Solve for X

Like I’m knowing stuff about equations. Pshaw!

alphabet-in-math

Some day I may write about the math. I have two interesting stories about math, believe it or not. I had a tutor for the last part of algebra in high school, so I could take geometry.
By the by, I don’t think that makes any sense, cause guess what? I’m good at geometry. It makes total sense to me.
*shrugs*
Anyway…

The answer to yesterday’s post on Two Truths and a Lie is #1.
I did not see a naked toddler. But it’s kind of a trick, because the toddler was actually only wearing a shirt and shoes. Perhaps he ran off during his diaper change?

So, for the eight of you who guessed #1, how did you know?

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W — for Why are so many people naked? & Which one is a lie? & What’re y’all gonna order?

On a warm May day in 2006, I met my in-laws for lunch.

I recall this day extremely well, because it was a strange day.

Very strange indeed…

I played the game of Two Truths and a Lie with my in-laws when I got to the restaurant.

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“You will never believe me when I tell you what all I saw on the way here, but let’s see if you can guess. I will tell you three things I saw on the way and you tell me which one is a lie.
1) I passed the park where a toddler boy ran away from his parents — he was naked as a jaybird!
2) I drove by a man who was walkin on the side of the road. He wore only jeans and a snake around his neck!
3) Then when I stopped at the stop sign, I was behind two topless girls makin out in the back of the pick-up truck in front of me!
Can you guess which is the lie?”

They guessed and I gave them the answer.

Would you care to play? I’ll give you the answer tomorrow, no lie.

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Very Vexing V

The SoCs for today is vary/very, which is very upsetting as I had hoped to compose a veracious post about the veritable vocabulary of female genitalia, specifically the villainous overuse of the word vagina.

I’m here to vindicate vaginas everywhere. Some people have already stopped reading, and I know some of you may begin to squirm in your seat, but I will count all likes and comments as a victory.

People seem to think that vagina is a good word for any vague mention of a woman’s sex, but verily I say unto you, it’s no better than “down there.”

Vaginas are virtually unseen. A vagina is specifically the interior muscular channel. There’s a vulva before that, and a cervix along the way, but the purpose of the vagina is to get various stuff in and out of the nearby uterus. Vaginas account for a great deal of human intercourse and resulting childbirths.
All recreation aside, vaginas are vital to reproduction. They are serious places that deal with serious issues.

Vaginas do not get waxed, colored, or bedazzled.

Here are some charming visuals that evoke the same reaction:
— Having my colon tattooed
— Buying new lipstick for my esophagus
— Getting my Eustachian tubes pierced, you know, something small and whimsical

When men make mistaken claims about what vicious things they’re going to do to a woman’s vagina, coupled with their tendency to fail at properly finding the various peaks valleys outside of it, we women need to stand up vehemently for our genitalia, and inform them, “That is not sexy! That is scientifically impossible and your ignorance in this matter voids any desire I previously felt for you!”

hipster-ariel

Those men are bad enough, we don’t need women fueling the fire of ignorance, claiming one word covers it all.

I could go on, but this is not that kinda blog.

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U is for Underwear

The purpose of underwear is right in the word. It’s to be worn under what one wears, under being the keyword.

I’m not going to go into my underwear preferences on my blog, but suffice it to say, I’m not fond of underwear of any sort. It’s right up there with shoes and jewelry and clingy kids and anything else you wanna be free of.

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Unfortunately, I am subjected to the underwear of others on the regular. I’d like to say I only see my family’s underwear, but this is not the case.

Our neighbor, bless his heart, is often outdoors in his robe and a bathing cap. In warm weather, boxers with said robe and cap are optional. Now, he will dress before coming to our door, but he feels perfectly free in walking out into the street to chat to me at 7am. Our dog, being eye-level with his free bits, feels friendly and this may cause the neighbor to crouch and pat the dog. It’s very important to look over his shoulder and focus on the texture of his gravel drive. Best gravel ever. Totally sublime.

