A Grown-Ass Man Catcalled My 11-Year Old

Photo is of a smiling 11-year old girl named Snugglebug,
with shoulder-length brown hair and sunglasses,
standing on a balcony with a pond, green lawn,
and trees visible in the background.

***The events of this story are shared with Snugglebug's permission.***

Monday afternoon, the girls and I took a walk to the nearby grocery store. Snugglebug and Curlytop took turns pushing Pumpkin in the stroller, and we caught Pokemon along the way.

As we transitioned from the sidewalk to the parking lot, a truck slowed down. The thirtysomething driver rolled down his window, and said, "Hey, baby..." while making eye contact with Snugglebug.

She's 11, y'all.

She plays with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and plays Minecraft and Animal Jam.

She doesn't want to wear makeup, even though some of her peers do, and if I can get her to brush her hair in the morning, I consider it a victory.

This is not a kid who has been sexualized, or pushes the boundaries of age-appropriate behavior or appearance.

And... she was pissed.

"THAT GUY JUST CALLED ME 'BABY.' HE TALKED TO ME LIKE I WAS HIS GIRLFRIEND. THAT IS NOT OKAY!"

I hadn't heard the exchange. I was talking to Curlytop when it occurred. I'd seen the truck slow down, but assumed it was slowing because the driver was being cautious of us pedestrians.

If I'd heard it, I would have lost my Jesus with that man.

I agreed with her, and I told her that sometimes, "putting up the middle finger" at someone is an acceptable response.

Yeah. I gave my kid permission to flip off an adult.

She mentioned the offense several times during our shopping, and several more times on the walk back home.

"What was I even doing? Why did he do that?"

"I think he was looking at my butt." (She was wearing sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt. She didn't even feel her butt was safe from his violating gaze in sweatpants, y'all.)

"That made me really uncomfortable."

"No adult man should talk to a kid like that."

She's right, you know.

And, as furious as I was at the grown-ass man who took it upon himself to sexualize my baby, I was dedicated to letting her speak her mind, and to process it, with me as a sounding board. 

As she did so, I realized something: 

• At her age, my two best friends and I had already been molested by my sixth grade teacher. When we told the principal, our teacher was forced to apologize for any "misunderstanding," and we were sent back into his classroom every single day for more abuse, until the end of the school year. 

• At her age, those catcalls from grown men in my community were commonplace. We girls were told to ignore it, and we learned to giggle and roll our eyes.

• At her age, one time when I was riding my bike, a grown man yelled out, "Life would be so sweet if my face was that bicycle seat!" I didn't know what he meant until years later, and when I realized, I was retroactively grossed out, ashamed, and embarrassed. There were several other men standing with him, and they all laughed. No one admonished him.

• At her age, I'd already had one man expose his erect penis to me when I got separated from my mom in Kmart. After I found my mom and we reported it to store security, we were told that the man had mental health issues, and probably didn't know what he was doing.

• At her age, I'd been told so many times to change behaviors that weren't "ladylike," I was already self-conscious of everything I did in view of adults and peers.

• At her age, I'd already learned that being objectified was part of my female life, and the sooner I learned to accept it, the less painful life would be.

• At her age, I lived in a strange, dichotomous world where I played with Cabbage Patch Dolls, read Laura Ingalls Wilder books, and climbed trees, but also had my breasts and thighs stroked by a grown man. 

• At her age, I learned that anger and outrage weren't feminine, but silence and submission were.

• At her age, I learned that the attention of grown men was something I couldn't escape, so I had to learn to accept it.

And you know what? 

I renewed my vow that my daughters will never be 11-year old me.

No one will ever tell my daughters they're overreacting to the bad actions of grown men.

No one will ever tell them to "get over it," or "just ignore it."

No one will ever tell them that being objectified is part of female life, and the sooner they accept it, the less painful life will be.

My daughters are the owners of their bodies, and they get to protect those bodies.

Snugglebug was outraged because she knows her body is hers, and when someone objectifies her, they are the one in the wrong.

She was outraged because that man treated her with a level of familiarity she had not given him permission to use.

She was outraged because she had not done anything to call attention to herself, yet received it, anyway.

She was angry because she knows she is a child, and she knows that adults who sexualize children are gross, and capable of criminal sexual violence. (She reminded me that her plan -- if any adult man ever tried to touch her body without permission -- was to "kick him in the balls, as hard as I can, and get away while he's on the ground in pain," and I applauded.)

She was angry because she was just trying to enjoy a walk with her mom and sisters, and some grown-ass man had to ruin it for her.

She was angry because she has every right to be.

My daughters will never be 11-year old me.

Anger and outrage, today, to me, are no longer anti-feminine.

Appropriately applied, they are the epitome of feminine power, and I won't allow my girls to be silenced into submission.

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Get Out of My Face with Your "Quiet Hands"

In case you're out of the loop, we have two amazing kiddos staying with us through kinship care right now. That's right -- two bonus boys: Alpha, 8, and Bravo, 5 (almost 6).

Anyway, I had to take Bravo into the school today to meet with the school psychologist for some cognitive testing, as his IEP review is due before his birthday next month. I haven't worked with this psychologist before, and he seems like a nice enough guy, but I'm pretty sure he hates me now, because... you know... I can never seem to hold my firetrucking tongue when it comes to the treatment and education of the kiddos in my care.

So, I'm filling out the ABAS-3 (Adaptive Behavior Assessment System, Third Edition) while Mr. Psychologist gets out some puzzle pieces to begin testing. He's working in tandem with the SLP (Speech & Language Pathologist), and they're tag-teaming... Mr. Psychologist performs one part of his test, and then Ms. SLP performs one part of hers, and so on.

Everything is going fine -- I'm working on one side of the table on the ABAS, Mr. Psychologist, Bravo, and Ms. SLP are working on the other side. Mr. Psychologist has killed the fan in the room because the noise is distracting to me, and it's all good, until I hear it: Bravo, "quiet hands," please.

They were in the middle of testing, and Mr. Psychologist had asked me not to intervene with the testing process, so I lifted my head, gave the psych a look (he was too engrossed in the testing to notice), and went back to the ABAS.

When he finished the test portion, I butted in before Ms. SLP could begin her portion.

"Is this a stopping point?" I asked.

"Sort of," he said.

"May I speak, frankly?" I asked.

"Errrr... of course..." he ventured.

