Flashing the Congregation with Some Hot Cross Buns

“Hey mom, is that your wedding dress?”

That’s the question I got this morning from my young daughter who has rarely seen me wear a dress.

Quite simply, because I don’t like to wear dresses.

Fifty years, a nine-month stint carrying a human being inside of me and several hundred varicose veins later, my pegs don’t exactly scream Betty Grable.

Hence, I mostly wear pants.  Unless of course, all my pants are buried in a pile of dirty clothes, like today.

So this morning I dusted off my only Spring-like linen, crisply pleated dress to wear for a special youth church choir performance in celebration of the Pentecost.

The children’s choir is actually one of my daughter’s favorite extracurricular activities.

I like it too because there aren’t too many activities that focus on kindness, being gentle and loving.

A sharp contrast to the youth soccer game this weekend when my daughter was slammed in the chest by a ball kicked by a 4th grade girl who was built like former football defensive tackle Rosie Grier.

A walking public service announcement against feeding your children meat and milk with added growth hormones.

I digress…

Wearing a dress is an art and an exercise in acting like a lady.

I even managed to avoid flashing the congregation while kneeling during communion and remembered to keep my legs crossed while sitting in the pews.

Really quite a challenge for a chronic pants wearer.

Any way, I was feeling pretty good about myself while drapped in my lovely linen dress.

I imagined myself sashaying and twirling down the halls singing, “Good morning, good morning” from Sing’in in the Rain.

And then the large iced coffee I consumed from Mickey D’s an hour earlier forced a pit stop to the Ladies Room.

As I re-entered the stream of church goers, more congregants than usual were smiling at me.

Was it my beautiful dress?

My elegant Ginger Rogers stride?

Suddenly, a man screamed, “Jesus Christ!”

Obviously, not an unusual sound given the setting, however, I’d heard this particular scream hundreds of times before.

It was my husband who must have been daydreaming during the “don’t say the Lord’s name in vain” part of the sermon.

As indiscreetly as possible, he yanked the back of my lovely pleated linen dress out of my girdle-like granny panties.

That’s right, I just flashed the congregation.

I decided just to explain my Pentecostal posterior by telling people I was playing Rahab, the town prostitute in the reenactment.

Let’s just say the Pentecost flag was not the only thing that was fiery red in the church, add my face red with embarrassment.

Not only have I flashed my jugs in church, now, I can add flashing some hot cross buns to the list.

Ditching The Fitch

“I like a woman with some meat on her bones because she knows how to cook and have fun!”

While I can’t remember exactly where I heard that quote, I can tell you who didn’t say it – Mike Jeffries, CEO of retailer, Abercrombie & Fitch.

It seems yet another clothing store is discriminating against larger-sized women.  Only, the A & F brand goes way beyond simply not stocking larger sizes or exclusively fashioning their clothing for a smaller frame.

Jeffries completely insulted a good portion of the general population with phrases like,

“We go after the cool kids…”

“A lot of people don’t belong in our clothes…”

“We want to market to cool, good-looking people…”

Damn!

The Indianapolis 500 is just around the corner.  I’m so disappointed I won’t be able to purchase from A & F a size-16 studded daisy duke pair of shorts and an XL tube top to wear in the infield.

Really?

How old is this man-child and has he figured out he is not in junior high anymore?

It’s the human version of Larry the Lobster on SpongeBob Squarepants.

Have you ever shopped in an A & F?  Come to think of it, it’s just like a Junior High School dance.

It’s super dark, the music is deafening and no one talks to you.

It is completely understandable that retailers cannot possibly cater to every shape and size of individual.  I get that.

However, I wonder if Mr. Jeffries has ever considered what he’s missing by forming this exclusionary cool club of skinnies.

For starters, he’ll be missing the pocket books of most size- 14 mom’s with tween-age children because they are not welcome in his store.

If women can find a store that stocks clothing that is affordable, attractive and fits well, they are loyal for life.

