The Foundation of Evil

There comes a time in a woman's life when a bra is no longer a bra.

At some point, it becomes a foundation garment.  

Now, I am not exactly sure when this transformation occurred to me.  I am guessing it happened sometime between kiddies one, two or three.  You know, when my bra size changed with every hot fudge sundae I fed the "baby."  Or maybe it was when I nursed my babies every hour on the hour through a growth spurt, when it seemed that the only thing that actually grew was the size of my bra and not the baby.  It could have been when my hubby used to place my nursing bra on his head as a warped ball cap. Who knows?  I'm really not sure when it happened.  I just know that while my boobs were working, I admired my voluptuous self in the mirror, never realizing that I, in essence, was building my house on a platte of sand.  I had created my very own shaky foundation.  Congratulations to me! 

 Aaaah.  Hindsight.  It makes me want to poke my eyes out.

So at some point, my body has become like a before episode of This Old House.  And the project for the episode?  Fixing my crumbling, sagging,  and drooping foundation.  Bob Vila knows a failing foundation is serious business, and consequently, he always calls in the heavy artillery.  There are forklifts, cranes, and steel reinforcement beams all in the name of fixing my support system.  It is not a pretty sight.

But, then again, neither is the sight of a  true "foundation garment."   Foundation garments are not the ones that are prettily displayed on the size 2 mannequin in the lingerie department.  No, that would scare the customers.  Instead, the foundation garments can be found waaaaaay in the back of the lingerie department.  Back where the lighting is just a bit off.  Where the management figures a few shadows in the dressing room mirror could only help their sales.  There.  That is where the foundation garments are located, in lingerie no man's land.  (And, frankly, no woman likes to shop there either!)

The foundation garments are the ones that are glaringly white.  Not because the material is particularly bleached to that hue, but because the sheer amount of material necessary to construct just one foundation garment is enough to reflect the fluorescent lights above directly into the shopper's eye.  Yes, you would do well to wear your shades while support shopping.  It will help with the blinding glare that angers your eyes, and it will also help to disguise the fact that it is you, in fact, that need a foundation garment for yourself. 

Once you determine that you are in the correct section, you will notice that each and every foundation garment resembles a high tech straight jacket.  There are rows upon rows of hooks and eyes, enough to make any inexperienced teenage male break into a sweat.  There is reinforced stitching, reinforced cups, and reinforced straps, all used in an effort to force your sagging bosom into submission.  There are mechanisms that can lift you up, push you out, or if you prefer, smash you down.  Your choice depends on your particular foundation problem.  Basically, when a sales person recommends a foundation garment, he or she is really saying, "Go get a harness!  That's about the only thing that will shore these girls up!"  A sobering thought, at the least.

So, when on a recent shopping trip, the sales lady smiled at me and recommended,  "Honey, you should try a more substantial foundation garment for superior support."

I knew what she was really saying.

Good-bye bra.  Hello harness.

To hell with the college fund, I need it for my plastic surgery.

The Unwelcome Guest

Dear Unwelcome Guest,

It has come to my attention that you have chosen my family for a little middle of the night visit. . . again!  While I have remained a polite host during your previous stays, I am drawing the line this time.  Here are a few ground rules that I would like you to follow during your stay.

No longer will you be allowed to arrive unexpectedly while we slumber.  For future reference, please provide me with at least a 2 day notice of your arrival.  That way I will have the extra sheets, blankets, and towels clean and ready for your stay.  When you arrive unexpectedly, I inevitably am already behind on my laundry, and therefore, you usually add to Mt. Washington.  Providing me a little notice will allow me to refrain from such rants as, "For the love of God . . . again?!?!"  and "I am not ready for this tonight!"  I will also be able to handle your visit more graciously if you decide to arrive during daylight.  Trying to make accommodations for you while I am half asleep and blind makes for a rough first impression.  And while I do have the blind-man-pat down to an exact science,  if you were to provide me with a little notice, I would be able to either sleep in my contacts, or at least have my 10 year old prescription glasses handy, so that my lack of sight would not be a hindrance to your stay.  I could immediately direct you to our facilities and accommodations.  It is the least that you could do.

Along those lines, no longer will you be allowed to visit each of my family members individually.  I know that you are a yearly guest and all, but, really, when you visit with each of us individually, you prolong your visit by days and days.  Why not just visit with one or two of us during each of your stays?  That way, you will still feel as if your stay was worthwhile, and we will not feel so exhausted and drained when you finally leave.  I am not one to complain, but when you come, it is hours and hours of extra work for hubby and me during your stay, and then when you do leave, it is hours more, but by that time, we are quite worthless.  After entertaining all of your whims at any hour of the day, hubby and I just want to catch up on our sleep, let out the stale air that you create, and give thanks that you are finally gone.

