Fun & Games & Lingerie

An online board I'm on has a forum called "Fun & Games," meaning this is where we put all the whacky stuff about life that doesn't fit into the board's original purpose. Lately all the women have been talking about bras and such on there, so one of the gentlemen suggested, in a new post, the forum be renamed to "Fun & Games & Lingerie." Here was my response:

You can't even begin to know how absolutely, stark-staring crazy this thread title makes me. There is nothing fun about lingerie, nothing games about lingerie, and anymore not all that much lingerie about lingerie.

Let me illustrate:

Two scraps of satin and a memory-wisp of lace were never meant to be worn as anything but a flaked-out piece of headgear. If you have any sort of curve to your body at all, not only will your boobs not fit into any known style of teddy properly, but you'll end up strangling yourself on a spaghetti strap as you chase one of your tits round and round your shoulder blades. Those expensive little bits of what-the-hell-am-I-thinking don't give where they need to, and flare out at just about the midriff point where I really ought to be wearing a foundation garment and maybe a muumuu.

If I skip the teddy and try instead for something like a merry widow or a corset, all bets are off. Someone's gonna lose an eye and Donald might as well get on the phone right away to hire a guy to come fix the drywall, because when the snaps come undone on that tight puppy the elastic is gonna slingshot the whole contraption against the wall and leave a hole the size of a VW Bug. The only foreplay that gets accomplished when a garment of this type is worn is his donning protective eyewear and my learning how to inhale through my skin.

Thongs are completely out of the question. Have you ever seen a thong for a big gal? My advice is don't seek such a thing out, but if you ignore my caution and do so anyway, take a snake wrangler and a garden hose spool to help you reel all the strappy bits in so you can look at it without it getting away from you and whipping about like a rabid anaconda.

Hipster panties are fine, but in order to get a good fit they either have to be Grandma's cotton or some kind of lycra mix that makes each cheek of my ample ass look like independently-operating planets rubbing up against one another cozy.

Tap pants are another sin against nature altogether, as they are too baggy in the crotch and too high on the sides once I get them settled on the hips properly. If Donald's idea of sexy is seeing me do a spraddle-legged waddle around the bedroom so my inner knees don't chafe on the crotch, I got sexy in spades. Meanwhile, the sides have ridden up to the point I could stick my arms out them and make my best come-hither motion.

Body suits are something Satan himself thought up as a way to make you sweat in the wrong places and squish yourself up like a sausage. Any man who thinks a woman looks naturally beautiful in a proper body suit obviously hasn't worn a body suit himself and therefore doesn't understand the structure of the garment and how all the panels were created by NASA and maybe the Empire State Building engineering teams combined to tuck, lift and constrict-the-all-hell-out-of the natural woman's form.

Lingerie is a nightmare, no matter your size, and I really think the title of this thread should be changed to "Male Fantasy Torture Devices And Why Can't You Just Let Me Read My Book In Peace, You Perv."

I'm gonna hang a sign

Any given week, I get between 2 and 4 people knocking at my front door during worktime hours. I already ignore the house phone during the day, but the door has proven difficult until now. I've finally hit upon the solution.

I'm gonna hang a sign. It will read:

No Soliciting.

I do not need a new water filtration system.

I do not need a new security system.

I have all the cleaning products I need, and I never use them anyway.

I'm A-OK with God, and I don't reckon He's much concerned about little old me. Keep your magazine to yourself, and I'll keep myself acting civil.

At any given time, 3/5 of the people on this property are in time out. Your being a stranger does not exclude you from the math. If you're here, don't be surprised if I make you sit down and shut up for five minutes til I can catch my breath.

I can load and fire several types of firearms, and my best shooting is done with a tight-patterned .410. I suggest you run in a zig-zag pattern, but only because it's more fun for me.

If you're here before 9:00 a.m., I will be in my pajamas and will not have had enough coffee.

If you're here between 12:00 p.m. and 2:00 p.m., you've just woken me up from nap and I'm going to be angry.

My husband has hidden the keys to the gun cabinet from me, but it's nothing the proper attitude and a heavy book can't fix. Glass smashes easily.

You may stay if, and only if:

You are selling chocolate to support your band/team/den.