And, if you have muscular, ripped men without their shirts on as human mannequins, they’ll bring their friends.

Not any more.

Sooner or later, those young, self-absorbed, shallow teens who shop in your shadow will drop you like a piping hot piece of pizza in the food court for the next trendy store.

Sorry A&F, this gal who has a little meat on her bones will be taking her big bucks elsewhere.

Orthotics, The Other Glass Slipper

“I didn’t marry you for your feet.”

Obviously, that quote is attributed to a breast man or an ass man.

Let’s just say that New York Jet’s coach, Rex Ryan would not have asked for my hand, or rather my foot in marriage.

Fred Flintstone feet is the most popular keyword phrase generating search engine traffic to my blog for a reason.   I have them.

It’s all fun and games spending your life walking about the earth with the gentle stride of Mr. Ed until suddenly you can’t walk without pain.  That’s what happened to me recently.

I couldn’t figure out why in the hell I had knee pain for two months.  If only it was from the intense exercise I’m supposed to be doing to drop some tonnage.  It could have been from tripping over the dog ten times a day as she sleeps at my feet in the kitchen, walking in my Ugg slippers or giving my tween-age daughter piggy back rides because I have Peter Pan syndrome and won’t let her grow up.

Finally, I caved and went to the doctor.  Everything checked out so she referred me to physical therapy.  That’s where I met my other Prince Charming, my physical therapist.

He started out the session measuring how far I could bend my knee and then measuring the diameter for swelling.   I hope to God it was in degrees or I’m going to have to buy my pants from the North Pole.

After hobbling around the parallel bars and unable to get myself up the stairs, he had me walk for him.

Suddenly, he blurted out, “You need Orthotics.”

My mind flashed from my burgundy-colored, prescription Herman Munster shoes from the First Grade to the white, Velcro-strapped wedges in the back of Parade Magazine.  At the mere age of 50, my life in cute shoes was over.  But alas, I didn’t have to order my shoes from the back of a magazine, I could get some inserts from the Dr. Scholl’s Footmapping Station.

Let’s just say I took my “Ass Man” and better-half on a date to the local Meijer to purchase a set of Orthotics.  Disappointed because our trek was not to Victoria Secret, my Ass Man choose to wait in the car so the image of his bride getting measured for Orthotics wasn’t burned in the hard drive for later.

The Footmapping Station is actually very impressive.  The most difficult part was getting over my germophobia so I could remove my shoes and start the evaluation.  Apparently, everyone else has the same fear because in big letters, “Sanitized Often” is emblazoned on the machine.

I answered a few questions and before long, a full-color map of my foot appeared on the rather large flat-screen television monitor.  I really don’t know what all the colors meant but it looked like a warning for Hurricane Flintstone.  The machine made my Orthotics recommendation and damn!  My number was sold out.  Apparently, all of Bedrock shops at Meijer.

In the meantime, it started hailing outside.  As I hobbled out to find my Ass Man, he had pulled the car up under the overhang on the sidewalk.  My own personal Ricky Bobby.  The redneck NASCAR move paid off because our car was hail damage free!

So the next morning, I headed for WalMart.  I’m sorry, I’m one of those people who loathes Wally World.  And it’s ironic, because I’m turning into a People of WalMart overnight.  Luckily, the Dr. Scholl’s station was fully stocked.  I guess my kind need as much orthotic support as they can cram their feet into.

As I was paying for my purchase, I could feel someone staring at me.  It was a WalMart greeter.  Not your typical, smiley, senior citizen, have a nice day greeter, but a miniature Wally Cop.  Do I really look like a shoplifter?  Sure, the Orthotics are about $50, not cheap.  I quickly rang up my merchandise and hobbled out.

As I hobbled my way through the exit, the alarm suddenly rang.  Holy crap!  No one took the shoplifter alarm out of the package.  I was praying the Wally cop did not chase me down because it was clear I could not outrun him without the aid of my new Orthotics.

