I'm Letting it All Hang Out

I am a creature of habit. Heck, I'm a stalker's delight. I like to do the same things, in the same order, every day. If something throws my routine off, I tend to fold my arms over my chest and start rocking back and forth in the nearest dark corner while humming like the twit I am as though my life depends on it.

My friends, like Cowboy and his wife, know this about me and laugh. When they're not rolling their eyes. My husband has been exasperated by me on more than one occasion. My kids, well, they just chalk it up to having the bad luck to have been birthed by a crazy woman.

(Side note: Cowboy's squished eyeball is healing nicely and although I'm thankful I don't have to stare too deeply into the scarred and reddened eyeball of his, he reports he can see. Not well, but then, either can I. So thanks for all the well wishes and prayers. Feel free to toss more in his direction, maybe we can make him prettier while we're at it.)

I can't help myself. I have no excuses other than the fact that I'm bat shit crazy. Really. The psychiatrist said so.

One of my slightly nutty habits is how I get dressed and ready for the day. I have my shower, wherein I proceed to wash myself in the exact same order, towel off, lotion up, etc. By the time I've brushed my teeth I'm sweating. Good grooming is hard work. So I do what I always do. I put on my underwear (yes, I do occasionally wear them...you know, when I know the paparazzi is hanging around) and then go back to the bathroom to slap on my war paint and do my hair.

With my boobs hanging out. I know, I'm a freak. But with the added weight I've gained this past year, I actually have guns. Nice guns. And it charms me to no end to ogle them while I'm peering at myself in the mirror trying to tame the wildebeest I generally look like. Weird, I know.

It's not until I'm coiffed and looking like the supermodel I am in my mind slightly presentable that I bother getting dressed. My kids know to stay the hell away from my bathroom as I groom unless they want an eyeful of mom's titties to scar them for life.

It's generally pretty safe to do this. The hubs works out of town most days so he's not going to sneak up behind me and try and cup the girls when he's looking for a little action and I live out in the sticks. Literally. I'm surrounded by trees. And while I do have a handful of neighbours, they are so far away from my house and we are so sheltered by trees I feel safe enough to wander about in the nude. I'll even swim in the pool buck naked or garden topless. (Aren't I painting you a pretty picture?)

 
 

 

See? Sticks. Lots and lots of sticks. 

 
 

 

My closest neighbour. Boy did I give him an eyeful. 

You might say, I'm comfortable in my own body and truth be told, I want my kids to be comfortable in theirs. After all, it is the only body we get and we may as well be at peace with it, even if your boobs resemble beaver tails and flap down around your belly button.

In our long Canadian winter months, the only time I can really let loose and be free nude is after I shower. It's not like I'm going to go streaking through the snow banks while buck nekkid hollering out my pledge of allegiance to the queen.

Well, okay, I may have done that once or twice on a dare, but in my defense, there was alcohol involved and the kids were in bed.

For the most part, my naked fetish has never been a problem. Other than the time I was breast feeding and an old family friend of Boo's walked in while I was sitting on the couch with my girls hanging out spraying milk all over the place.

Then there was the time I was heavily pregnant in the summer and it was freaking hot out. I was sitting in the shade with my top off and I fell asleep in the chair. I didn't hear my brother in-law drive up our long driveway and only awoke when he slammed his truck door shut. You might say he got more than he bargained on. To this day, I'm still his favorite sister in-law.

I have learned from these delightful moments to keep a shirt nearby to toss on, if the need arises. I am a quick learner after all.

But I may have to rethink this whole privacy out in the bushes thing, now that the kids are older. This weekend, as the kids were outside trying to shove each other's faces in the mounds of snow piled near the house, I was in my bathroom happily minding my own business, hanging out (literally), getting ready for a family get together. I had my stereo blasting and I was singing along to the tunes, sounding like a cat in heat.

Unbeknownst to me, one of the neighbour's kids decided to come over and see what Fric and Frac were up to. By this time, Fric and Frac had migrated further into the bush in their attempts to kill one another and their socially challenged friend didn't see them when he trudged up our driveway. Being the social delinquent he is, he heard the music and thought there was a party going on. So he just walked in. No knocking, no yelling "Hello? Anyone home?" He just entered my private little oasis as though he owned the joint.

There I was, in my bathroom, blow-drying my hair as my eighties rock music blared on the stereo, completely oblivious to this strange child wandering through my home, looking for Fric and Frac. Once my hair was dried, I decided I could use a drink so I wandered into the kitchen. Wearing only my pretty pink panties.

 
 

 

At least I shaved my legs... 

Do you see where this is going?

Meanwhile, the intruding child wandered out of Fric and Frac's room, scratching his head wondering where in the hell everyone was. Just as he entered the kitchen from one direction, I entered it from the other.