Fashion designers believe that women and girls only need a zipper long enough to cover our pubic bones. In reality, not all have a tiny crotch and our sex is known for being round at the back, so as females, our options are limited:
— Buy retro clothes or avant-garde pants, thus attaining zippers longer than our pinkies
— Wear skirts and dresses, avoiding pants entirely
— Wear higher-waisted undies and show them off every time we bend over or sit down
— Wear lower-waisted undies and show our asses every time we bend over or sit down

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There is a curious epidemic spreading. No one seems to know how to stop it.
Men are wearing pants over only their legs.
It’s outlawed from stores, it’s fined in towns and cities, boys are sent home from school, but still, when I am in public, I am forced to see men’s underwear and sometimes their bare bottoms. Apparently this trend started in prison, and now it’s all the rage.
You’d think a belt would solve this problem, but they merely use the belt to fasten the pants below their hips.

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This truly fascinates me. I cannot deny, I am truly fascinated. It’s not sexy, because tacky and often, repulsive. It’s not badass, because clearly any man in this circumstance is one-handed, slow, or pantless during a fight…They say it started as a prison trend. How do we end it?

Women have stopped wearing slips. The last one I wore was on my wedding day. I remember this for three reasons:
1. I just got rid of it last week.
2. The women of my wedding party all watched me put it on as I dressed in my mother’s closet “Joey in a slip. I thought I’d never see the day.” I’m surprised no one took a picture.
3. I have a photo of my husband kneeling in the grass, tugging said slip down after the wedding, because my breasts tried to eat it.
You can still buy slips, but most designers have begun adding a layer underneath skirts, so that’s been quite freeing. I never got the point anyway. “I’m wearing this so no one knows I have legs?”
Used to be, you’d whisper to a woman that it was snowing down south and she’d blush and run off to hike up her slip.

We have women who’ve never been educated about how to properly harness their breasts. Yes, all the cheap, pretty bras are for small breasts. No, it’s not fair.

Also? How about wearing the right bra for the top?
Please allow me to introduce you to a variety of bras which may prevent us from seeing your bra straps for the eyesores that they are.

Strapless bras avoid straps altogether. When wearing something strapless, I recommend a strapless bra.

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Here’s another kind of strapless bra, called a bandeau. A bandeau can prevent side boob and comes in a range of kicky colors, perfect for under those oversized tank tops that are so popular.
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Please note, if you are busty, anything strapless will end up as a mere cantilever beneath your breasts, in which case, the answer is NOT to wear a good, but visible bra under clothes that do not cover them. Instead, you should see a woman about a corset.

And finally, behold, the racerback bra, or T-back bra. This is a magnificent bra which can be worn under a tank top of the same shape, preventing the double-strap party of tackiness you take everywhere you go. These come in a variety of styles.

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If you are a woman who doesn’t know anything about underwear, please go to a specialty store, or find the oldest saleswoman in the lingerie section of a large department store.

If you are a man who doesn’t know how to wear pants and a belt at your waist, any adult can help you, even as they fight back their laughter.

If you are turned-on by the sight of other people’s underwear, congratulations, this is truly your time.

If you are into intentionally showing off your underwear, then please disregard this post.

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Transition for T

Are you in transition?

amazing stuff comes from within this mud...

amazing stuff emerges from this muck…

I am in transition.
I am always in transition.
I love learning and growing and having new experiences. I wish the lessons all came in shiny, happy packages, but they don’t.

We humans are such projects.
Can’t be thinking and saying, “It will all be better when…” and worst of all, “I will be happier when…”
No. Not true. I mean, it might be true, but there will always be something else comin directly.

growth_0

As I finished up my most recent kitchen project and had a dinner guest an hour later, I thought I should maybe mention that I don’t usually serve store-bought desserts, but we had been standing on and sanding over the baking counter just hours before, and it’s my understanding that joint compound dust is less than yummy.

The house has got to be the ultimate transition item for me. Yes, I did finally hang all the pictures, but I haven’t gone around and put sticky tack on the bottoms yet. Yes, I have only painted and papered one of nine drawers. No, the back hallway trim is still not done. Maybe I LIKE nail holes and visible nail heads!

It’s too warm for big sweaters and boots, but it’s too cool for tees and flip-flops. It’s the in-between time of year where I dress and undress several times a day. Hair up, sweater off, open a window, drink a cold beer, sweater back on, close the window, let my hair down, find some socks, pull up a blanket, make some hot tea — I can’t be the only one.

My yard is also in transition. Second spring here means, “Hey that wasn’t here last year! What is that? Do I like that? I’m not sure.”