"Okay. So, we're a house full of neurodiversity and neurodivergence. We don't subscribe to ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) therapy, its tactics, its goals, or its dictionary. We don't use phrases like, 'quiet hands.' We believe physical stimming is healthy and productive, and we don't force children to refrain from it, hide it, or minimize it."

There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, and Mr. Psychologist cleared his throat. "I understand that. That's great. I actually didn't even know that 'quiet hands' was an ABA thing."

Like, this guy wanted me to believe that he pursued an education in psychology -- presumably, with an emphasis on child development, at some point? -- to the point of receiving a degree, but had NEVER HEARD THE PHRASE "QUIET HANDS," IN THE CONTEXT OF ABA? I gave him the benefit of the doubt, in any event.

"Gentle redirection to return focus to the task at hand is fine," I said, "but I don't endorse attempts to restrict physical stims."

I let it go at that, but I wanted to scream, "BUT IT SERVES THE SAME PURPOSE, DOESN'T IT?! Does it even MATTER where you heard it, when what you want the child to do is stop his physical stimming?!""

Let me explain.

Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) is compliance-based "therapy" popular with parents of autistic children, which includes goals such as "reducing inappropriate behavior," "increasing socially acceptable behaviors," and "increasing appropriate and effective communication." Its primary goal? To "fix" autistic children, "correcting" their behaviors, so they appear more neurotypical ("less autistic"), drawing less attention to themselves and their caregivers, so those caregivers and society at large can feel more comfortable around them.

If you're not grasping why ABA is harmful to autistics, try reading "Quiet Hands," by Julia Bascom.

Is that too artsy for you? Try this one from Amy Sequenzia, of the Autistic Women's Network.

Want to see what this compliance-based indoctrination looks like as it carries into adulthood? Read this post from Neurodivergent K.

Anyway, so I was trying to explain to Mr. Wright that the new school psychologist hates me, now, and I started telling him the story, and when I got to the part about hearing "quiet hands," he fell out of his chair, laughing.

Not because he thinks ABA is funny, but because he's been in IEP meetings with me, before.

He said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh, hell... QUIET HANDS? Did you lose your ever loving shit? Were you standing on your toes? Were you doing that? I can just see you, standing on your toes! You do that, you know!"

Well, no. I was sitting down, actually. Mostly, anyway. I may have been slightly out of my seat. Reaching across the table. With my hands ready to snap the guy's neck.

But mostly, I was sitting. Technically. Pretty much, anyway.

Mr. Wright asked what I hoped to gain from the exchange, and suggested that I simply wanted the guy to acknowledge that I am right about this issue. I thought about it, and replied, "No. I want people to earnestly consider the weight and implications of the ideals they hold dear, and I want them to come to the conclusion on their own that what they've learned or been taught may be wrong. I want them to realize they've got it all wrong, when it comes to the autistic community."

"In other words," he said, chuckling, "you want to be right?"

Well, yes. And, also, no.

See, I didn't come to enlightenment by nature. Nooooooo... I actually thought the "professionals" who were overseeing medical care for my children had all the knowledge, and I didn't really question their advice, until I hit a roadblock. ABA was one of many therapies suggested for Curlytop when she was diagnosed, and it wasn't available in our area for her. At first, I was devastated. Like, I didn't have the benefit of any type of interventions when I was growing up, so I wanted to make sure she had EVERYTHING that could possibly help her to succeed, so I went on a wild crusade to find an ABA provider, and did a ton of research to help find one.

It was that research that led to my enlightenment. I talked to actual autistics who had been subjected to ABA therapies as children, and learned that some of them had PTSD as a result of their experiences.

I thought about my own experiences, and my own struggles, and how difficult extended eye contact was -- and is -- for me, and how I always got poor grades in speech class because I couldn't look at my audience, and how I deal with that now (by simply saying to people, "Eye contact is really difficult for me. Please don't think I'm not listening to you if I'm not looking at you. I can actually listen better by NOT looking at you."), and how I'm actually existing pretty successfully in the world. I realized that if Curlytop doesn't get forced to initiate eye contact she doesn't feel comfortable with, it's going to be okay. She will be okay. She'll be better than okay... she'll feel safe, and comfortable, and accepted.

I thought about how I was always getting in trouble for having "fidgets" in class (my old-school favorite fidget was a retractable ballpoint pen with a button on top which I would click until my Spanish teacher took it away and gave me detention), and how we've come a long way in recognizing that fidget objects can be healthy devices which can help people concentrate.

I thought about how my fourth grade teacher called me out in front of the whole class for scrunching my nose like a rabbit, repeatedly, while I was silently reading, and how humiliated I was, and I was proud that my daughter felt safe enough to engage in her verbal "squawking" during times of stress and excitement, because we've never shamed her or tried to restrict it. It's just a really sweet, cute part of who she is.

And, just like that, ABA therapy was off the table for us, and for our children. We'd rather spend our time helping others to understand, accept, and embrace neurodiversity than spend it trying to mask the neurology and personalities of our children, who are amazing and perfect, as they are.

So, it's not so much that I want to be right about ABA as it is that I want others to consider that they may have it all wrong, when it comes to educating and serving autistic children. What if there's a better way? What if -- rather than trying to force them to be "less autistic" -- the best way to help them is to educate everyone else around them about neurodiversity? What if promoting autism ACCEPTANCE is superior to downplaying autism "SYMPTOMS/BEHAVIORS?"

Anywayyyyyyyyyy... I have to go back at 11am with Bravo tomorrow.

What do you want to bet that Mr. Psychologist will be all too keenly and freshly aware of my own personal hand-stimming (specifically, "clicking" my fingernails by placing my thumbnail under one fingernail, then pushing up and down, creating a satisfying series of  "clicks" as the nails pass over one another)?

Say "quiet hands" to me ONE firetrucking TIME... I dare you.



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Your Fake Service Dog is Ruining It for Legit Ones

This is Teddy. Services he provides include: licking sticky
fingers, assertive snuggling, and eating
rejected crusts of toast.

Fourth of July Weekend is a big thing in my hometown. Like, ridiculously big. The locals in the town which, nine months out of the year, is a small, closely-knit community brace themselves for the onslaught of tourists who really do act as if they own the place.

We locals do our shopping on Wednesday, and stock up, because going to Safeway on the holiday weekend is the stuff of crazy-making. Standing in line behind an entitled doofus who is outraged over the lack of gluten-free beer selection is never high on my list of "good times."

Unfortunately, Curlytop needed a pair of sunglasses because hers went missing or got broken or were stolen by faeries, so I had to brave the variety store.