You are a male under the age of 30 and mow grass with your shirt off.

You know what my nickname was in high school, you know how I got the scar down my ribcage, or you know how to make a mean pot of coffee and don't chatter too much at me whilst you're going about it.

Now you just watch and see if I don't do it. I'm telling you, I've about had enough.

Happy birthday, Gramma!

So aside from being our anniversary, it's my mom's birthday. I gave her a call once Donald started tucking kids into bed, but sure enough Cordelia came down and tiptoed into my bedroom and stood quietly. I tried to ignore her and hoped she'd give up and go back upstairs, but she was so cute with her messed up hair and long tee shirt and big blue eyes that I finally asked "What is it, honey?"

"Mama, I think I'm probably hungry." All three kids are in the middle of growth spurts right now and after eating a full meal and a dessert (tonight was a frozen fruit bar), it's not unusual to have at least one of them announce they'd like something to snack on.

"You think you're probably hungry, huh?"

Nod nod nod. Bigblueeyedblink.

"Okay. I'll get you a small bowl of crackers. Here, you take the phone and tell Grandma happy birthday."

So Dee Dee took the phone and started in:

"Hi Gramma, happy birthday. Today Xavier who's my friend at school played with Tapper who I don't play with because he's my brother..." and so forth. If you've ever heard a self-assured four year old (almost five now! wow!) talk, you know how the conversation flows.

Meanwhile, I was standing in the kitchen and wrestling with a bag of goldfish-shaped graham crackers. No matter what I tried, I could *not* get the new bag of them open. I was just reaching for the scissors when I heard:

"... and Gramma, I think you're really, really old but I think you're bee-yooooo-tee-full. And Samwise is silly because he's sitting in a box and sleeping..."

I lost it. I couldn't even hold the scissors at that point, doubled over and doing the pee-pee dance because I had been holding it during the phone call. (I always forget to go before I call my mom, and I ought to know better. The woman can talk like nothing!)

I eventually settled myself down enough to open the bag and pour some crackers into a bowl, then rescued the phone from Dee Dee. She warbled "Goodnight, Gramma" as she walked back to the stairs. I put the phone back up to my ear and heard nothing.

"Mom, are you there?"

Squeak. Sniffle sniffle squeak. Oh my God, my kid made my mother cry... ?

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm just now allowing myself to laugh. I wanted her to keep talking forever, so I didn't dare laugh!"

Mom said that one comment was the best present she's received since I presented her with Donald as a son-in-law.

A Saturday Evening Rant

My rant this evening is on the topic of bras.

Thursday, I met with a friend of mine who is also now a subordinate of my husband's. Knowing I'd probably be invited back to the office, I decided to dress up a little instead of looking like just another mom out for a bite of lunch. Skirt, blouse, and sexy lacy bra that lifts the ladies up ever so nicely. I figured I'd do the "oops, dropped something" thing in front of Donald and give him a peek down my blouse and sashay back out of there with him fully aware of what he's got at home.

Yeah, what I'd forgotten was that sexy lacy bras are also full of WIRES. By the time lunch was over my eyes were watering and my mamas were hurting.

My friend invited me back to the office and I declined. I wanted to come home and get my comfy cotton, wireless bra on. She shot me down so off to the office I toddled. Donald smiled when he saw me (she texted him to leave a meeting so this could have been why -- pure thankfulness) and I had the sudden, hilarious vision of myself ripping my bra off and handing it to him. It would accomplish my original purpose in wearing the @#$%! thing in the first place and give me some relief.

Nope. It looked like a shark feeding frenzy. Every man in the place gathered up 'round us to chat and meet Mrs. Boss. Every time I extended my arm to shake someone's hand, the wire under my right arm would shift and poke the underside of my arm. Every time I breathed, I could hear the contraption squeaking from the strain. My left boob started to write its will. My right boob was confessing to killing JFK, just for the love of God make the torture stop.