Finally, I politely request that you in no way bring along your so-called friends.  Frankly, they are nothing but trouble.  They may think that they are funny when they cause us to double over and hold our bellies, but trust me, we are not laughing.  It is more likely that we are crying from the thought of another unwanted guest that refuses to be polite.  We are crying because your friends create more laundry, more yucky smells, and more chaos each and every time that you insist on bringing them.  Plus, they tie up the bathroom for hours at a time.  Remember, making us cry and feel as if we were kicked in the stomach is not the way to receive an invitation for next year's visit.  

So, that is it, Mr. Stomach Flu, or should I call you, Mr. U.P. Chuck? Keep in mind that this year, I mean business!  I have invited Mr. Clorox to stay on permanently, and he has agreed.  You may want to rethink your visit for next year.

Your host,

Annie

P.S.  Please relay this information to your friend, Ms. Di Arrhea .  I would hate to think that she was not informed of our changes.

Going Down the Toilet

I love holidays.

I really get into the spirit.  I decorate.  I bake.  I partake.  What's not to love about celebrating?

Especially today, St. Patty's Day.  There are no presents to purchase, make or wrap.  There are not necessarily many difficult decorations.  Just leprechauns, green shamrocks, and beer.  Fun!

So this morning I played leprechaun for the kiddies.  I turned cereal milk green.  Toilet water became a lovely jade.   Windows were marked up, and  shamrocks were posted in fun places around the house.  It was admittedly a blast!

But the best part was not the preparation.  The best part was definitely seeing the magic of the moment through the kiddies' eyes. 

"Mooooooooooooommmmmmm!"

Knowing what I would find, I put on my poker face and followed E into the bathroom.

"What's up buddy?"

"He's been here!  The leprechaun!  Look!"  he pointed at the toilet water that I had colored not five minutes beforehand.  Obviously, he had not seen me walk right past him with the green food coloring to do the deed.  Lovable, that E, but not so quick on the uptake.

Feigning surprise, I put my hand to my mouth and said, "Wow!  He sure is a tricky leprechaun."

"I know Mom.  Wait here."

E ran off and left me standing guard for a green colored toilet.  I couldn't imagine what he was up to.  When he arrived back at my post a few moments later, I could guess.

"What's that E?" 

"A camera."

Knowingly, I questioned, "Are you going to try to stake out the leprechaun and take a picture of him?  I don't think leprechauns like to have their pictures taken."

Exasperated he said, "I know ma.  This is for the evidence!  I am taking pictures of the clues."

There was nothing that I could do as he carefully set up his shot and took a picture of my toilet.  I had gotten myself into this mess.

That's why E is proudly taking a picture of my toilet to show and tell today.

I just hope he doesn't get in trouble for "potty" talk.

E's New Friend

After preschool today, Ethan was quite animated.

"Mom!  There was this new boy in class."

"Really?  Tell me about him."

"Well . . . " he paused thinking.  "He brought chocolate."

Smiling, I responded, "That was nice.  You know how mommy loves chocolate.  Do you have any extra? "  It was 3 o'clock.  I could go for an afternoon chocolate fix.

"Maaaa-  aaaaamm!"  he sighed.  "No!  I don't!  Anyway, he likes gold."

"What kind of gold?  Like the color?"

"No.  Gold.  Like jewelry gold."  This was interesting.  I was picturing a little 4 year old adorned with bling, flashing gang signs.  And then E threw in the last nugget of info.

"Aaaannnddd,"  he drew out the word, "His name is  . . ." and he stopped.

"His name is what?"

"Um.  I forget, " E stated.  Typical.  I waited and finally he had it.  "Patrick!  His name was Patrick!"

That's when it dawned on me.

" E?  Did you actually meet Patrick? "  I quizzed.

"Well, no.  But Mrs. Pritzer sure talked about him a lot.  I bet I'll meet him tomorrow," he said with finality.

I am sure he will too. Tomorrow is March 17th, St. Patrick's Day.  So E's new classmate is a leprechaun.  

At least his school is multi-cultural.

Not Annie!

Not Me!  Monday is a creation of MckMama, a super funny and fabulous blogger, at mycharmingkids.net.  On Mondays, ( if at no other time during the week),  you are supposed to be brutally honest and own up to all those "not me!" moments from the previous days.

So, here goes . . .

It was not me that allowed E to spend the day sans underwear, because I did not have the energy to run up the stairs with him at 7:30 am to find a pair.  It was also not me that allowed a mountain of laundry to accumulate that then forced E into his "freeing" state.  No way!  Not me!

It was not me that drove through that drive-thru instead of cooking a nutritious lunch for the kiddies.  No way would I do that!  I am sure that if it were me, I wouldn't have felt the immense relief that comes with knowing that my kitchen remained clean for a few hours. . . (even if my car did not!)

It was not me that only painted my first two toes on each of my feet on Saturday night before hubby and I went out.  No way!  How ridiculous!  Of course, those are the only two digits that show through the toe of my favorite peep toe pumps, so it does make sense.  Hmmmmm!  No way would I think of something that efficient.