Long story short, my physical therapist is my new Prince Charming because after a month, I’m walking like Cinderella.  Like Cinderella with Mr. Ed’s gait, but no less, without pain.

Moms, Don’t Be Political Couch Potatoes About Gun Safety

Floored.  Pissed.  Dumbfounded.

That’s how I felt this afternoon when I learned that the senate failed to pass legislation that would expand background checks on all gun purchases.  I have to say that I’m a moderate that leans conservative on most issues, however, when it comes to the well-being of civilization as a whole, common sense knows no political boundaries.  I was actually very excited to “get my liberal on” in the name of child safety and have been a little disappointed.  Harry Reid a No?  Really?

“Gun violence is one of the single greatest public health threats to children in this country.”

- American Academy of Pediatrics

Apparently grieving families, public opinion polls, scientific evidence and a plea by the nation’s pediatricians aren’t even enough to convince the majority of United States Senators that stricter gun control laws need to be passed in this country.

And, while I’m disappointed, there was a minor victory in this whole political debacle.

A grassroots organization by the name of Moms Demand Action For Gun Sense in America, motivated me to not be a political couch potato.  The group was formed by a local mom, Shannon Watts, the day after the Sandyhook Elementary shooting occurred.  This group has grown from a simple Facebook page to over 100,000 members and over 40 chapters.

These parents are working tirelessly alongside many relatives of gun violence victims to send a very loud and clear message that they demand common sense gun control solutions.

I began following the group on Facebook and Twitter with some solace and relief that stricter gun control laws would likely be passed.  Afterall, it’s just plain common sense that our country would want to keep firearms out of the hands of criminals and the mentally ill.  It was a slam dunk.  So as a member with lurker tendancies, I’d retweet a few facts and figures thinking I was doing my part.

Think again.

A day prior to a vote on the expanded backgound checks issue, I received an urgent email from Moms Demand Action listing specific names of Senators that were undecided or voting “No,” and I noticed Indiana Senators Joe Donnelly and Dan Coates on the list.  Being a former Arizona resident, I also noticed John McCain’s name on the list.  So, I decided to write them each a letter which you can do with ease on the Moms Demand Action Web site.

Here’s the letter I wrote:

Dear Senator Coats,

I am writing to urge you to reconsider your decision to join a Group of lawmakers who vow to “oppose any legislation that would infringe on the American people’s constitutional right to bear arms.”

I, like thousands of other parents across the country, demand action for gun sense in America.  And by the term “gun sense,” I mean common sense.

There is absolutely NO reason any civilian needs an automatic assault weapon to protect themselves and their property or for recreational use.

There is absolutely NO reason any civilian needs ammunition magazines that hold more than 10 rounds.

There is absolutely NO reason background checks should not be required for all gun and ammunition purchases.

There is absolutely NO reason the sale of large quantities of ammunition should not be reported to the ATF, and No reason online sales of ammunition should not be banned.

These are common sense solutions to a gun violence epidemic in this country.  These suggested common sense legislative changes are in NO way preventing any U.S. citizen from arming themselves.  There are plenty of “gun” choices on the market that don’t involve shooting off 500 rounds of ammunition per minute.  So many lives could have been saved had these laws been in place.

Unfortunately, it is not fear that is driving these gun owners to use the Second Amendment as their security blanket, they are merely throwing temper-tantrums because their toys are at risk of being taken away.  It’s a semantics issue, and a safety issue, not a right to bear arms issue.

I never thought I would advocate government legislation of common sense, however, the lack of action on gun safety in America has driven me to write this letter.

Thank you for your service, and again, I implore you to change your position on this issue.

I’d like to think that exercising my First Amendment rights was responsible for a small victory that Senators McCain and Donnelly voted “Yes” in favor of the expanded background checks.  Unfortunately, Senator Coats did not.  Here’s a link to the full vote if you’d like to see how your Senator voted.

