Saturday, February 27, 2010

Wardrobe Criticism.

I came downstairs today and the reaction from my daughters, ages 9 and 7, threw me for a loop.

What are you wearing?

Why are you wearing that?

Your boobs are hanging out.

It's just so much SKIN...

I looked down to make sure I didn't accidentally put on my dominatrix role-playing outfit. Nope, just a harmless v-neck t-shirt. And actually, since the original one I put on was too low, I put another t-shirt underneath the first one. I'm covered for crissake. No sign of bra straps or nipples. Not a glimpse of an areola.

I said, "What? I'm wearing two shirts. What is the deal?"

They said, "Well, other men might see you."

What the fuck? Other men might see me? I looked around to confirm that indeed, we didn't uproot our family and move to the Middle East during the night. All clear. Still in Minnesota.

This is a bit of a shock because my favorite wardrobe is a button down shirt and jeans. Always has been, always will be. It's simply who I am. And I button it up to the second button, barely exposing my throat. So I guess this is the reason for the wardrobe criticism coming from the kitchen table.

One of them even tried hiking the shirt up a bit while hugging me. My choice of clothing was a serious offense to my children. They didn't come right out and say it, but I think they were concerned I'd throw on some boots and do some street-walkin'.

I said, "Guys, you do realize I'm still a woman. I didn't become a wooden plank with legs after birthing both of you. I actually have a body underneath my button down shirts. You understand that, right?"

They weren't buying it. To them, I was becoming a pole dancer right in front of their eyes. You have to understand, this reaction would not have been more intense if I came downstairs in a bikini with fishnets and stilettos, smoking a cigarette.

I'm not sure what to make of this other than my kids like me the way I am. They don't want me to be a model or posh dresser. They just want their mom. In her button down shirts. Conservative as hell. But that's truly who I am anyway. I just thought I'd make use of a t-shirt I haven't worn in five years.

Forgive me, my daughters, for trying to take a shot at being a little more sexy. For wanting to shed my button down shirt and/or fleece jacket (zipped to the neck). I'm almost 40 and need to remember that I actually do still have a body and every once in a while, I choose a garment that is a little out of my comfort zone just to see if I can make it work. I won't do it again for another five years.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Stop The Ride.

I seem to have issues on amusement park rides. Yesterday we went to a little place called Mall Of America. It has an indoor amusement park so what the hell, why not. It's freezing and we deserve to go on a ride in February just like the rest of the world, dammit.

My daughter and I were on "The Collider." Sounds menacing, but it's not. Inside the little car it clearly stated, "If you raise your hand, we will stop the ride for you."

There it is. A stupid rule I'm forced to obey.

I don't love rules. Especially a bullshit rule like that. Everyone raises their hands on rides, waving to their parents or giving the peace sign to the little people below. There's something about soaring 25 feet above everyone else that makes me feel superior and entitled to my own rules. Besides, I didn't think the sixteen year old running the ride gave a rat's ass about anything other than nursing his hangover.


I was pretending ride a bull, raising and lowering my left arm while Parker kept saying, "Mom, they're going to stop the ride. Put your arm down." I said, "Oh c'mon, there is no way..."


I was getting kicked off the fucking "Collider" at Mall of America. I looked over to my daughter who said, "Seriously. You just had to do the bull." I scrambled out of the cart as fast as I could and reached my husband who asked, "What happened? Why was the ride cut short?"

Let's just move, let's get out of here, it's no big deal...

Parker said, "Mom had to pretend she was riding a bull, so the guy thought she wanted to get off. Nice."

All the parents were staring at me now. What kind of parent causes so much ruckus on a ride for seven year olds? Me, apparently. I meant no harm, honestly. I just don't like people telling me what I can and cannot do. It has the opposite effect on me, creating a desire so fierce, I can't help but test the boundaries.

In this case, the boundaries were not negotiable. And maybe, come to think of it, I should obey the rules and show my kids that they are made for our safety and comfort, instead of testing each and every one of them.

As much as it pains me, I think I'll swallow my need to overthrow the Big Man Who Makes Rules and relax and enjoy the ride. I know my daughter would definitely appreciate the ride lasting a lot longer than 1.2 minutes.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Dry Humor.