Time stopped. Everything happened in slow motion. At the exact same time he saw my boob rings glinting in the morning sun, I saw him. We made eye contact. I screamed. He screamed and then I think he jumped so high he narrowly missed having his head lopped off by the ceiling fan.

As my face turned eight shades of red, I turned around and hi-tailed it to my bedroom to seek shelter grab my robe, while wishing the earth would swallow me whole. I muttered something about the kids being outside and he muttered something about this being his lucky day.

From my bedroom I yelled that the kids were outside and for him to go and find them. I briefly considered murdering someone, but after quickly realizing I couldn't walk around naked in the joint, I reconsidered.

The socially inept child had the good graces not to follow me into my bedroom, (although I do think he briefly considered it) and yelled out his apologies as he scrambled to put his boots back on.

I yelled back, while rocking back and forth behind my locked bedroom door not to worry about it but maybe take this as a lesson to learn how to knock. (Although, as an after thought, I wouldn't have heard the knocking over my caterwauling about Cherry Pie.)

I hurriedly got dressed and wandered out onto the deck to yell for Fric and Frac to let them know they had a guest. Turned out, the socially inept kid had already found who he was looking for.

As I turned to go back in the house and bang my head against the wall, I heard him tell Frac, "Your mom is HOT! I'm coming over more often!"

Remind me to start locking my doors.

I'll never be able to make eye contact with anyone in the neighbourhood again, because as I learned when my kids came home from school on Monday, he has told EVERYONE. Even the school bus driver and the mailman.

It's official. I'm a dumbass famous. My poor kids.

 

Don't Blink

*It's another of my tragically long posts, but it's worth it at the end. I promise.*

For a smart girl, I sure have my fair share of dumb moments. Worse yet, they sneak up on me and I'm actually surprised by how dumb something I just did really was.

Take for example, dumb moment #2704 this past week. In my haste to get to the hospital after Cowboy's accident, I completely forgot about my children and the fact that they would be bouncing off a school bus sometime around 4:30, expecting fresh baked cookies and a warm embrace from their loving mother.

All right. So I'm exaggerating. While fresh baked cookies may cause their heads to explode, they would be expecting to see my increasingly wide arse sitting on the couch, riveted by the drama taking place on Young and The Restless and for me shushing them to be quiet as I tried to hear what my man Jack had to say.

Somehow, with a gaping eye wound, a cute doctor and a worried best friend, I forgot I had given birth to needy little humans who require nourishment and parental supervision.

With just seconds minutes to spare before the kids were released into the wild and herded onto their yellow bus, I managed to remember to make childcare arrangements, phone the school, intercept their release and redirect them in a direction where there would actually be an adult to feed and protect them.

(Gotta love having a sister-in law who lives across the street from the school.)

I felt pretty good about myself, actually. Look at me, handling a medical emergency, supporting my friends in a time of need and remembering to be a good mommy all at the same time. I freaking rock. In my head, the government was laying roses at my feet as they placed a sparkly rhinestone encrusted tiara on my head while tossing needy children into my arms.

Whose your momma now, I thought to myself. You know, because a girl can never get too cocky.

Fast forward several hours and the Cowboy was in surgery to have his eye stitched back together and I figured it would be a good time to phone my kids and reestablish contact. You know, remind them who's boss. Just in case they were thinking of trading me in for the prettier, kinder version that is their aunt.

I had honestly assumed because I am a dumbass like that they would have heard what had happened to their Cowboy Uncle and I wouldn't be springing this trauma on them out of the blue.

I had completely forgotten that my increasingly mature children are in fact, children, and still bear the scars of burying a brother and may harbour some residual fear when it comes to hospitals.

Hours of stress from trying to avoid looking at a gaping eyeball oozing blood and pus and tears and from stupidly guzzling several pots of hospital coffee all combined to rob me of any parental common sense I had. It was like a zombie beat me with the stupid stick and gained control of my brain.

After informing my sister in law of Cowboy's situation, I asked her if I could speak to either Fric or Frac. She reached out and grabbed the nearest kiddo, who just happened to be my beautiful son, Frac.

"Hey buddy! How was school," I asked Frac. He prattled on about how many girls he chased around the schoolyard and other important ten-year-old gossip, before remembering that I wasn't home.

"Where are you Mom?" So innocent my son is. So stupid his mother is. I never even thought to edit the situation. I just blurted it out like the dumbass I am.

"Oh? Nobody told you?" I asked, surprised as I tried to jam my foot in my mouth. (Of course no one told them. Other adults don't want to deal with the emotional baggage of damaged preteens. That or they have the common sense filter God was handing out to everyone as I sat in a corner and picked my nose.)