Our grass is tall because my husband used his one sunny day off to take me to lunch. It’s not always tall. Okay, it is always tall in April.

Every Wednesday feels like a tiny marital death, because I miss The Mister so freakin much by then. Ships that pass in the night. Don’t ask me about love on a Wednesday, I’ll tell you a sob story, full of despair and agony. “I miss you. Do you miss me too? Kiss me ferrealiously! You smell fantastic! Do you still like my spaghetti? You haven’t found better spaghetti, have you? Is it Thursday yet?”

Until his semester’s over, we only get ONE WHOLE DAY all week to be a family together. We’re pretty stingy with our one day, so no, we don’t want to do x, y, or z with you. When the semester’s over, we’ll see you. Just hang in there.

As I mentioned to Mark the other day, my body is in its spring stage, just like my dog’s. If I were smarter, I’d schedule both of our physicals for July or August, and not in May. Our doctors always see us in transition. “Let’s get her height and winter noodle intake, please.”

Health must count for a great deal of transition. After being sick for a short time last month, it took me the better part of two weeks to feel like myself again. And I’m never truly well, between the arthritis and the anxiety, but I still like to feel like myself.

These are only small things with small impact.
Big things create enormous change, and huge opportunities for growth.
I don’t blog about my big things, but they’re there.

Aw, look at lil me — I’m so naive and blurry…I have no idea what’s coming…I could say that of every single day, couldn’t I?

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Everyone I know is in a transition with something.
Transition isn’t a stage, it’s a continual renewal.

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All the more reason to stop and reflect upon all the things that are just right.

 

DogMeditation

 

 

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S is for Stretching

Since I am a woman I am the target of every hate-yourself-more marketing campaign. I’ve just watched a program that was recorded on Lifetime television, and as I zoomed through the commercials, I can tell you that THEY think I should be worried about getting fit with special foods and snacks, I presume so that I can wear a bikini, possibly one with a floral motif and a matching jumper. After that, I can focus on my falling cheekbones, or apples if you will, feeling embarrassed about peeing my pants during those “Dear Kitten” commercials, and using the best face serum.
Serum?
Serum?!?
Beyond sunscreen and avoiding deformity, I am not worried about my face. It’s a good face. It never launched a thousand ships and it never broke a mirror.

It’s the loss of elasticity that bothers me.
Not my skin, my muscles!

I stretch daily.
I’m flexible — bendy, even.

Age 41 is apparently the age at which, for my body, performing the most mundane tasks can result in a pulled muscle. Or a muscle spasm. Or a catch. Or maybe a charley horse. Generally, after doing something extraordinarily common, say, stepping out of the tub, or fetching my coffee cup from the cabinet, sudden pain sets in, causing me to swear, leap, spin around, flail about, trying to reverse stretch and unfuck whatever the hell just happened. It’s like a sick dance. Poor unsuspecting me.

Yes, I know my body is slowly deteriorating and I’m in for more fun as the years pass by.
Old muscles are stiff. And mine surround stiff joints.
Last year, I learned I should stretch before shoveling snow or raking leaves.
After a lot of yard work, I feel like The Tin-Man, and I’m okay with that.

This particular issue bothers me because it’s inconsistent and random. Like those times when you get up from the table and your knee didn’t get the memo — this has happened to me throughout my life, but it seems to be increasing with age.

Obviously I am wasting my time with traditional exercise. What I need to be doing is exercise that mimics these actions.
For instance, instead of yoga twist poses, I should be imitating these “difficult” tasks ten to twenty times a day.

“Reach for the shampoo! And one, and two, and three!
Stop and pick up that bag, and left, and right, and left again!
High-step that tub!
Change that lightbulb! Turn it, turn it! And again! And one more!”

Do you also do the sick dance of the unsuspecting?

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R is for …

As I’ve written many times, I spent a large portion of my childhood summers at the lake with my grandparents.
I was permitted to canvas a large area of road and woods, presumably because my grandmother had raised four children and knew what she was doing. No one tried to collect me or report me for being without supervision. I had to beware of idiot drivers, snakes, poison ivy, and that lady at the top of the hill, who Grandma said was “not right in the head.”

It was my sixth summer when I got to take my bike to the lake.

someone has pinned a bicycle identical to my own!

someone has pinned a bicycle identical to my own!