Dry Humor is defined as: "A form of comic delivery in which humor is presented without a change in emotion or facial expression, usually speaking in a monotonous manner."

My humor can be very, very dry indeed. So dry, in fact, often people think I'm either incredibly stupid or incredibly rude. Rarely funny though, except for my beloved husband, who laughs along with me (sometimes). Thank God.

It would make for a difficult marriage if he didn't understand that I'm brilliant and simply making fun of mundane shit.

I attached our favorite Bud Light commercial (, "The Swear Jar." The best part is the woman asking for a pen, so I tend to become her real life. Channeling other characters makes me worry a bit about my stability, but whatever. There are worse things in life than laughing at stupid shit.

For example, we were recently in the Dominican, a business trip for my husband. Sitting at the table I said, "Will you pass the fucking water?" to the hubbs and I got a few glances. They thought I was seriously rude to him. Or at the pool as he walked away, I said, "Can you get me a fucking towel?

The woman lying next to me looked at me like, "You got two broken legs, diva?" She was ready to throw me down, so I assured her it was a joke. I laughed and said, "It's an inside joke. Kind of our thing."

She didn't believe me.

I do love imitating Penelope from Saturday Night Live. The classic one-upper. "So I'm more on time than you are, in fact I own time, and all the minutes in it, soooooo..."

Then of course there's the celebrity fake-out. When the hubbs and I watch movies I always say with great confidence, "God, I didn't know Sandra Bullock could be dark. She's great in this movie." He gets all fired up and says, "Seriously? Kelly, that is not Sandra Bullock, it's Hilary Swank. How could you think that's Sandra Bullock, they are nothing alike at all."

To not know celebrities is a personal offense to a lot of people, especially my husband. We'll be walking down the street and I'll say in all monotoned seriousness, "Is that Vince Vaugn" and he'll snap his around looking for Vince, then exasperated, he'll say, "I hate you."

But he's catching on and I love it. We were standing in line at the airport and he saw a beautiful blonde woman. He leaned in to me and said, "Check it out, Elin Nordegren is on our flight. Sweet." The man in front of him looked at him like, "What a dick. He thinks Elin Nordegren is taking a public Delta flight."

See? And THAT my friend, is what makes dry humor so funny.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Bathroom Anxiety.

Let me lay the scenario out for you: There were ten bathrooms at the airport, all of which were empty. I happened to walk in with someone behind me, so I picked a stall that would provide space between us. Etiquette, right?

But this random traveler didn't want space. She snuggled right into the stall next to me. For God's sake, our feet were almost touching.

Then the stage fright set in, so I started the "toilet paper game." This is when I pull more and more toilet paper from the roll in order to make noise to buffer any unwanted sounds.

She was just sitting there, not even flushing. Was she fucking meditating in the can? So there we were, two strangers in our stalls, afraid to make some doo-doo.

That's when I pulled the 'ol "fake tampon" trick. Again, it's a noisemaker, so my neighbor can feel comfortable doing her job and get the hell out of there so I can do mine. I lifted up the tampon disposal thing and dropped it, so she could think I actually accomplished something.

And why the hell do I care what this strange, fellow pooper thinks of me? Why am I going to all this trouble to make her feel comfortable when she was the one that sidled up next to me?

So I leaned down to check her shoes. Red pumps. Why is this important? I don't know, but it is. And don't pretend you haven't done this. When I worked in advertising, we'd report to each who was doing dirty business in the ladies room all the time.

I'd be working feverishly on a spreadsheet when my friend would rush up and say, "Someone with black patent pumps is blowing ass in the can. I couldn't breathe." So we'd spend all day investigating everyone's shoes to see who the offending pooper was.

It provided some excitement and it helped to know that a bitchy colleague poops just like every other person on this planet.

Back to the airport. My stall neighbor and I were out-waiting each other until we were forced to either shit or get off the pot. Literally. The boarding call for all rows was upon us. I "fake-flushed" and moved to the end of the row of stalls so I could do my thing in semi-privacy. There was no way I was getting stuck on a plane without completing my mission.

We washed hands at the same time and I withheld my need to say, "Congratulations. You out-waited me, which prompted a panic attack and required me to change stalls. Thanks, Red."

To which she would reply, "You have issues."

Aaaaaaand she'd be right.