Get Goose

Bathing suits and I have a love-hate relationship. I love them when I’m in shape and feeling good. And, they seem to love me too, at that point. On my honeymoon, I actually donned a string bikini. Maybe I was high on love, but I was feeling very Bo Derek-esque on that trip.

When I’m out-of-shape and feeling frumpy, however, the hate factor kicks into high gear. Today, I am not so much Bo Derek. I am more “mother of a nine-month-old, who had a C-section, nursed for seven months, and got thyroid disease somewhere in the mix.”

Yesterday, I tried on bathing suits…and today I started a lettuce and water diet.

Walking into the dressing room was challenge enough—coming to terms with the fact that I was about to squeeze my pastey-white curves into a tiny piece of Lycra. The actual act of doing it about put me over the edge. I went for the one-piece, as my mid-section has more rolls than a bakery right now. I chose a pattern that “accentuated the face” (according to the tag). What the tag didn’t say was that the suit would also accentuate my inner thigh area, simply because there was nothing to cover it. And, that the V-neckline would show-off my now pancake boobs (what did I think was going to happen with a 15-pound kid hanging off of my nipples for seven months?). I didn’t dare look at my hind-parts. God knows what kind of accentuating was going on back there.

Clearly, the bathing suit manufacturers need to go back to the origin of the word “suit.” A suit, my friends, covers the entire body!

Out of sheer necessity, I did leave the store with a bathing suit. My maternity suits are, thankfully, way too big and the Bo Derek bikini isn’t quite going to cut it this year. You’ll find me in the face-accentuating one-piece…and a lovely cover-up to go along with it.

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Last night, my husband and I attended an outdoor dinner party for two friends who recently got married. It was 93 degrees and extremely humid. The kind of humid that makes sweat drip down your back and underneath your boobs. Pretty.

On our way home, we were discussing the conditions and my husband blurted out the perfect Spade-ism.

I remarked, “Wow, people were really sweating at the party, huh?”

And Spade responded, “They sure as hell were sweating. Sweating like a bunch of whores in church.”

I considered calling this post “Ode to Immature Men,” and dedicating it to a friend who had the unfortunate experience of dating one for three years. Actually, I am sure a lot of the dating was fun and fulfilling. In my experience, the sixth grade mentality only shows up on special occasions. Perhaps, at your mother’s fancy dinner party. And, most definitely when the two of you are discussing the big “C” word…commitment.

I had lunch with this friend yesterday and she shared a classic story about her ex. They’ve been broken up for about eight months now, due to his commitment-phobia and love of hot air balloons (I threw that one in for kicks). This is a testament to all men who refuse to grow up and live in the big-boy world.

It’s about 5:15pm and my friend comes home from a tiring day at the office. Ready to kick up her feet and enjoy a lovely Chardonnay, she runs to the mailbox on her way into the house. There, on top of her Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes entry, is a folded up piece of yellow, lined writing paper. She unfolds the note and reads the following:

“For some reason, I feel the need to tell you that I’ve started dating someone. I am telling you this as a friend that just needs to share this information without any malicious intent or motive and I don’t want to stir waters that are clearing…just thought you should hear it from me. That’s it. Please let me know when you get this. Oh, and can I borrow your algebra notes tonight? (I threw that one in for kicks, too).”

I should now go into a whole diatribe about the content of the note, but the story gets even better, and the note speaks for itself.

The kicker is that just under the signature of the ex is another note in someone else’s handwriting. It’s just three little words with an arrow pointing to the ex’s signature: “WHAT A JERK.”

It only took a few minutes for my friend to deduce that her post carrier had added this little gem. Apparently, he saw the note in her mailbox and thinking she had left it for him, opened it up. His curiosity got the best of him and the rest is history. My friend confirmed this information today. Rock on Mr. Postman!

To all of you Immature Men out there, please get it together. Come in off the playground and grow up for God’s sake. Handwritten notes in mailboxes only work for nine-year-olds and stalkers. And, no one cares who you are dating, as long as you’re not dating two people at the same time (even that could be more forgivable than the ol’ “note in the mailbox” maneuver).

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One of my friends (who is also one of my Boot Camp instructors) sent me an email this morning about MUFA. When I first saw the email, I assumed it was one of those humorous acronyms, like FUPA or FUBAR. My Boot Camp brain immediately went to “Move Ur Friggin’ Ass” and “My Underwear Found Ass-crack.”

So, I was a bit surprised to find out that MUFA actually stands for monounsaturated fatty acids, otherwise known as good-for-you-fats. These are the fats that protect you from chronic disease and help you lose fat around the middle. The Anti-FUPA fats!

Oils, nuts and seeds, avocado, olives, and chocolate. Eat one serving of any of these at each meal and you’ll be on your way to a flatter belly, according to “The Flat Belly Diet.”

Eat too many at one sitting, though, and you’ll be on your way to Boot Camp…with me. Those chocolate covered peanuts did me wrong. Apparently, the reverse effect of MUFA is MUFfin-top (rolls of flesh spilling over the waistline of your trousers).