When I finally got out of there, I practically peeled rubber down the street. Before I even got to the tollway I had my hand up the back of my shirt and was wrestling with the clips. By the time I had maneuvered my way across 3 lanes of traffic going 70 mph, the last clip was undone and I was breathing. I spent the rest of the way home trying to work the straps down my arms under the sleeves of my blouse. When I got to the driveway, it was entirely off and shoved into my purse. And when I got out of the car ... it dropped out and lay like a dead bird with white lacy wings outspread, just as the neighbor guy and good friend of ours stepped out of his front door.

I'm wearing nothing but leisure bras from now on, and Donald better know what he's got waiting here at home WITHOUT my having to torture myself to remind him.

The one thing we can't train out of a dog...

is the one thing Floyd does. Startled/waking aggression and biting. If anything is nearby and he awakes, he'll lunge and snap.

• A week ago I was sitting on the couch and Floyd was sleeping on the floor. One of the cats was walking through the room to get to the sunny spot by the back door. Floyd just happened to wake up at that point and barked and snapped. Luckily, the cat went untouched because he was just far enough away.
• Saturday night I was out to the grocery but my husband was here. He says that Floyd was sleeping on the couch with his head up on the arm. Our son Jasper went toward the couch to pet the dog but hadn't made contact yet. The dog woke up and snapped, biting Jasper on the face. Jap's lip was cut in two places and there were scratch marks on his upper cheek by his eye. At this point I decided that the dog had to be attended at all times by me where I could keep a vigilant eye on things.
  
• About an hour ago, my husband was just climbing in the shower and he was letting me sleep in a bit. (Obviously, being asleep, I had no idea that the dog was unattended.) I heard a bark and leapt up just as my son came into the room with blood on his face. He said "Pet boy" over and over, I think trying to let me know that he was trying to pet the dog when he got bitten. This was so much like Saturday's incident that I can't help but think that once again Floyd was dozing and got woken up, probably the same situation with Floyd on the couch and Jasper just being the right height. Donald said he forgot the dog was on the couch and Jasper had been upstairs playing with his sisters. This time the bite was a tear on the lip and two scratches just on the lower eyelid. I asked "Was puppy asleep?" and he shook his head, but this could be a toddler doing a CYA maneuver, or he could have mistaken the inner eyelid for being the eye. He's two. I'm not expecting him to understand the finer points of my question.
  

I've seen dogs have to be put to sleep over this before. This is a result of being terrorized or constantly startled previously, and since it's unconcious it can't really be trained out. I can make an attempt at desensitization by doing twice-daily grooming until he falls asleep and continuing to brush and groom him so he wakes up to positive, non-threatening touches, but he could still wake up and attack me, and meanwhile he could kill a cat or severely hurt one of my children who are just walking by. Dogs sleep 12+ hours a day and at any time, so crating him only while he sleeps is not possible. I could quarantine him to a room and disallow him to sleep anywhere by there, but this is impractical on several levels, not the least of which is simply the layout of my house and the fact that one of the cats could make their way into the secluded area at any time over baby gates or by other means.

With even 100% attended time, there is no guarantee this isn't going to happen again, no guarantees as to anyone's safety (mine, my husband's, my children's and my other pets'), and no guarantee of training this out of him because, frankly, you cannot.

This is breaking my heart. I'm technically still a foster home since he's undergoing heartworm treatments (he had the 1st one 2 weeks ago). Logically, I know that the burden of decision falls to me, and the decision is simply do we return him to the shelter and say we are unable to foster him because of sleep aggression. Emotionally, I know this is a death knell. I can just imagine what the shelter's reaction is going to be when Floyd is returned to them for this. His only possible placement home would require no children, no other pets, and to be left absolutely alone unless he's completely awake. These are not stipulations that make him an attraction adoption. They're not even stipulations that make it onto the normal papers accompanying the dog. What if this information did NOT go with him and he's adopted out to a family with small children or a pet and he does incredible harm? I would be ethically, morally responsible although I may never hear of the incident.

The short answer is: Floyd is an unsafe dog. Not aggressive, simply unsafe. And unsafe dogs are best put to sleep before great harm comes to others.

I could (padon my French) simply kick the ASS of his previous owners. They, a pet of theirs, or one of their children most likely made Floyd's sleep difficult to achieve and/or terrorizing to be awoken from.

I'll be calling the shelter today and tell him them we are unable to foster Floyd because of safety issues.