Some of the best arguments I’ve read for common sense gun control solutions are not found in The New York Times or The Washington Post, rather in the blogs below written by “your average WordPress citizen at large.”

http://funnysister.wordpress.com/2013/02/02/rights-and-wrongs/

http://ipledgeafallegiance.wordpress.com/2013/04/14/lets-get-real/

http://ipledgeafallegiance.wordpress.com/2013/04/12/please-dont-point-your-statistics-at-me-you-might-hurt-someone/

http://ipledgeafallegiance.wordpress.com/2013/04/11/common-sense-and-sensibility/

http://hugmamma.com/2013/03/21/rare-breed-of-men/

http://heathersjourneytohealthy.com/2013/04/16/6-years-later/

I have to say that the chatter among mommy bloggers has been relatively silent on this issue.  Maybe it’s burnout from the Presidential election, fear of speaking up or not completely understanding the issue.

I’d like to challenge all those moms who pontificated endlessly about women in binders and reproductive rights to do some blogging in favor of common sense gun control.

The American Academy of Pediatrics ended their statement on the failure to pass gun violence legislation with the following,

“Pediatricians urge our elected leaders in Congress to find the courage to start again, to allow science to prevail over politics, and to do right by our children.”

I encourage moms, dads, aunts, uncles and grandparents to do the same.

3 Years of Blogging – Engaging Readers or Entertaining Crickets?

It’s hard to believe I’ve been blogging for three years.

I wonder how long that is in blogger years?  If it’s the same as dog years, that puts me at 21 again, which I’m definitely on board.

When I attended the Erma Bombeck Humor Writer’s Workshop last year, a single question resonated with me that I could not answer.

“What do you write?”

Seems like a pretty simple question.  Yet, when forced to give an answer, I was speechless and fumbling for words.

“Well…I write about…aaaaa…..yah….aaaaa…”

“Oh yah, I wrote a story about finally being a soccer mom…”

(Insert game show loser music here…)

Three years, 122 stories and over 50,000 words and all I can come up with is “soccer mom”?

At least I’ve been keeping the crickets entertained.

Here are a few blogging lessons I’ve learned over the past three years:

• Don’t turn your blog into a Jerry Springer Show, use discretion when writing about your friends and family.  Not everyone is comfortable in the spotlight.

•  Don’t be a “Shock Blogger”.  Although I cuss like a sailor when I’m not behind the keyboard, I found I was uncomfortable channeling my inner-Andrew Dice Clay in print.  However, crude and rude seems to draw thousands of readers and Facebook “Likes”, personally I prefer to channel Bonnie Hunt over Snooki.

• Don’t turn into a Blogger Beggar.  It seems the art of writing is getting lost in the obsession with building an audience.  My Twitter feed is so full of self-promoting bloggers it’s like walking in the town square and every street performer has a hat for donations while shoving a flyer in your face with details of their next publication.  I can’t make myself say, “For the night crowd” either.  Is everyone playing at the local Holiday Inn?  Don’t get me wrong, it’s hugely gratifying to have people read and be engaged by something you’ve written, however, I don’t feel comfortable begging for the readership.

• Take the time to read a wide variety of Blogs because you never know what jewel you will uncover.  I have discovered some of the most amazing story tellers and interesting points of view through bloggers that are rarely found in mainstream media.

I may sound like a blog fun muffler to some, to others consider these lessons from a blogger coming of age.

Literally, I’m turning 50.  Maybe I should celebrate by begging AARP for a  ”Like”.

Breaking Up With My Pantry Is Hard to Do and Story Submission Call Out

I’m trying to break up with my pantry.  It’s hard.  It’s really hard to do.

You can’t have just two nuts.

And salty Lays?  Bring them on.

Who can refuse a late night Pirate’s Booty call?

And Mega Oreos?  What’s the saying, “Once you go Mega, you never go back.”