Standing at the spinning display of kids' shades while Curlytop tried on every... single... pair (because, you know, they have to feel right, and if they smell different than the others, that's noteworthy, too), we were nearly knocked over by a dog.

A big one.

A Great Dane.

I nearly lit into the handler, but then I noticed the vest.

The dog was wearing a blue vest which read, "Service Animal." It had pockets on it, and it was filthy. I could hardly make out the words, for all the dirt and grime on the vest.

I hesitated, thinking maybe the dog was just so big, it had a hard time getting through the narrow walkways between the display racks, but then I saw the dog was literally pulling its handler along, and bounding down the aisles, stopping to sniff at every passerby and end-cap.

I hope I don't have to tell you that this is not how service dogs behave.

I know, because I have clients who train service dogs. I have a daughter in vet school who occasionally fosters and works with service dogs in training. I have spent time around many a service dog, and this dog was doing it wrong.

See, it's become pretty easy to "authenticate" a fake service dog, and people are doing it in droves. Seriously, I can go to eBay right now, and get a "service dog" vest with authentic-looking information cards with an official-looking seal, telling all about the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) -- for less than twenty bucks for either Teddy or Kipper. Neither of them has had any training, save for learning to tolerate Curlytop and Snugglebug dressing them up in doll clothes and costume jewelry.

To be clear, I am not talking about Emotional Support Animals (ESAs), which have a much lower standard to meet, as regards a public access test. ESAs need generally only be able to follow simple commands, behave on-leash, and not show aggression toward other animals or humans. I have friends who gain comfort and assistance from ESAs, and that is not what I'm talking about, here. (ESAs are NOT protected under federal law, by the way.)

I'm talking about service animals, which, by definition, must have accessory training beyond standard obedience courses, and must provide particular assistance to their humans. The assistance might be seizure detection, boundary protection to an autistic individual, support for the hearing- or sight-impaired, carrying of medical equipment, or any other number of support duties performed by service animals.

These animals and their owners, rightly, are protected by federal law.

Having a legitimate service animal means the owner is saying, "I have a disability, and this animal is necessary for my day-to-day functioning." Of course, federal law prohibits asking what that disability is, but but it does allow establishments to ask two things:

• Is the dog required because of a disability? (Again, establishments cannot ask what the disability is)
• What specific service or task is the dog trained to provide?

But, here's the rub... Businesses are often afraid to ask, because they either aren't aware of what they can ask, or they aren't informed as what to ask. Some businesses aren't even aware that they can ask the animal to leave, if it becomes disruptive or a danger or threat to the health of others. If they ask the wrong thing, or ask the dog to be removed improperly, they can get sued. Further, they have to take the answers to the two allowed questions at face value, because even legitimate service dogs don't have to be certified, by law.

And so, we have an onslaught of fake "service dogs" jumping up on people, knocking things over in stores, sniffing crotches, toileting in public venues and acting like general -- well, animals. And not well-trained ones.

How does this hurt anyone? Well, the service animal owner in this article says she's questioned more and more about the status of her seeing eye dog. This article shares the many ways fake service dogs harm business, legitimate service dog handlers, the dogs themselves, and the owners. 

In short, these fake "service dogs" are making the real ones look bad, and it's calling into question the legitimacy of much-needed companions for those with disabilities.

You may think your dog is well-behaved enough to pass a rigorous behavior test, and it may be. You may have the best-behaved dog, most well-trained dog on the planet. However, you devalue the legitimacy of disabilities suffered by real people when you fake a disability of your own.

My daughters are autistic. They may, someday, require a service dog. Currently, we are looking into how to appropriately and legally provide them with access to an ESA, which we know won't cover all the bases, but we are hoping it can help them to cope with certain high-stress situations which provide common triggers for them. I've discussed it with their therapist, and together, as a team, we are analyzing whether or not it would be appropriate for them, and how best to proceed.

When and if it does become necessary for us to seek service dog for them, I would hope that they and their service companions will not be subjected to doubt, disrespect, or denial of the legitimacy of their needs. 

There are plenty of businesses which are pet-friendly, and the list is growing. Rather than "faking it," I'm asking those of you who love your pets to please show support of those businesses in your area which have opened their doors to your pet, by shopping and enjoying those spaces with your buddy... without a "service animal" vest and fake "certification" from a sketchy website.

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My Husband Humiliated Me with a Cheeseburger

Get my recipe for a divine burger alternative here.

The email notification pinged on my Blackberry. It was a message from a reporter, seeking information on local vegans for a piece she is doing on veganism for a lifestyle magazine. Would I be interested in participating? You bet your sweet potato, I was interested!

I dialed the reporter’s number from the passenger seat of the car while Mr. Wright drove around, running errands. She thanked me for calling, and asked me questions such as, “What led you to follow a vegan diet?” and “What advice do you have for those who’d like to try a vegan diet?”

The answers came easily, and for once, I expressed myself eloquently with just the right amount of humor balanced with emotion, intellect and compassion. I was brilliant!

She asked me if my entire family followed a vegan diet, just as Mr. Wright pulled into the high school parking lot to pick up Pepper. No, I explained, the rest of the family is omnivorous. However, the meat in our freezer is either hunted by Mr. Wright, or raised by extended family under humane and hormone-free conditions.

“I really think there’s more integrity in the meat my family eats than in that found at the grocery store meat counter,” I said. “The animals didn’t live a life of suffering, as is so common in commercial farming. They existed in nature, or in a compassionate, well-monitored environment.”

I was on a roll, driving home my point that, although veganism might not be for everyone, we can all make conscientious decisions about our food. Did I mention I was brilliant?

At that very moment, Mr. Wright made a sharp left turn into the drive-thru of an establishment which represents the very antithesis of the point I was making. I won’t name names, here, but suffice it to say all my credibility on the ethics of eating was destroyed when he rolled down the window and started rattling off, “I’ll have a cheeseburger, Quarter Pounder, Big Mac and a McChicken… Pepper, do you want anything else?”

Have you seen the movie Pulp Fiction? Never have I more desired to resurrect the classic line, “…I’m hanging up the phone! Prank caller! Prank caller!” I asked for the entire incident to be stricken from the record, but… I’ll have to wait, with the rest of you, to see what the final article includes.

By the way, do you know why divorce attorneys are so expensive? Because sometimes, they’re worth it.

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Bad Juju and Other Vacation Food Dangers

On Nassau, moments before the Juju hit

Mr. Wright and I recently enjoyed a trip to Miami, the Bahamas and Key West. By “enjoyed,” of course, I mean “barely survived.” In my case, anyway.