Clearly, it could not have been me that swept crumbs under the couch, fluffed the pillows, and sprayed some air freshener near the front door in a mad dash before the baby sitter arrived.  I would never be so worried about the appearance of cleanliness, especially since the house usually gets trashed during the sitter's visit.  Ludicrous! 

It was also not me that dodged a tele-marketer by pretending that someone was at my door.  In no way did  I feel a tiny bit of excitement at avoiding the inevitable sales call.  No way! Not me!

And  it was not me that burned the popcorn again.  There is no way that I could burn the popcorn 257 times in a row.  It is just not possible!

Finally, it was not me that finished off the BAG of Dove dark chocolates on a lonely, gray and cold Midwest winter afternoon.  How could I?  That would be like 1000 calories.  I would never.

There.  Honesty, in all of its glory .

I feel wonderfully unburdened, if a few pounds heavier.

Corny Moments

When I came in, it was already chaos.

E and hubby were jumping around the living room, Wii remotes in hand, shouting.  Now, this, mind you, is a pretty normal sight.  It's what they were shouting that caught my attention.

"That dog will hunt!"  shouted Paul.

"It's outta there, dad!"  E chimed in.

And not one minute later hubby let out, "Can of Cooooooorrrrrnnnn!  That's a can o' corn, big boy!"

And then, "Daa-aaad!  That's not a can of corn!"

Laughing and shaking his head Paul boasted, "Oh yes it is!  Your gonna have to bring the big guns to play with your dad!"

Now, because of the context of the situation,  I could tell that this was a lesson in talking smack between father and son.  A priceless, hallmark-like moment, obviously.  A moment that if viewed as a commercial during the Super Bowl would bring grown men to tears. So, I was not perplexed by the banter between my men, and I could appreciate its importance as a father and son rite of passage.  What perplexed me was their vernacular.  They were speaking man-speak, and I had to ask for some help.

"Paw- wal?"  I shouted, extending his name.

"What?"

"Honey, what's a can of corn?" I questioned.

He paused and scanned my face to check my intent.  "Well . . . a can of corn is . . . a can of corn."

''Thank you for that," I bantered sarcastically, "but, can you give me a little more explanation ?  Is it a Nortonism?"  I asked making reference to his one-stop-light home town.

Offended he countered, "Nooooo.  It is not a Norton word.  It is a baseball word.  You played.  You should know it.  C'mon.  Caaann of ca- orn?!?"  as if saying it again, slowly, would help my comprehension.

I paused, trying not to strangle him, and said, "Paul, I have never heard of 'can of corn'.  I am not making this up.  Gimme a break."

He softened a bit and said, "Well, a can of corn is  . . . an easy catch.  Simple."

But it wasn't that simple to me.  "Well, why not a can of franks and beans?  That's simple.  You just open it up and heat it.  Same as corn."  It made perfect sense.

"An- nie!"  he stated.  I could tell that he was exasperated with my questions.  "Can of corn is an easy catch.  I don't know why.  It just is.  Google it if you want to know why," and with that, he was done explaining.  There would be no further lessons for me on man-speak that day.

So, I did what he suggested.  I googled 'can of corn/ baseball'.  Apparently the phrase originated with general stores.  In the general store, the canned veggies were stocked behind the cash register. When a customer wanted to purchase one, he would make his request to the shop keeper and  the shop keeper would  gently lob the can to the waiting customer.  An easy catch.  Now it made sense. 

So a google search had saved the day and possibly my marriage (for that day.)  If only all man-speak translations could be solved that easily.  It'd be a can of corn.

Or at least franks and beans.

 

The Artist

I am in search of a bumper sticker.

You know, the one that reads, "My fabulously gifted child attends . . ."

That one.

You see, today I discovered that I have been blessed with one such child.  Apparently, Ellerie

 is, shall we say, an artiste.  She has discovered the pure bliss that is creating. She has reveled in her creation by posting it for the world to see.  Obviously, she has talent.

Today, Ellerie was inspired to create her first poopie painting.  Knowing that watercolors or oil paints were just too mainstream, my gifted little one chose to paint in an all too familiar medium.  She just reached her chubby little fingers in her diaper, found a warm and squishy surprise, and thought, "Eureka!  This is it!  I will use this for my creation."

What a precocious girl!

I can't tell you the words that sprung to my lips as I realized that she had, in fact, painted with feces.  At first, I thought it was chocolate, but my eyes deceived me.  Thankfully, my nose was alerted to the wonder that was her artwork.  Tearfully, I reveled in this new found calling for Ellerie.  

And her canvas you ask?  Well, that darling child chose a lovely canvas for her feces to decorate.  A wall, a sheet, or even paper clearly did not meet her high standards.  Instead, she chose to adorn herself with excrement.  What an exhibitionist! It was a special moment for the two of us when I realized just what a blessing she is to our family.

And if someday you see in lights,

 "Performance Art Tonight Starring Ellerie," . . . 

you know that you read it here first. 

Bring your room deodorizer.