial mold yet function as if they were never hooked up properly. I suspect I will be making more entries as I take a ride on the teenage rollercoaster. So many thoughts, so many evil thoughts as to how to bring him down before he can start on another scheme that will surely pull his status as top 15 year old male who plunders parents in the "Teenage Boy Befuddles Parents Hall of Fame."

Stay tuned.

Dress Shopping

Yesterday I went dress shopping. I have two weddings this weekend and I didn't want to start the week knowing I was in need of a dress or two. I have placed myself in that dark place known as shopping. Why is it I don't like to shop? I really haven't pondered this question too much but when it comes up in a circle of women, I immediately fade into the background. There is no heightened awareness of sales or styles that tickle me. Hell no, this is up there with heading to a dentist who doesn't believe in anesthesia. I prefer the GYN appointment with the speculum thrown in for the hell of it. I prefer the mammogram with the tech who is intent on flattening what little boob I have into a wafer, since they aren't big enough to make a pancake to sell at IHop. I begged my good friend, Marge to go with me. I got here on Friday night after 3 or 4 cocktails and she readily agreed. I saw her again on Sunday afternoon and she was still delighted to go. I have wonderful friends.

This trip was painless as the painless/painful meter goes. I went with an open mind and not worrying about cost. I was going to Marshall's. Who spends a lot at Marshall's anyway? When I go shopping, I have to ask myself: "Well Bridget, do you feel lucky? Well, do you?

Did she just throw 9 or 10 dresses into your arms to try on? I didn't know until I got to the dressing room. 10 dresses. Man, this is going to take like forever. It really took about 20 minutes. A lifetime in the mind of a non-shopper. Out of the 10, I squeezed my flat ass, no boob physique into 8 dresses. I came away with two that gave the impression that there was a tiny box of junk in my trunk but my boobs looked pretty good. I'm happy. I'm happier that it was $25.00 for the dress, $20.00 for another dress and $25.00 for a great pair of shoes. That adds up to $70.00. Wow!!!!! These were price tags I could take home to the hubby and make him look at them. I am married to a man who doesn't want to know how much anything costs. I was excited by my purchases and wanted to revel in the deals. Thank God for Marge. We both celebrated and realized if we were younger we could have been in the bar blowing the remainder of the money in our wallets. But, it being we are mothers of 6 children between us, we had our hoorays and high fives and a tear or two. Now there are these two weddings coming up. My next debate, which dress to wear to which wedding. Stay tuned. Quite possibly, pictures will follow.

This is the story of a tall glass that didn't quite make it out of the dishwasher yesterday afternoon. When you break a glass, at least in my case, I get a little upset. It jolts me to an awareness that borders on skittish and irrational. Don't know why, something must have happened in my childhood. I'm not going to delve into anything about my childhood because, well, how do you know I'm telling the truth. So back to this 12 oz. glass. I purchased 24 glasses from Macy's several years ago. I liked the simplicity of the style. Simplicity is my style. I have no style and I don't know why I would put the word "simplicity" in the equation. I felt sorry for this particular glass because of where I found said glass. In a teenager's room, hidden under papers on a desk. It wasn't easy to spot at first but when I looked past the papers and the cockeyed angle they were resting I knew something was holding them up. And it was this glass. This glass had remnants of a particular sugary beverage. It was Swiss Farms Iced Tea, sweetened with sugar (NO, THE HORROR). I can't quite call it a liquid as it had turned to an amberish sticky mess in the bottom and about a fifth of the way up. How do you not take the last sip? This particular child craves iced tea and if I let him, would chug it by the gallon. In fact, I would never have to worry about glasses being dirty because he would just keep the gallon up in his room.

But this glass, was so close to going back up in the cabinet after a wonderful hot, steamy, sudsy bath. Already to perform its duty yet again. Alas, as I ws pulling it out of the dishwasher, I cracked it on the side and it broke into four pieces with smaller ones tumbling into the dishwasher. Oh, one sliver made it onto the floor and into my foot. I'm okay, no E.R. for me. I performed surgery on myself and cleaned it up and went on my way. But I gingerly placed the broken pieces of the glass into the trashcan. I felt bad it could not be recycled, but I will move on and question myself as to whether I should purchase plastic glasses for the future.

When I Read Cosmo for Tips?