The first leg of our trip found us in one of the poshest hotels in Miami. To put it in perspective, the nightclub in the hotel commands an eighty-dollar cover charge per reveler—just to get in the door. Once inside, said reveler can expect to spend a minimum of twenty bucks per drink, plus tip, but most of the Beautiful People get table service for a grand or two.

A few weeks ago, eighty bucks could have filled my gas tank. I didn’t need to shake my moneymaker so badly that I found myself willing to pay a Tank of Gas to get in the door. We decided to consume, rather than expend, calories by dining at the hotel sushi bar.

I went through my standard monologue—vegan, allergic to seafood, fish and shellfish in any form—and emphasized the importance of preventing cross-contamination. You know, so I wouldn’t DIE? The server, kitchen staff and sushi chef communicated their comprehension, citing their knowledge and training as employees of a bazillion-star hotel.

Our meal arrived, and I expertly used my chopsticks to dip a piece of tempura into the accompanying sauce, took a bite, and… pushed my plate away. “It’s fishy,” I said. Mr. Wright is accustomed to my food paranoia. He tasted the sauce, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I think you’re imagining it.”

That single bite confirmed its fishy consistency hours later, when I lost vision in my right eye and watched half my face swell like a puffer fish. A call to the restaurant revealed the main ingredient in the tempura sauce as “fish sauce.”

A few days later, we reached Nassau. I’d downed an entire package of antihistamines, and the swelling was beginning to subside. Nearly dying of anaphylactic shock had left a bad taste in my mouth, but I was recovering. It was a short-lived reprieve, though, as Mr. Wright insisted on stopping by a local fruit stand for fresh mangoes. The mangoes were fine, mind you. It was the jujus that ruined my tropical bliss.

When it comes to exotic fruits, I’m pretty fearless. I’ve chowed down slices of durian—notoriously recognized as the stinkiest fruit on the planet—but I was poorly prepared for jujus.

“What are those?” I asked, pointing to a box of small, cute-as-a-button fruits. “Jujus,” said the vendor. “Ladies love the jujus.” He chuckled a deep, rich, Caribbean rum-coated laugh. He handed me a juju, urging me to sample.

It had a texture like a dry sponge, which proved to be the best characteristic of the fruit. The flavor, I determined while rinsing my mouth out with nearby gravel, was… old cheese. Wrapped in smoked, dirty gym socks. I’m not sure who the “ladies” are who “love the jujus,” but if I ever meet one, I plan to slap her soundly across the face to knock some taste into her.

The following day we disembarked at a private island, where Mr. Wright and I frolicked about, half-dressed, as if we weren’t middle-aged with bodies to match. I stumbled upon a cluster of aloe vera plants, which I cut and applied to my deepening sunburn. Not one to learn a lesson easily, I was thrilled to identify a Wild Dilly tree—a relative to the tasty sapodilla.

Fearlessly, I bit into a firm, green fruit. “How is it?” asked Mr. Wright. I think I managed, “Ims ur biff shticshy…”

Unfortunately, I hadn’t studied enough about the species to know the unripe fruit is laced with latex, and inedible until the latex is gone via ripening. Not only is the gummy latex difficult to chew; it is also an excellent adhesive. Good things to know about the immature Wild Dilly fruit, for sure. Of course, I didn’t learn them until we returned to civilization, and Google.

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There’s a Crater on My Butt, and It’s Beautiful

Photo source

Several months ago, I saw my rear end in the mirror and shrieked. A quarter-sized dimple marked the top of my posterior, and a small, hard lump anchored the center of the dent.

Mr. Wright did a fair job of not appearing completely disgusted. “Did you hurt yourself, somehow?” he asked. No, I hadn’t hurt myself. This was before roller derby, after all. Today, I end up with all sorts of mysterious body damage.

I tried to ignore the dent, but over the next several weeks it deepened, and grew to the size of a silver dollar. In the middle of a caffeine-fueled medical panic session, I Googled phrases like “dimpled skin” and “skin puckers.” All results pointed to cellulite, an unfortunate substance my body produces in abundance, but even cellulite dimple images looked like porcelain compared to my back end. (A few links turned up for breast cancer, but considering the location of the pucker, I ruled it out.)

By last week, I sported a crater the size of a tangerine. I limped into the walk-in clinic for a roller derby injury—which turned out to be not a metatarsal fracture, but significant soft tissue damage—and asked, “Hey, will you look at my butt, while I’m in here?”

The doctor—a kind, grandfatherly sort—suggested I make an appointment with my primary care physician and show that lucky doctor my booty. “I don’t have a primary care doc,” I whined. “I’m not hurt or sick often enough to need one. Please, just look… It’s been there almost a year, and it’s growing.” I burst into tears before the poor man could ask why I’d been living with a cave carving its way into my rump for almost a year without seeking medical attention.

He reluctantly agreed, and I dropped my drawers. “Well, now… That’s interesting,” he said, in a mediocre attempt to conceal his repulsion. “Have you had any shots in that area?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I hate needles. Unless, of course, you’re asking about the cheap shots my husband takes at my ever-sagging rear end.”

Did I mention Mr. Wright was with me? That man never passes up an opportunity to prove me wrong. “You did have a shot,” he corrected. “Remember when you almost died last year?”

Oh. That.

About a year ago, I was overcome by a 105-degree fever and intense pain in my upper left side. When I finally got in to see a doctor, it turned out to be bacteria pneumonia.

I don’t deal well with needles, but deal worse with phrases like “brain seizure.” When the doctor jammed a needle in my upper buttock to bring the fever down, I couldn’t protest. My fever, in fact, was so high I’d been quite delirious at the time and literally had no recollection of the poke.

The walk-in doc has a theory about my derriere divot. He thinks the shot triggered a reaction which dissolved the fat cells around the injection site, and as the fat dissipated, the crater grew. “So, how do I get it fixed?” I asked.

“The body,” the doctor said, “will typically begin generating new fat cells and filling in the area after a couple years. If it was my butt, I’d leave it alone, rather than opt for cosmetic surgery. But… I can understand how it might be distressing to a woman like you.”

I’m still not sure exactly what he meant by a woman like you, but it truly is distressing. I’m completely self-conscious, choosing loose layers of clothing and avoiding clingy dresses. And undressing in front of Mr. Wright? Forget about it.

These days, I make a point of encouraging women to feel and believe in their own beauty and sexiness, regardless of body type, features or blemishes—but I struggle with feeling beautiful, myself. Through tears, I confessed all this in the little medical room.