"Well, Cowboy had a bad accident at work-" That was as far as I got before Frac had a grade A, full-fledged, snotty nosed melt down. You would have thought someone had told him a few years ago that his brother died on the way to the hospital in the middle of the night or something.

Oh. Right. Someone did. That would have been me. So, um, the question begs, HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOT THAT SMALL DETAIL?

Eventually, after much cajoling and consoling, I explained to my son that unlike his baby brother, his favorite uncle was in no danger of dying. It took a few tries before I successfully convinced him that the man who routinely tosses him around like a rag doll wouldn't be saying hello to Bug in person anytime soon before Frac finally calmed down.

For all of two seconds. Then he asked what had happened to his uncle and this is where that zombie came back and beat me with the stupid stick again because you know, once, apparently, IS not enough for me to learn my lesson.

"Well, Frac, you know what a chisel is, right?"

"Ya, it's that sharp metal tool Dad uses to whittle wood with," Frac answered.

"Good boy," his dumbass mother prattled on, "well, a chisel came flying out of nowhere when your Uncle was at work and it came to a stop in his eye. Sliced that sucker right in half. Squished it like a grape-"

Commence grade A, full fledged, snotty nosed melt down #2.

The government was taking back my tiara and snatching back the roses and babies in my imagination as I realized the mental image I had just colorfully painted for my TEN-year old son.

It's simply amazing how stupid I can be sometimes. I'd almost be proud if I wasn't so damn embarrassed.

After a sprouting a few more grey hairs and new wrinkles, I managed to calm Frac down and convince his uncle would be fine. This time I took particular care not to gross the kid out or share how his eyeball looked as it gaped wide open.

I told Frac how much we all loved him and how I would be home soon, and reminded him to say his prayers and brush his teeth at bedtime and generally tried to act like the mother I should be instead of the twit I was.

Just when I thought I was home free, he put his sister on the line. You would have thought I learned from Frac's reaction to self-edit what I spewed to my daughter.

You'd have thought wrong.

A prepubescent eleven-year-old girl wails longer and louder than her ten-year-old brother. Just in case you were wondering.

Late that night, after learning the Cowboy's eye had been saved and now it was just a wait and see game to see if he retains any sort of vision in his eye, I opened the door to my empty house, where only the animals awaited me and I thanked God for my health and the health and safety of my family and I poured myself a large glass of wine.

As I gulped slowly savored the burgundy and listened to my phone messages, I reflected on how scarred my children are and how my family, my children in particular, are more aware than most adults around them, that life really can change in a blink of an eye.

Illustrated by the fact that as I tried to erase the mental image of chisels and gaping eye wounds and the wounded cries of my heart broken children, a sweet voice on the telephone congratulated Boo and I for FINALLY BEING APPROVED FOR ADOPTION AND MOVING INTO THE CHILD MATCHING STAGE.

Life really does change in the blink of an eye. Sometimes it throws a chisel at you and other times it tosses a child.

*Thanks for all your prayers and well wishes. I'll let you know what happens with Cowboy's vision. And of course, I will let you know when they match us with a child. Keep your fingers crossed it will be sooner rather than later. That is, unless of course, the government reads this and decides I'm too stupid to parent a potato let alone a needy child.*

The Devil Made Me Do it

I love my husband's family. Stop laughing, it's true. I feel very blessed to be included in such a wonderful family. They have and continue to be a large part of my support system, through the death of my son and with Boo being gone most days of the month.

That said, I often wonder what planet these people come from. It stems from the entirely different upbringing and values his parents raised their family with than what I grew up accustomed to.

His dad worked on the family farm and at his daily job for the gas company and was home every night for dinner, to ride herd on his family; never missing a birthday or a holiday. My dad worked out of town in the oil patch and would be gone so long that when he finally came home sporting a full beard, I would wonder who the hell was this dude sitting at the kitchen table in his underwear having a cigarette.

His mom taught Sunday school and sang church hymns as she baked fresh bread and cooked three square meals a day, while chasing chickens and feeding cows and generally being a little Molly Homemaker. My mom worked in an office everyday, putting on business suits and heels and was so exhausted by the day's end the only thing she was singing was the blues.

Our childhoods were vastly different. I wouldn't say his childhood was better than mine, or vice versa, just really different. He was a country kid from a Christian family and I was a city kid with working parents. Boo never had the joys of being able to walk to the park or the store after school, and I never had the joy of hauling my arse out of bed to go do farm chores before I was allowed to eat my breakfast.

I would pay big money to see my mom wearing an apron chasing a chicken around the yard to kill it for supper.

If I tried to emulate my mother in law, I think my children and my husband would fall over dead from shock if I slapped on an apron and started belting out hymns while baking cookies. I'm no Martha Stewart.

Because of these vast differences in our upbringings, I often find myself feeling a little out of place with his family. I'm not exactly the wife they had in mind for their baby Boo. Not that I'm a bad wife. I'm just not exactly a good one.