For years, it was just me and my pantry.  My pantry was always happy to see me after a hard day at work.

“Here, have some carbs,” he would say.  Carbs are like a great big hug.

And my pantry, he doesn’t care if I have Dorito breath or crumbs on my shirt.

He’s always there.  Doors open wide.

If only breaking up were as chipper as a Neil Sedaka song.

And as women, why are we always attracted to the bad guys?  In this case, bad guys with salty snacks.

The refrigerator has been flirting with me lately.

I have to admit, I’m quite drawn to the Cuties.  I like to run my hands through his leafy greens.

He’s so polite, always offering me a drink.

His inner light shines through, unlike my ex, the pantry, who was dark and dreary.

Will it be the last time I’m played for a fool?

I may look at the pantry and drool, but the refrigerator, he’s pretty cool.

Do you have a dieting story?  Good.  Submit it pronto to Publishing Syndicate’s Not Your Mother’s Book…On Dieting of which I am one of the Co-Creators.  Publishing Syndicate pays for stories, unlike a lot of anthologies.  There are some very funny stories that have already been submitted for consideration.  Join in the fun and tell all your friends who are great story tellers.  Let’s laugh ourselves skinny!

Scene of the Slime

“Mommy, you killed Roxie my snail!”

Insert.  Knife.  Twist.  In.  Heart.

I never thought the little girl who wrote love notes to me every day would ever accuse me of being a cold-blooded snail murderess.

Who died and made me Jacques Cousteau?

Nowhere in my 1,000 page “How to Care For Your Child from Newborn to 5 Years” handbook – yes, she did come complete with a book from the hospital – was there a chapter on how to care for a pet snail.

In an ironic turn of events, I actually thought the snail was a murderess.  Six goldfish mysteriously died one-by-one after the Easter Bunny brought them to our house last year.  Roxie never seemed shaken whenever there was a floater.  Was it a coincidence that they were last seen by the pink castle she called home?

Yes, she was a sly one and a bit of a recluse.  Only coming out of her shell to eat, and of course kill goldfish.

How much do you feed a snail?  I have to admit that I was totally jealous of the fact that she could eat whatever she wanted and never bust out of her shell.

She was certainly queen of the castle.

Until she was murdered, I mean died peacefully.

Just as the Cosby Family gave their goldfish a proper family send-off with a prayer service around the toilet, we needed to do something for Roxie.

However, what do you do with a dead snail besides make broth?  Who am I, Andrew Zimmern?  Of course not.

I couldn’t really flush her down our low water toilet.  She’d never get to the White River and would cost us a visit from Mr. Rooter.

So, we decided to put her in the garden.  That is until, Dogzilla, our very hungry golden retriever channeled her inner French Poodle and tried to dine on a little escarole.

One child meltdown later, I found a Brighton heart-shaped tin to put Roxie in.

We put her shell-side up, and created a little memorial for her in the garden – completely pooch proof.

We said a little prayer, along with our last goodbyes.

As we put the lid on, my daughter wanted to take one last look.

Reluctantly, I turned Roxie over and by God, I thought I saw a tentacle move.

My daughter saw the same thing.  It was like those stories when an arm pops up out of a casket at the viewing.

Holy crap!  Was she still alive?

I mean really, how do you tell if a snail is dead?  She never came out of her house.

I couldn’t in good conscience keep her in the tin if there was a chance she was alive.

So we put her in some water and stared.

Nothing.

It was a false alarm and time to close the tin.

So now Roxie rests safely in her heart-shaped box through sleet, rain and snow in the garden.

And thanks to the little girl up the street who gave my daughter a stuffed-snail (Beanie Baby-stuffed, not garlic and bread crumbs-stuffed) all has been forgiven.

I’m back on the love note list again and cleared from the scene of the slime – that is, until karma rears its ugly head and I never hear the end of it when she is a teenager.

For now, I’ll cherish my mommy love notes.