“Perhaps,” the doctor offered, “this is a wonderful opportunity to live by the very words you offer to others.”

So, my friends, I have a cavern in my caboose. Don’t expect a full-page image any time soon, but I’m not going to allow a cosmetic blemish hardly anyone sees deprive me of beautiful thoughts about my body. It’s a good body. It has created life, nourished a child, donated bone marrow, and somehow remains visually pleasing to my husband.

I think that’s beautiful. Don’t you?

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A Bit Rash, Don't You Think?

Photo source

If you’re a longtime reader of The Gonzo Mama, you know I’m cursed with the most sensitive skin on the planet. You also know Mr. Wright is a bit—um—“frugal.” Throw those two circumstances into a shaker, add ice, and you have the makings for a Marital Murder Martini, straight up. All you need to do is toss it into the spin cycle.

As I may have mentioned, we’re moving. The home we’re moving into was previously set up as a vacation rental—it has four bedrooms, a pool, and a hot tub. Who wouldn’t want to vacation in such a haven? Well, us. We want to live in it, all the time. The owners are out-of-state. What that means for us is, in addition to moving all our things in, we also have to move all the previous instruments of comfort and convenience out.

Mr. Wright found some powdered detergent in a decorative glass jar in the laundry room. Obviously, the mystery powder couldn’t just be thrown out! After all, it was FREE, and in Mr. Wright’s world, that’s an acronym for Found, Ready, Easy and Economical. So, he washed a load of towels. He washed a couple loads of the kids’ clothes; a load of his clothes; and a load of my clothes, including my favorite boy-cut chonies, yoga pants, t-shirts and socks. Essentially, my loving launderer ensured that every particle of fabric coming into contact with my skin this week was clean—and toxic.

At first, I thought it was my new after-shower moisturizer. I’ve launched a new in-home party business (“I sell bath, beauty, and bedroom accessories. And by 'bedroom accessories,' I don't mean nightstand lamps.”), and my favorite product is to be sprayed over the entire body after showering and rubbed in, for all-day hydration of the skin. There I was, faithfully spraying and rubbing every day, even as the bumps began to appear. I checked the label, carefully reading the ingredients, and didn’t see any obvious triggers, but I stopped my daily ritual, just in case.

The moisturizing, I mean, not the showering.

A couple days later, my skin had morphed into dry, scaly patches. “No wonder,” I thought. “I haven’t been moisturizing!” I dug some sensitive-skin lotion out of a yet-unpacked box and greased myself up, the way Mom used to slap butter onto sheets of cinnamon roll dough before rolling them up in her old bakery. It wasn’t my sweet-scented, pheromone-laced favorite, but surely the lotion would lock in some moisture.

By the end of the day, the hives began populating. Around the same time, Snugglebug shed her clothes, complaining, “Mommy, I hurt. And my tummy has red dye on it.” Snugglebug and her sister, Curlytop, are both allergic to Red 40, a common food additive, and they’ve been trained to spot suspect products. “No, thank you; that has red dye,” is a common refrain.

Poor Snugglebug’s belly was covered in raised red patches, rivaling her mama’s. Indeed, it looked as if she’d been sprinkled with red dye. She may be adopted, but there’s no doubt she’s mine. My little four-year-old hadn’t yet discovered the miracle of after-shower moisturizers, so I was left scratching my head—and every other imaginable body part.

I’ll spare you the details.

It was a few long, itchy hours before Mr. Wright got home. He walked in the door, wrapped his arms around me, and drew me in for what would have been a passionate hug, had I not screamed, "Don’t TOUCH meeeeee!” It was a fiery, burning embrace, and not in a good way. Every cell of my skin was ablaze—and angry. Taken aback, and deprived of his wife’s back, Mr. Wright retreated to the room I most love to see him in: the laundry room.

I tried to muster an apology as he sorted clothes into the washing machine. Then, I watched as he dipped a measuring cup into an unmarked glass jar, scooped out some powder, and loaded it into the washer’s detergent cup. “What brand is that?” I asked. Mr. Wright shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” I shed my clothes—an act which usually inspires a favorable response from my husband. This time, his reaction bordered on disgust.

“Yuck,” he managed. “Have you been moisturizing properly?”


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Derby Gurlz, Psychosis, and - Oh! I Shoulda Been Born a Man

Check out GirlWonder and Pepper... Derby girls in training!

As I said, the derby girls have been traveling great distances to get to a skating rink until we all get our skates and our practice space becomes available. While driving over an hour each way might normally suck, I've hitched a ride the last two nights, and it's been amazingly cool. There's great music and entertaining discussion on the way, and sometimes, I even shut up and listen long enough to learn I'm not the only one in the world who's entertaining.

One of the things I'm hoping to gain from derby is the ability and desire to relate to women. Sure, I've had girlfriends over the years, but I'm always guarded; holding back in my relationships. It's a barrier I want to break down. My closest friends have always been guys, and while that has its benefits (I can be vulgar and I don't have to put on makeup or shave my legs if I don't feel like it), I've always wanted to have girlfriends. I just haven't known how to trust women enough to make that happen.

I pretty much just suck at being a good friend. I have a short attention span and a mind that runs wild with perceived rejection, and my counselor even told me I have a trace of teh BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder). That's a psychosis, so y'all can go settle your bets now, m'kay?

Maybe that's why it's easier to get along with men, who don't require as much in the way of emotional attachments - except Mr. Wright, who is the neediest of needy men when it comes to his emotional upkeep. It's like he's just going to fall down and die at one harsh word:

All I said was, "Honey, who told you you could wear white?"

Trust me - he's very much a man in the ways that matter, but when it comes to his feelings... he wants to talk about them and rehash them and cry like a little girl when I hurt them. And, I do hurt them. Not on purpose, of course, but I'm pretty aloof some (or maybe most) of the time, and maybe I should have been born a man so I could get away with that stuff.

The not talking about feelings, I mean.

Not the peeing standing up. I'm content to sit or squat, as the occasion may require.

I've been to Japan, yo.

Feelings make me nervous. I don't deal well with my own, and I pretty much freak out when people want to start talking about theirs. I'm not the girl to call if you want to "talk it out." I'll listen to a girl go on and on about her failing relationship or how she's disappointed with her kid or how her boss is treating her unfairly, and the whole time I'm thinking, But... how do you feel about ME?


Have I mentioned I have an unnatural fear of rejection?