That sixth summer, I was allowed to ride my bike up and down the entire drive, no turns, no stops.
Since my perimeter had been extended, I got a new warning. In addition to idiot drivers, snakes, poison ivy, and the lady at the top of the hill, I was to look out for rapists, who might hide among the shrubs, particularly at night.

As a six-year-old, I had no idea what a rapist was.
At this same age, I believed I was skinny enough to slide down the tub drain with my bath water, that my uncle had grown up near a place called Yonder, that the white dots in my fingernails represented lies I told, that spinach would put hair on my chest — and any number of common childhood truths.

I concluded a rapist was a type of critter, perhaps a large one that came out at night with the raccoon and possums, but one that wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of humans.

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I envisioned a furry critter not unlike Cousin It, but with long, sharp fangs and less personality. Something that would chase a bicycle, and with its fearsome bite, tear my feet off at the ankles.

My fear of the nocturnal, hairy, bush-dwelling rapist meant bike riding was best done between lunch and dinner, no exceptions.

(This post was written with humorous intent. If you did not smile or laugh, if you think I’ve made light of a serious subject, or if you’re feeling critical of my grandmother, then you have arrived at the wrong blog.)

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Q is for Qualified

In last year’s X post, I mentioned that I failed playing every instrument after the recorder, and how The Mister is musically adept. I mentioned it again when I wrote a post about Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences.

Tonight, Sassy has a thing, where she goes to school and demonstrates her choice of instrument and sings her scales to see where to place her in next year’s music programs. There will be instrument reps there, as well. She’ll be playing cello and I think she’s an alto. That is the sum of my knowledge.

The Mister is better qualified.

I said to The Mister, “I guess you go in at any point during the fing and they spend 30-45 minutes in a getting-to-know-you sorta way with the musics? Then you can talka the people who provide the instruments about buying or renting or whatever. I’m not opposed to taking her. I will take her. But it’s occurred to me that you might be the best man for the job.”
He agreed, which is good, because I also think her boisterous, confident father probably brings a different dynamic than her nervous mother.

I’m moved emotionally by music.
I mean, I cry a lot at music.
Anywhere, at any time.
Particularly instrumentals, which I believe are supposed to be evocative?
I am a total sap.
I cry at concerts, at musicals, and sometimes at movies, as though the director has said, “Cue the Weeping Joey Music. Annnd check!”
When kids, especially my kids, are involved, I can’t even get through a single song. Even somethin happy. “Oh they’re so precious!” *wipes tears*blows nose*
It’s mildly embarrassing to be so easily provoked. I check out the rest of the audience after, so many unmoved. I assume they don’t feel the music the way I do. Or they’re soulless. Whatever.

So I’m not qualified to stand beside my child as she slides a bow across a cello. Instant feelings and memories will smack me in the face. *wail*
“Oh Sassy, that is so beautiful,” *sob*sniffle*snot*gasp* “You are so incredibly talented and I am so proud to you!” *howl*weep*collapse*

That is what NOT to do to your adolescent child.

Anyone else suffer similarly?

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Around the Yard

It’s not quite 60F and raining today.
There’s a part of me that wants to go out and get into the garden. Weeding and dividing are easier when the ground is soaked. I prefer cool, wet days in general, because I honestly prefer the ache of my joints to the burning of my skin, and also, because yellow jackets don’t seem to like a rainy day.
But there’s another part of me that thinks I need to go to the grocery, because responsible parent…
I could easily convince myself that it’s the perfect day to add some perennials and plant my annuals…
So for now, while I’m not making any decisions, I thought I’d share some photos I took around the yard.

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I’m not a good photographer, but some things are so beautiful, they can’t help but photograph well.

I hope you’re enjoying your Sunday, rain or shine!

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P is for Preposterous

When I was carrying Sassy, Sissy was in the first grade. Sissy came home from school and told me she knew how that baby got in there and how disgusting she thought it was. She said a boy at school told her how babies are made and she could not believe I let Daddy do that to me.
I was intrigued, as you are now, I’m sure.

Sissy was forthright in saying that babies are made when the daddy pees into the mommy’s butt.

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I assured her that no such thing had happened.
I cannot express to you how important it is to answer small people sex questions with the least amount of information possible, but let this serve as a warning, the devil is in the details.

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