I really want to go throw up now.

Floyd thinks he's a turtle

Floyd thinks he's a turtle
Originally uploaded by crredwards

I don't know what to make of this dog. He's a huge clown, but also sleeps a lot right now because of his heartworm treatment. A little bit ago he was sitting here on the couch with me and decided he was tired of laying atop the pillow and began to do this wiggling grunting thing. Wiggle grunt wiggle grunt, sneeze, wiggle wiggle grunt. When he was done, this was the result.

After five or ten minutes I snapped this picture, at which point he realized he could clown down a bit. He jumped off the couch and now he's dozing on the fireplace tiles.

I love this goofball.

Tinted moisturizers: Why didn't anyone tell me?!?

You really don't want to know why I took this photo.
Originally uploaded by crredwards

I may or may not have mentioned before that I suffer from psoriasis. It had been in remission for about five years when my FIL came to live with us last February. I immediately had a stress outbreak along my forehead and hairline/scalp that I had to get a steroidal cream prescription for. This kept it at bay for the most part, but even when he moved out in October I had a month or two of battling the outbreak before it began to go into remission again. Along about October I also noticed that the psoriasis outbreak seemed to be creeping down my forehead to a spot between my eyes, on the outside/temple of my eyes, and on either side of my nose. I faithfully put steroidal cream on these spots as well but it only seemed to get worse.

I was reading about psoriasis online last week because I've been at my wits' end. In the course of reading about treatment, somewhere mentioned that steroidal cream can cause a form of rosacea. I click over to the pictures and -- OMG, it matched the look at pattern and everything perfectly. So off I went on another investigative tear to read about THAT.

That's all background for this next bit.

Rosacea, even steroid-induced rosacea, can be adversely affected by cleansers and moisturizers and sunlight and heat. Well, hell, I live in Texas and it's eleventy thousand degrees out there on a "brisk" day and I've never been able to avoid the sunlight here. I use an Oil of Olay Regenerist set of moisturizers that have SPF 15 every day, and sunscreen on my body if I'm going to be out in the sun for a hike or something. Everything I read about rosacea indicated that not only could my moisturizers and cleansers be too harsh, but that I needed to increase the SPF rating. On a whim a week ago I put some Baby Banana Boat SPF 45 on my face as well as my usual moisturizers. My skin cleared up within 24 hours. That's all it took for me. I was convinced the sun was triggering me, but I wanted to get some gentler cleanser as well just to be safe.

A few days ago I bought some Aveeno cleanser and tinted moisturizer. I've never even seen this stuff before, but I thought I'd give it a whirl. It's SPF 30, and since I rarely wear makeup I thought it might be a nice way to girlify myself (because an online pal has inspired me -- shut up!).

Came home, put everything away, and put on the moisturizers. That was at 11. It's almost 4 now, and I'm still glowing.

Glowing, y'all. This is what my stupid face was supposed to be doing when I was pregnant. I look incredible! FROM MY MOISTURIZER. Not even my makeup sits this well. I may never wear that crap again, mineral or liquid or otherwise.

Why didn't anybody tell me about tinted moisturizer? Why didn't anybody say "Hey, you're the sort of stupid woman who can't handle the business end of a makeup sponge, I've got this great suggestion so you don't look like a Kabuki actor?" Why didn't anybody tell me about the GLOWING part?

I went, in one week, from having freakishly splotchy red skin to glowing and looking 20. I kid you not, my skin looks that young. Okay. Maybe 22. But wow!

If I ever find out my friends knew about this stuff, I'm kicking their asses. For real, y'all.

I took this photo this morning to prove to some online friends that I'm glowing. Yes, those are pigtails. Yes, that's my bathroom. Yes, I have to look down at the camera because I never got the hang of doing the MySpace photograph pose. The only thing on my face there is tinted goop and mascara. The rest is pure rosey Scots glow.

Yay Aveeno!

PMS, redux.

I've taken the Lexapro, the Midol, and two Excedrin. I've consumed about as much caffeine as I can without taking off like a rocket ship toward the moon. I'm eating cold fried rice for lunch (is there any lunch more depressing?). I'm inhaling clouds of FIL's Old Spice as he shuffles in and out every hour to switch loads of laundry. I have a box of Kleenex handy and every twenty or thirty minutes I'm snorting into one loud enough to wake up the dog. I've cried into his neck twice now and received snuggles as comfort.