I also have a really hard time with eye contact. Any time I'm speaking, I'm self-conscious. The last thing I want to do is look someone in the eye and see them snorting in an attempt to stifle their snickering at my awkwardness.

What's that? What did you say?

Well, no - I can't prove people are doing that. No, I haven't seen anyone do it, but it's because I'm looking down at the ground the entire time. Good thing, huh?

Anyway, hordes of people think I'm self-absorbed and snotty because I don't look them in the eye when they/I are/am speaking. They probably think I'm squirrelly, too, huh?

I'm having a great time skating with the girls, though, and I'm looking forward to being on the ground level and helping to build something great in our valley. At this point, I feel pretty safe because I'm still allowed an arm's length of emotional distance, since I don't really know most of the girls.

I made vegan double chocolate mini-cupcakes last night and frosted them with coconut almond "cream cheese" frosting. When I unveiled them at the rink, I think my message was pretty clear:

I don't care if you think I'm a standoffish bitch. I make killer cupcakes. Oh, and please LOVE ME!


I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but I write so I don't have to talk to people. I get all nervous and anxious in social situations because I'm not good at them. So I'm hoping I can figure it out with the derby girls. It's not about skating. It's about undoing a lifetime of social ineptitude.

It didn't say that in the registration packet, but I'm sure it was just an oversight.


Readers: Do you recognize any personality quirks in yourself that make you a little bit crazy? How would you go about changing them?


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My Mom Tried to Buy Me Porn for Christmas

Photo by D Sharon Pruitt

As a writer, I know the difference one single letter can make. Maya, a dear friend and publisher, once printed a thousand copies of a book in which “taping” was accidentally typed “raping.”

That, my friends, is why I read my work out loud before I run it, as often as possible.

It’s different with the whole texting thing. I rarely proofread text messages before I send them off, and so far, I haven’t made any critical mistakes. That is, until now – and it just figures that I would make that embarrassing error while texting my mother.

About a year ago, my cell phone buzzed, alerting me to a new text message. I opened my inbox. GUESS WHAT DAD GOT ME FOR MY BIRTHDAY? it read. Although the callback number was my mom’s, I found it hard to believe my mother was texting.

A teenager to send text messages for you? I responded.

It was just the beginning, of course. Mom must also have learned to use Google at the same time, because clearly, she found a guide to texting abbreviations somewhere and in short order started sending me texts like: K... C U L8R! My kids don’t even abbreviate to that point, and still, every message was entirely in capital letters, indicating my mother was shouting at the top of her lungs every time she sent a cellular quip. Let’s face it – fine is a far cry from FINE.

The next time I saw Mom, I asked if she was angry with me. At her blank look, I explained using all capitals in a text message was the same as yelling. She laughed and said she didn’t know how to change the case of the letters. I showed her how to disable the caps lock and reminded her to only use all caps when she intended to scream.

Mom recently texted to ask me what the kids, Mr. Wright and I wanted for Christmas. I responded with a lengthy reply, ending with a gift certificate for me from Zazzle.com. I’d designed an entire line of Gonzo Mama merchandise, and wanted to order some stock for my book signings. (Check out the entire Gonzo Mama line!) Anyway, I accidentally replaced the first letter of “Zazzle” with another, and Mom went clicking around the interwebs, trying to order my gift certificate.

The next texts I received were:

• R u sure this is what u want?
• Having trouble finding a place 2 order gift certs here... 

and

• It sez COMING SOON?

Confused, I pulled up the Zazzle site, where the link to order gift certificates was clearly functioning and prominently displayed. I sent Mom a response, asking her for the URL she was viewing. She sent me the web address I’d sent her – with the typo.

I then went to check out the page she’d been viewing. Sure enough, there was not a link to purchase a gift certificate, and the site did say “coming soon,” but the entire phrase was, instead, “COMING SOON: Readers’ Wives Photos!” and the site certainly wasn’t selling anything the Gonzo Mama would put her name or face on.

In certain situations, a phone call is more appropriate than a text, and I determined this to be one of them. I hastily dialed my mother’s number, and when she picked up, I began shouting, “Don’t click on anything! Go away from that page, Mom!”

She asked, “Are you angry with me? Because you’re using your ALL CAPS voice...”

Baby Booties… and Spare Me the Cracks!

Be sure to check out Coppertone.com
so they don't sue me and stuff.

It wasn’t too terribly long ago – in fact, it wasn’t nearly long enough ago – that I finally broke down, stopped shopping in the Juniors’ section, and asked for directions to the Misses’ section. The impetus, besides my hatefully widening hips, was the rising popularity of plummeting waistbands.

A whale tail! (Photo source)

Suddenly, pants for every female under the age of 50 were cut down to the pubic bone, thong chonies became mandatory, and the world became a sea of “whale tails.” In a country where the average female’s dress size is a ten or larger, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Women stocked their lingerie drawers with strips of fabric to wedge between their butt cheeks. As if a pair of underwear that could double as an eye patch wasn't ridiculous enough, these were embellished with rhinestones, cut-outs, metal charms and beads dangling down the tiny back triangles.

Yup. You can get your own here.

If there’d been enough fabric, I’m sure every single pair of those chonies would have sported the slogan “GOT CRACK?”

I was desperate to avoid the entire fashion fiasco. There, in the middle of the Misses’ section at a “discount name-brand” store, I found a line of denim that promised to preserve my dignity. I’m not going to name names, but it rhymes with Dee Kay En Why. The perfect pair of jeans waited for me, over in the grown-up clothing section. They fit like a dream, covered all the junk in my trunk, and sported a discreetly beautiful “4” on the tag.

I’m not stupid. I know when someone is stretching the truth – and the denim. Still, if my husband or a designer tells me my butt is a size four, I’m going to hold on to that dream, and rip to shreds anyone who might suggest I’m closer to an eight. Dee Kay En Why, indeed. I’ll tell you why… I love her because she has the decency to lie to me. Calvin who?

When Cosmopolitan trumpeted the death of the thong and celebrated the birth of boy shorts, I rejoiced. No more perma-wedgie! No more whale tails! No more butt cleavage!

Now, the problem is my kids.

It’s not my two teen sons with the slouchy pants. They have the good sense to wear boxer shorts and, as unappealing as that is, it saves the world from witnessing their still-developing can crevices. Let’s face it – there’ll be plenty of time for exposure during middle age.

Doesn't this sight make you wanna shoot someone in the butt?
Seriously... read this story at the photo source.