Flat belly, my ass. I have been MUFA-ing it up for years to no avail. Guacamole with my chips, olives in my martinis, chocolate with more chocolate. Hello! What seems to be the problem?

The magical MUFA has transformed my body alright. Into what, remains the question.

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As tight as a camel’s ass in a sandstorm.

Today, I turned 38.

38 works for bra sizes and Bingo…but, it sort of falls into that black hole of birthdays. Older than 35, but not quite 40 yet.

So, how does one celebrate the big 3-8?

Today, I slept in a bit later than usual. I snuggled a few extra moments with my son. The perfect gift for me.

My husband surprised me with a gorgeous pair of earrings that I immediately donned. They looked great with my pajamas and messy hair.

Instead of making breakfast (something I never do anyway), we headed for IHOP. Buttermilk pancakes and old fashioned maple syrup make for the perfect birthday cake.

I napped this afternoon, then watched a cheesy romantic comedy. And now, my husband is getting ready to make me dinner.

No fruity cocktails, no little black dress and dancing all night, no “I just turned 25″ extravaganza.

Instead, sippy cups and sweat pants, and a peaceful, restful day with my family.

Ah, the bliss of turning 38. This is going to be a great year.

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Before we adopted our dog, Ruga, I didn’t really know a lot about Bloodhounds. I grew up with dogs, but had never had a Bloodhound before. My husband had one in a former life and said they were great family dogs. I was a little concerned about Ruga getting along with our other dog, Wilbur (AKA Spoiled Bastard), but crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

We found out about Ruga through the Southeast Bloodhound Rescue. They told us she was in Roane County, GA in a shelter. She was emaciated and worn down…had obviously been living on the streets for a while. She was due to be euthanized the next day, so my husband literally ran for the border to get her.

Ruga is one big (and I mean big…130 pounds big…we fattened her up like the rest of the family) ball of love. She doesn’t have a care in the world, that dog. She is laid back and carefree. Her face is a wrinkled up mound of skin and her eyelashes are to die for (Spade calls them her mascara).

She steals your heart in an instant…and can clear a coffee table off in an instant too. Bloodhounds are large dogs with even larger tails. One swoop of the tail and that’s all she wrote.

When Ruga sniffs food on the table, her nose is literally sniffing the food. Never leave food unattended. A few weeks after we got her, she was in our neighbor’s yard helping herself to items on the BBQ grill. Lovely. The dog was living on the streets for God’s sake, give her a break. If you were eating pebbles all day and suddenly spied a chicken leg, you’d scarf it down too.

Ruga’s ears deserve a post all their own. They are long and silky for about five minutes after a bath. Then they’re in the food bowl, or in the mud, or dragging on the floor. They pick up dirt better than a Swiffer.

And, finally, there is the drool. This is something someone should have warned me about (especially considering my OCD condition). Bloodhounds are apparently notorious for their drool. Ruga can have drool hanging from her lips to the floor, thicker than a rope. You can imagine what happens when she shakes her head inside the house. Slob-o-rama. The slobber lands everywhere. And if you’re not there to wipe it up immediately, it just dries up for later discovery. I could spend half my Saturday on a slobber exploratory mission. You know you have turned a corner in life when your weekends become one big treasure hunt for slobber and slung baby food particles.

All this to say, I would not trade Ruga for anything in the world. She is amazing. She’s one of the best cuddlers I know (she’s the size of a human, so I guess she would be). She does this thing we call the Ruga Dance that cannot be described in words. She lets Wilbur rule the roost, but knows she is the true princess. Bottom line, Ruga rocks. Go Ruga, Go Ruga.

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My cousin sent this to me. It brought me back to my Jersey roots. Enjoy.

The Italian Tomato Garden

An old Italian lived alone in New Jersey. He wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but it was very difficult work, as the ground was hard.

His only son, Vincent, who used to help him, was in prison. The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament:

Dear Vincent,

I am feeling pretty sad, because it looks like I won’t be able to plant my tomato garden this year. I’m just getting too old to be digging up a garden plot. I know if you were here my troubles would be over.

I know you would be happy to dig the plot for me, like in the old days.

Love, Papa

A few days later he received a letter from his son.

Dear Pop,

Don’t dig up that garden. That’s where the bodies are buried.

Love, Vinnie

At 4 a.m. the next morning, FBI agents and local police arrived and dug up the entire area without finding any bodies. They apologized to the old man and left.

That same day the old man received another letter from his son.

Dear Pop,

Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That’s the best I could do under the circumstances.

Love you, Vinnie

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The humidity in Knoxville is indescribable. Today, as I was pushing my child in the jog stroller up a steep hill, I was reminded of one of my favorite Spade-isms:

It’s hotter than a goat’s ass in a pepper patch.

Memorial Day is a day to honor those who have died in uniform—a day to say “thank you” for their sacrifice.

More than 3,400 Americans have died in Iraq since the war began four years ago. That’s two per day, a rate that has increased with the “surge” of 30,000 U.S. troops into Baghdad earlier this year. —TIME

Let’s silence our cell phones for a moment, turn off the TVs, and give our computer screens a rest. We need to consider how much we take for granted every day and take this moment to remember how fortunate we are.

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