I will make it publicly known that during my dating years, I was more intune with Sports Illustrated than Cosmopolitan and any other magazine of that genre. I still prefer the writing in Sports Illustrated to that of Cosmo. So imagine my surprise when sitting at my local CVS one day waiting for a prescription that I notice the cover of said magazine in bold letters on the cover that there were no less than 77 things men like in bed. I immediately opened to find what page this irrefutable information began. I love my husband very much, I mean, he still gives me butterflies when I start thinking about him. Can you imagine what he did for me when we were younger and dating? I probably would have hidden Cosmo from him. But back to the magic number of '77'. Here is where I get confused. To find out 77 things men like you would have to ask 1,000,000 I would think. Aren't all men stuck on blowjobs? I'm sure a guy wants his girlfriend/wife/one-night-stand to give him a blowjob while he's standing in the glow of the refrigerator shoving a donut or a piece of cake or drinking a beer for that matter. Or having a blowjob while he's laying flat on his back and not having to do anything on his end or, oh wait, maybe he wants you to strip for you and then you go over and give him a blowjob. I see so many magazine covers with numbers and the word "ways", like 25 ways to organize your kitchen cabinets. 44 ways to make extra money legally. But 77 ways to make your man happy? If I were a slave to what Cosmo says and I needed to do 77 things to make him sexually happy, I'd end up dead. Well then I would be just laying there then and.....

I know the first rule of writing is write what you know. I agree totally. Having the "know-it-all" gene gives me super human ability to squalk about every topic under the sun. But sometimes you just want to puff and pontificate because you can. You know, blow off steam. Usually around an election year I try to read as much as possible on the candidates that will affect my life for the next couple of years and beyond. I tried this year to wrap my brain around the new crop who are looking to be my governor, congressman and senator. I am a cynic. This is a terrible curse that seems to grow especially this time of year. I hear the candidates talk about how they aren't politicians. They say "I'm one of you." I say, I'll give it to you that your human but beyond that your stepping on rough, unstable ground. The candidates are not the ones who truly frighten me. Its their handlers. The people that surround the candidate. They've got polls, the issues that are bothering "Mom and Pop America". I don't believe they truly care. You can say whatever you want. You can blow smoke out of your ass and mouth and nose and eyes and ears (that's every oriface correct?)and you are still giving me what you think I need to hear.

Slowly but surely the wrangling in of banks, oil companies, health care organization, professional sports organizations is happening. Do they all need to be policed? Yes to a certain extent they do. Can our government truly do service to do this? I don't know because they are also part of the problem still. I'm still confused and I know it will only grow. Where will this lead me? I'm sure the only answer to this is to read all that I can and make sure that the facts are correct and then get a big board with all the concerned candidates and buy all the Post-It notes in the tri-state area and begin the process so I can make an educated guess come November. I'm sure a psychic will be involved somehow as well.

Comprehending and Embracing List Making

Today, boys and girls, I will be discussing list making. Lists are important to people because sometimes you just can't rely on the old memory to store and release all that good stuff when needed. My parents were fervent believers in sitting down and going over what needed to be done for the week or weekend.

How about that grocery list. I make the mistake of letting everyone in the family know that I'm heading off to the feed store. Thus begins the shouting in both of my ears and staring in front of me as if my eyes will absorb the acute movement of their lips as if its a backup system for my ears. Yeah, let em yell. I put everything down that I think is needed and then, wait for it..... leave the list on the kitchen table. Its dangerous to go grocery shopping when you don't have a list. I find it exhilarating actually. Kind of being naughty almost on purpose.

You know, there are people who have a tablet or paper pad on their bedside table. I'm not sure how to embrace list making while love making. "Honey, hold that a second, I have to write something very important on my list." I don't think I would impress my husband with my ability to say on top of things. Haha

Along with dieting the only other thing I implore internally to do is keep lists. Write more stuff down, no matter how pertinent. I can always cross it off the list later. I suspect the pay-off is crossing everything off the list and then throwing it away. I'll have to try it some time.

There are many handicaps in life. I am handicapped in several ways, none of which are life threatening or impair me physically. My handicap is not going to be any good when I swing a golf club. My handicap deals with decorating my home. I can go to the paint department and feel my blood pressure and pulse rise. Not from excitement but from shear terror. I am the poster woman for those who are afflicted with this disturbing non-disease. I am unable to make a decision and this affliction makes it that much more difficult to decide on drapes, wait no drapes, just shears, or blinds. What style rug? Should I get rid of my antiques and go for a new look. What styles define me and my family? Hell if I know. I am in awe of women who have the sixth sense of design and can put it in their home and make it inviting to the point you can't get your guests to leave. I'm not going for that look. Maybe subliminally my look is screaming to my sons "don't come back after college." Hmm... I might be on to something then.