It’s not my teen girls who, thankfully, had the modesty to cover their posterior décolleté fashion mishaps with extra-long layered tees.

Order this one here and cover that tush!

No… it’s my four- and five-year old daughters who are rockin’ the booty cleavage these days. Their birth mother is a tiny twig of a thing, and my poor girls were born without the benefit of hips, a “bottom shelf,” or any other physical attribute that would hold up a pair of pants. Kids’ pants are often made with adjustable elastic fittings inside the waistband these days, and even those don’t help. It’s like trying to get a Cheerio to stay up around the middle of a dry spaghetti noodle.

Summers are easy enough. The girls live in sun dresses for the season, effectively covering their peek-a-booties, but when colder weather sets in, it becomes more difficult. We’ve tried overalls and found them not only ridiculously complicated during potty time, but also ill-designed for my long-bodied babies. To get the tops of the one-piece monstrosities to fit, the legs have to be about four inches too long.

Perhaps there’s still a market for tiny, bejeweled panties. They’ll just have to be much, much smaller...

Dude, Where’s My Zucchini?

If you leave your car unlocked, with the keys in the ignition, do the police still say it’s a crime if someone takes it?

Here’s the deal: The police say you’re stupid for leaving your keys in your unlocked car, but they do not say you’re not the victim of a crime. How do I know? I’ve had my car stolen – twice – by criminals who simply reached in the open driver’s side window, started up the engine with the keys left in the ignition, and driven off on a wild joyride.

Twice.

The first time, I was a small-town girl in a big city, and I didn’t know any better. I’d been sent to the stationery store for file folders. I was a paralegal intern at a law office, and it was my first job in the legal field. I was so excited to get out of the office, away from the male law firm partner’s suggestive comments and leering glances – and away from the icy stares of the female firm partner, his girlfriend – that I left my keys in the ignition while I ran inside for a task that should take no more than five minutes.

An unsavory fellow followed me in, and while I debated the virtues of color-coded file folders, he lingered by the door, watching me and gesturing to someone on the street. As I approached the cashier, the creepy dude bugged out, running down the street in a dead sprint. By the time I got my change and exited the building, of course, both the dude and his accomplice were gone – in my car.

My car was found, days later, abandoned on a nearby Native American reservation. State patrol impounded it, and I had the dubious privilege of paying the impound and towing fees to retrieve my own stolen car. They never caught the thieves, and I eyed with suspicion every young punk in a stationery store for years.

When I moved back to my small hometown, I began to let my paranoia fade as I wrapped myself in the familiar security of knowing and trusting one’s neighbors – and by “neighbors,” I mean everyone within a ten-mile radius.

I began to leave my car running while I checked the mail at the post office. I laughed when my adoption attorney advised us to lock up our cars during the summer. “I’m serious,” he said. “An unlocked car is an invitation for desperate gardeners to unload surplus crops this time of year. You’ll go back to find your car filled with zucchini.”

Mr. Wright loves zucchini.

Perhaps that’s why he left our Honda unlocked when I picked him up the other night in our full-sized SUV on the way to my parents’ house for dinner. We had a wonderful meal, visited with family, and headed home late, completely forgetting about the car we’d left in the parking lot of the store on the hill.

In the morning, I looked out the window and cried, “Someone’s stolen our car!” then laughed and remembered we’d failed to pick the Honda up the night before. I climbed into the SUV with Mr. Wright, who drove us up the road to the parking lot, where we both cried, “Someone has stolen our car!”

“How did they take it?” I asked. Mr. Wright, nearing tears, admitted he’d left the car unlocked, and the keys inside. “Unlocked? But why?” I screamed. “We have plenty of zucchini in the refrigerator!”

The culprits were apprehended about 24 hours later, driving my precious Honda down the highway. They were kids; teenagers. I almost felt sorry for them until I saw my GPS unit missing and found a glass pipe on the passenger side floor.

The car was even more of a disaster than when they’d driven it off – papers rifled through and strewn throughout the car – so it wasn’t until Mr. Wright cleaned it out the next morning that we discovered where, in all probability, my GPS unit had gone.

The bandits left about a gram of weed under the front seat. At a different time in my life, I might be tempted to call it even on the GPS, but a bag of grass isn’t going to help me find my next book signing location, and I don’t think I can alter my zucchini bread recipe to make proper use of the stuff.

As Mr. Wright handed his find over to the deputy, he laughingly asked, “If no one claims this within 30 days, do I get it back?”

I guess he’s really torn up about not getting the zucchini.

Photo source

I Just Wrote About My Sex Life for a Sex Toy Site. I'm Sorry, Mom.

I think I'm taking embarrassing my parents to a whole new level. In fact, if it ever becomes an Olympic sport, I'm a shoo-in. Can't you just see it?

Anyway, I wrote about Christian sex, and how it's not boring and is, in fact, quite the opposite for married couples with a sense of adventure.

So, you know, if you're going to be grossed out reading about my sex life... don't click over to Toy With Me. Seriously - if you think you'll never be able to look me in the eye again, knowing what Mr. Wright and I do in bed, don't click.

Go watch my book trailer  and buy my book instead. No saucy details of my sex life. I promise.

Also, it goes without saying - don't click over if you're a child. Especially MY children.

Finally, the title I submitted for the piece was "Christian Sex: Not Just Missionary Anymore." It got run as "How I Became a Porn Again Christian." You guys all know I'm vehemently anti-porn, right? Okay. Just wanted to get on the record, there.

Photo: Gonzo Jenny put the bunny ears and banner on me. I added the medal.

Desperate to Escape the Booty Call

I must confess to reading Crissy's Page. Crissy, for those who aren't already secret fans like me, is a librarian. A foul-mouthed, blunt to the point of embarrassment, sex-talking librarian. She's like the crazy cousin I never had. Actually, she's better than the crazy cousins I actually have.

Anyway, Crissy also blogs at Toy With Me, a site dedicated to *ahem* toys and sex. I'm a contentedly married and not-sexually-dead-yet mama, so I appreciate Crissy's point of view (also contentedly married and embracing of her sexuality). Perhaps it's this very reason that Crissy is so confused about the concept of "friends with benefits" and "booty call." (Warning to sensitive readers, for language and content.)

I wasn't always the good little churchgoing wifey that I am now.

In fact, I once had an ongoing booty call who just wouldn't go away, no matter how many hints I dropped or how many times I tried to dissolve the situation. This guy just didn't catch on. Dense? Maybe. Hooked on that good, good stuff he was getting? Probably.