Still, they welcome me with open arms and overlook the fact that I've got more holes in my body than any of them, I don't know the words to Amazing Grace and they try to see past my skin which is starting to look like a canvass a three year attacked with finger paints when Mommy wasn't looking.

They've adopted me as one of their own. For which I'm grateful.

Yet when I discovered there was going to be a large family gathering this weekend to celebrate the 90th birthday of the family matriarch, I panicked. Boo wasn't going to be home to apologize for whatever blunder I was about to commit and I felt like I was marching off to the gallows, awaiting my fate.

Silly, really, as this family is full of kind and loving people. Even if they thought I was a nut job who should be locked into a rubber room, they would never let that show. They're too nice for that. I could walk around wearing hooker boots and a leather bustier, with my hair in a mohawk, and talking about conspiracy theories while food fell out of my mouth and they would just nod and tell me 'that's interesting dear. Would you like a napkin?'

It's just I haven't been to a gathering of this magnitude since the day I buried my son two years ago. The last time I saw many of these faces, they were crumpled with tears or sporting looks of pity on them as they tried to console my husband and I. I wasn't sure I was up to facing the crowd with out my husband's broad shoulders to hide behind.

I didn't want to answer the dreaded "How are you doing?" question that inevitably comes up when someone remembers that yes, I'm the mother to a ghost. I wasn't sure I was mentally strong enough to pull off a family function without turning into a puddle of self-pity and tears.

Turns out, like always, I was worried for nothing. Because I like to do that. You know. Fret and sweat and get all up tight over nothing. It's part of my charm.

I tried to take special care with my appearance. I gussied up and made sure all of my bits were covered appropriately. I didn't want the guest of honor to keel over from shock because her grandson's wife looked like a two bit hooker looking for a john. (I'm thoughtful like that.)

I tried to watch my manners and make sure my children didn't act like wild little animals that were ready to chew off the legs of anyone who came near them.

I sat with my legs primly closed, and my back ramrod straight. I smiled and made small talk with the hordes of family that descended upon us and tried not to show how nervous I was. It may have felt like they were all circling in for the kill, ready to pounce at my jugular, but really they were just wanting a chance to catch up with our lives.

I think.

I thought I did pretty good.

I got cocky. I started feeling confident. Until an aunt came up to me and stuck up a conversation. She prattled on about writing, and how she had just submitted a novel to a Christian publishing house. Then she informed me that she heard I was writing.

"What are you writing?" She inquired as she eyed my tattoos.

"Um, nothing serious. Just a little here and there," I evaded, while telling myself to behave.

"Where could I find some of your work?" she asked, genuinely interested by the fact there was another writer in the family.

And with that, I stared at her and shit my pants blinked. Crap.

"Um, I publish online sometimes. Not very often," I hurried to add. She lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Really! That's fabulous." She smiled and patted my leg. And then it came. The question I feared worse than a plague of locusts. "What do you write about?" I could feel the battle of good and evil wage within me.

I took a well timed sip of my coffee and wondered do I dare tell this highly religious, mother of four, prim and proper, rather uptight, well respected woman that I spend my time writing about nipple rings and blow jobs, composing odes to bath tubs filled with shit and dead animals and how I spend most of my time hiding in the pantry drinking wine instead of parenting my children.

Common sense was screaming at me to shut my mouth and lie. Tell her you write about your feelings, the angel on my shoulder implored. The little red devil begged me to tell her about the post I wrote about waxing my beaver.

I was torn. But not for long.

"Well, I occasionally talk about my angel boy and how we've struggled with his passing," I started. She nodded and told me how fantastic that was.

"But most of the time I like to write about wearing nipple tassels and knee pads for Boo. You know, crotchless panties and the such." And then I excused myself to get the hell out of Dodge get a cup of coffee without making eye contact. As soon as I said it I wished I could take it back. It sounded good in my head. Why Lawd, why did you make me with out an impulse control button, I wondered.

She didn't try and strike up conversation again after that. I wonder why.

This is why I like to have Boo with me for these types of gatherings. He generally keeps the devil in me muzzled.

Later that night, feeling like an arse, I told my husband what I had done and how good it felt to be bad at the time yet how I was now suffering with remorse. He consoled me and told me not to worry about it.

"She's cool. She probably thought you were joking. Don't worry about it. You have a bigger problem," he warned me.

Oh great. Because it's not enough that I basically made myself look like a sex feigned twit. I need more things to freak out over. "What? What more?" I whined.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he continued.

"I know..."

"You've got crotchless panties and I've NEVER seen them!" he noted.

Ya. I guess that is a bigger problem than placing both feet in my mouth at the same time. Thanks for the perspective honey. I needed it.