I'm in the middle of bargaining with God. When I said "ice cream" I meant the frozen dairy stuff. Soy ice cream doesn't count, really, and neither does raspberry Italian ice. I may have found a loophole. He's checking with His legal department and will be getting back with me before I go apeshit and shoot up Main Street. I didn't realize God was Aristotelian, but He totally gave me the "needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few" thing and said He knew it'd suck pretty bad if I blasted away the lunchtime taco rush down there just to keep a couple seraphim happy. He Himself had no problem with it, He said, but He had to get it cleared with His people. He's conscientious like that. He's also maybe a little afraid of me right now.

That, my friends, is period power.

[ETA: I had to edit this to capitalize an H on "His" because it would be disrespectful not to. I'm going stark-staring crazy, aren't I? Talking about bargaining with God on Lenten sacrifice but wibbling about a lowercase H? I think I'm ready for my third cry of the day now.]

PMS. Sonovabitch.

I'm in one of those absolutely foul, sick at my stomach, wanting to cry and feeling severely put upon moods.

In other words, I'm ragging. And I'm PISSED OFF about it.

* I gave up ice cream for Lent. I'm the world's biggest idiot. What I want right now is about 6 gallons of anything with chocolate in it and a chick flick. Or a war movie. Or both, playing as a picture-in-picture.

* I have a deadline, and my FIL has decided to come over and do laundry. It's like waiting for Hell to erupt through the floor and pop up at my elbow every three minutes.

* I am feeling nauseated. My hormones are totally f***ed up.

* I have a deadline. Yes, dammit, I said that already. It's in three days and I have barely enough time to finish because of vet visits and family visits.

* And that reminds me. Donald's 5-martinis-for-breakfast aunt is visiting town (staying with FIL) this week. She arrives tonight. I'm not feeling social. At. All. And this is pissing me off too because I know the expectation is there.

* Peri-menopause. That's got to be what this is, and I'm tired to death of it already. I had a hot flash this morning and read news on my Blackberry while sitting at the open freezer door.

* I puked up a cookie. A COOKIE. That's all I felt like eating and it still came up. WTF, tummy? Why don't you just settle down and let me eat my f****ing cookie in peace?

* I hate these jeans. I look so momtarded.

* Tampon companies stopped selling the super-duper absorbent types because a group of women who have never had children and don't know what it's like to bleed out your everlasting soul seven days every month couldn't figure out NOT to use them and ended up with TSS. I'm now wearing what feels like a saddle and looks like a Depends. Mother F***ER it's uncomfortable.

* Don't talk to me. And damn it, I'm lonely, so call. And don't look at me, but give me a hug. And stop breathing so loud. And you smell nice. Get out of my hair. Bring me some tea. Leave me alone. Where are you going? I love you. Don't you have errands to run?

j*s*s, i'm mental

More on Floyd.

The shelter just called and we're approved! I'm bouncing again.

I was also just informed that he's heartworm positive and that he does, indeed, need to be neutered (the boys were hiding?). So he'll be neutered on Thursday, I'll pick him up on Friday, and then we'll begin heartworm treatments that the shelter is paying for. We have to keep him quiet for 8 weeks (in this house? seriously?) but we'll do whatever it takes to get him healthy and whole. This poor baby needs some love and attention, and he'll get it in spades here. I just told McKinley all of this and she said "I'm sorry he's sick. He can sit with me while I do my homework and I promise THAT won't be exciting for him."

UPDATE: No, the boys were not hiding. No cutting. Just heartworm treatment. Insert eyeroll here -- would love to have it the other way 'round.

A dog named Rufus. Or Lowell. Or Floyd.

I got an email alert this morning that a basset was up for adoption in a nearby town's animal shelter. I've been looking at bassets, talking with Donald and the kids, and sort of waiting until the middle of summer. I guess I was waiting til then because I wanted to ake sure we were back from vacations and such, but Donald kept telling me "why wait?" He has a point, considering any basset we get is going to be immediately socialized with our neighbors' 2 goofy and laid-back beagles. When we go on vacation, we'll just open up the gate we're about to put between the back yards and let the basset have sleepovers at their house (they've offered this).