The Closet

I'm sitting on my bed and I keep turning to look and see my closet door open part way. I can see the shoe bag that hangs on the inside of the door and scarves are hanging from it and there is one black loafer sticking its tip out. As I look down at the floor portion there is nothing hanging out. There is no reason for my closet door to not be shut. So I got off the bed and opened the door all the way and there it was my Nightmare on Providence Road staring back at me. Freddy Krueger would come in handy right now with his claws. Yeah, he could scoop everything up and just help me clean up in one fell swoop. Where is Freddy when you need him. Oh yeah, in a bad remake. So back to my closet. There are many memories in every corner of this small closet. You see, my house is over 105 years old and we know what the clothes horse was back in 1905, one dress for church, dress for cleaning and a dress for parties. That's it folks! So the 2010 version of my closet is in fact a horror movie that never ends. The memories I mentioned earlier and on the top shelf, mostly baby memories there and photographs of hairdos best left in the dark. The floor has shoe boxes but not with shoes in them, that would make sense. The pile of stuff I keep redirecting from one corner to the other is me being unable to let go of those jeans that fit me in 1988. These jeans were it! The bomb as they say now. The greatest pair of jeans I ever purchased, a pair of Levi Strauss 501's. I could wear those jeans, my love affair with my husband can only be interrupted with those jeans. I seriously doubt I'll ever be that size again, only if I offer myself up to the new doctors in the plastic surgery department at Penn or Temple as a guinea pig for liposuction and breast and butt augmentation. There are a couple of sweaters with shoulder pads and dresses from weddings years ago that will never be worn again. And my wedding dress. I hated the dress the day I wore and yet here still almost 19 years later the damn thing is still hanging in my closet. I purchased another wedding dress off of Ebay several years back because mine was too hideous to be the Bride of Frankenstein for Halloween. Gotta make Frankie look good doncha know. Itgs nice to know I can open the door and look in and see what's in there. But its even better to close the door and leave the mess for another day and maybe a case of Yuengling.

I have cleaned out the closet on several occasions but I think an intervention must be set up to truly get rid of what's hanging around in there. Memories yes are there but they are just that, memories and probably a couple of therapy sessions with my psychologist.

The Martyred Mother Complex

St. Stephen was the first christian martyr. He was stoned to death because he would not renounce his love and devotion for Jesus Christ. That is as intense as it can possibly be. Not many people would sacrifice themselves the way St. Stephen did. But some mothers put themselves on the martyr block on a daily basis. Oh, they don't have to say things out loud for their children/spouse/friends to hear, no, theirs is the silent suffering.

Martyred mothers should be an international group with millions of members. I personally have been martyred on several occasions just this week. I put aside what I am doing and run to the grocery store to pick up no less than four items because my sons "are dying" to have them. So I go, no questions asked. When I come back from the store 25 minutes later because there was traffic getting to and from, all I hear is "what took you so long, we're STARVING." I just go about my duties as a mother and wait until I will be yet again martyred for the cause. Even my husband has put me up there on many an occasion. You know the response, "Mom will take care of it, Mom's great." With not so much as a lost step or bat of an eye, I'm there to do what is needed. We mothers do get a chance to sit down and debrief each other on our exploits in the martyr world. Whether its driving each of your children to their particular sporting event, fixing the computer so you can type up an assignment, forgo personal hygiene as long as everyone is taken care of and happy we will, ourselves, will be satisfied with the results. We do this out of love and my personal favorite, because we don't feel like listening to them anymore.

Don't let your children know your a martyr, they will figure this out later, when they are driving to the third or fourth assisted living facility with you. Helping you pick out your nursing home could quite possibly still be an opportunity to bond with your child(ren). So suffer you may, suffer you must, and then sit back and feel the wards of your martyring.

Fist Blog

Greetings all.... this is my first blog and I'm totally excited. The best thing to do is to sit and watch the Phillies game and mindlessly type my thoughts down. Bizarre thoughts are nothing new to me, it is unfortunately normal for me to write about shaving my legs, what I do around the house whether for fun or pleasure (think folding laundry in the nude). To comment on the high-end, in-the-news sort of stuff takes a little more to compose. I prefer to just let it fly.

I made some comments on Facebook and my favorite one so far is "Basking in your wife's beauty should be one of the more important aspects of being the ultimate husband." This is an important statement. I don't think many husbands are aware of the basking clause. I'm not even sure if my own husband is aware of this, heavens I haven't told him to stop what he's doing (he builds helicopters) and to just stare off into space and think about me. Of course, there will be the all important glow as his thoughts move along to the dreaminess mode. This could get him in trouble with the boss so hopefully he'll know not to think too long. I personally stop what I'm doing and think of him for a good 30 seconds before the dog starts licking my leg and I end of thinking of something else entirely.