So in the past week or so it's come down to me looking but not acting, kind of waiting for a sign or something. And then the email came. I know for a fact all of the basset rescue groups in my area (Austin) and in several cities around like Dallas and Houston are full, and probably over-full. The shelter this young guy was at is a kill shelter that has had many problems over the past couple of years. I clicked over and looked at his picture and...

... my heart skipped a beat. I know it sounds daft, but it did. Something about his face just caught me. Within 10 minutes I'd talked to Mr. T on the phone then hopped in the car to make the 35 minute drive to Georgetown to see him for myself. On the web site his name was shown to be Rufus, and there just wasn't much more information than that.

I got there and asked after him and the volunteer looked him up. "No, we don't have a Rufus. We do have a Lowell, though, and he's in kennel 4." She'd barely got the words out before I was through the door and beating a straight path to kennel 4.

All of the dogs went crazy when they saw me go through, and even from the end of the galley I could hear one big bark that sounded more like singing. I found him standing with his nose to the gate, head up and giving his best voice along with the others. I squatted down and said "Howdy, Lowell." He sat down and looked me right in the eye, instantly quiet. I grabbed the paper in the plastic sleeve that hung from the gate and read it. "Rufus," it said. I looked back at him and said "Or are you Rufus?" He sneezed.

I went back to the office and said "I want to see that dog walk, and I want to spend some time with him. Then I need to test him with cats." I don't know what the volunteer thought of me barking orders, but I'd been through this before so many times when I worked in Border collie rescue that I knew taking charge was the only way I was probably going to get this dog ASAP and before he was destroyed. I was given permission to leash him and take him out.

His conformation is outstanding. He was apparently found in a field with a tattered nylon collar and no tags, but there's no doubt in my mind that he not only is a purebred but he's a GOOD one as well. He had been altered (I reached back to check and make sure the goolies weren't just undescended or otherwise abnormal) and was the best walker I've had the pleasure of meeting straight out of the pound.

We walked in a large 1/4 acre enclosed area for a while, then I sat down on the ground. He sat down next to me and then -- oh my God this makes me cry -- leaned into my side. At that point I fell totally in love and pretty much didn't give a damn if he got along with cats or not. We walked and played for a bit longer then I took him in to the office where we could test him with cats. I sat on the floor then released him. He took one step sideways, looking at the cat, then turned to look at me. He looked at the cat one more time, sneezed, then came and sat next to me and leaned against me again. In other words, YAY! Not overtly aggressive toward kitties, and everything else from there on can be trained.

Rufus/Lowell was, as I said, neutered but the paperwork that had his name confused on it also said he wasn't neutered. I told the lady I'd checked and things felt fine and dandy back there, so surgery probably wasn't necessary. She said "We'll have a vet tech check him again, then you can get him Friday if he has surgery or earlier if he doesn't." I told her Friday was fine with me because I want to get the house and kids ready for him.

So Friday I go to my working meetup/Jelly, have lunch with Donald, then pick up my new boyfriend. And oh! His new name is going to be Floyd.

And here he is (click here for bigger pic):

Geri B. has been an incredible encourager of this breed for me, and the pictures of her own long-eared babies is what got me really thinking of bassets as an option for my family. I want to give her a shout out for the wonderful rescue work she does and for answering my questions and offering her resources/contacts to me over the past months.

So if you're the praying sort, pray the application is accepted and I can get my boy on Friday. My life has been terribly empty without a companion dog in it these past seven years. It's time for a hiking buddy again.

Manic Monday: Why there wasn't a mission this week

I had a medical emergency Thursday night and I've been fighting the fallout from it for the past several days. I fully intend to give you a mission this coming Thursday, but I ask you to pardon the lapse this week. It's been a frightening few days, although it wasn't without its truly hilarious points. I'm hoping in a few days I'll be able to write about it.

Hug your families, y'all.




(Photo courtesy of my fast-thinking daughter McKinley, who documented the entire night. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Sigh.)