In the end, I had to resort to drastic measures to make sure we never slept together again...

I married him!*


Have you ever *gasp* had a booty call or one night stand? Did anyone else out there marry a booty call, or am I the only one?

*It's HUMOR, kids... Let's not start the rumor that Mr. Wright and I aren't having the sex, okay?


Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/julishannon/2942158051/

“My Dog Ate It” and Other Weird Explanations

I made the earth-friendly choice, and qualified for a full-body search.

As you might imagine, seven kids, two adults, three dogs and two cats generate a lot of trips to the grocery store. In an effort to make my appointment to our city’s sustainability steering committee a slightly less laughable matter, I’ve been trying to “green up” my family’s shopping habits by reducing the number of plastic and paper bags we tote out of stores, and increasing the amount of items we buy in bulk in order to consume less packaging.

Last week I picked up a few baggies of dried culinary herbs and spices at our local natural foods store. At the register, I tossed the small bulk packages into my oversized purse instead of accepting a paper bag. When I got home, I refilled each and every spice jar in my pantry, except one. One of the herbs was missing.

Fortunately, the rogue baggie was located in a corner of my purse a few days later by a security guard at the county clerk’s office during my bag check. He was extremely interested in the cut green herb inside.

It was oregano. I swear!

It’s not the first time I’ve been mistakenly suspected of “holding.” A few years ago, I went through a period of passionate green tea consumption. While driving solo through another state in the wee hours of the morning, I accidentally floated slightly over the fog line and was pulled over on suspicion of driving under the influence. Knowing I hadn’t consumed any alcohol, I confidently rolled down my window to speak with the trooper.

He caught one whiff of my breath, called for backup, and asked me to step out of the car.

He confiscated my travel mug, took a hearty sniff of it, and requested permission to search my vehicle as three additional patrol cars pulled in behind me, and I stood, bawling and shivering, on the side of the highway while red and blue lights whirled around my head.

Green tea, my friends, has a very “grassy” smell.

I’m not the only one in my family who finds herself in uncomfortable situations with harmless or ironic explanations. Pepper recently found herself facing a library fine for a book she misplaced. “I don’t know what I did with it,” she said. “I put it… somewhere… and now I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere!”

The book’s title? “Airhead.”

When our black Lab, Perseus, was a puppy, he had a chewing habit. A big one. Our friend, Bullet Bob, kept Persey for a few days while we were out of town. A frantic cross-country telephone call from Bob informed us that the pup had chewed through a bag of grass seed and followed with a bag of concrete mix for dessert. Persey lived, but the week that followed caused me to view topiary yard ornaments in an entirely new way.

Not long afterward, Princess brought me a book, chewed to pieces. It was no mystery who the culprit was, and as Perseus slunk into the back yard, it was evident that even our budding veterinarian daughter was beginning to lose her patience with our canine’s insatiable appetite for non-food items.

That book’s subject, of course, was dog obedience training.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/axis/101184905/

Get the "F" Outta Here!

That's right... You know what word I'm talking about.

It's that four-letter word that makes you feel dirty; makes you feel like running and hiding, lest anyone see how uncomfortable it makes you. C'mon, now, spell it with me...

F - E - A - R!

Confession: I am terrified to read in public. I mean, part of the reason I write is so I don't have to talk to people. Don't get me wrong - I love people. I like to think I'm as much a "people person" as the next guy, and with Mr. Wright being "the next guy," I try to be a tough act to follow. That is, when I'm not actually doing an "act."

If you know me in real life, you know I'll talk your ear off. You know how tough it is to have a conversation with me, because I just won't. stop. talking. Maybe you've seen my theatrical efforts, watched me onstage playing a spinster (Crimes of the Heart), a courtesan (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum), or an ad executive (Twelve Angry Jurors; an adaptation of Twelve Angry Men). Maybe you've witnessed the spectacle that is my belly dancing effort (if so, my most sincere apologies).

The thing is, none of those compare to reading my work in public. I can have a one-on-one conversation with someone, even if it's more of my "one" than my companion's. I can put on a costume and become someone else. I can even comically shake my money maker with minimal humiliation, but doing literary readings makes my lunch wanna get up and dance... right up my esophagus and out my mouth.

It's just so... personal. Baring my soul to (what I hope will be) crowds of strangers adoring fans is a little -- well, soul-baring.

Do you have any tips on how to overcome stage fright? Or a secret fear of your own?

Let's get the "F" out of our lives, together!

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nettsu/4583111188/

I Think I’ll Curl Up and Diet

For years, I’ve said weight, much like age, is just a number. “What matters is how I feel,” I’ve said. Do I have enough energy? Can I move around comfortably? Do my clothes fit? As long as I could answer “yes” to those questions, the status quo sufficed.

My bathroom scale – otherwise known as Judge of the John – collected dust under the sink, and I became quite happy with a little distance in our relationship. Judge John hasn’t said anything pleasant to me in years, and our brief conversations begin with him proclaiming something so ridiculous, it’s offensive, and end with me rolling my eyes and vowing never to see him again.

While it’s true that weight is just a number, that number is currently 25 more than when I met Mr. Wright, ten years ago. I’ve added six children to my family in that time, and it’s natural for a woman to pack on a few extra pounds when she welcomes a new child.

Of course, those women actually grow children inside their bodies. Can I claim empathy pounds?

Do I have enough energy? Sure, depending on what you want me to do. I have adequate energy levels to cuddle a child on the sofa while watching a Veggie Tales DVD. Once a day, I can muster enough power to prepare a meal that doesn’t involve a microwave. If anything further is required, the last of my reserves will rally to prepare a pot of coffee.

Can I move around comfortably? In many ways, I’m more comfortable. Ten years ago, I couldn’t sleep on my side or my stomach without my ribs getting in the way. Today, I can sleep in any position, and though I haven’t seen or heard from my ribs in a while, I suspect they’re doing fine, wherever they are. At least, I haven’t received any phone calls asking for bail money.

Do my clothes fit? If “skinny jeans” is really just a figure of fashion speech, my clothes fit. If an A-line dress is meant to be fitted all the way down the line, my clothes fit. As long as I can believe my dresses shrunk, making the hemlines much higher – and ignore Mr. Wright’s supposition that my butt is just lower – my clothes fit. As long as I wear yoga pants and sweatshirts… my clothes fit.

I tried a girdle. I think they’re called “body shapers” now. Indeed, my body took on new shape after I stretched, tugged, yanked, held my breath and jumped up and down while pulling the infernal thing into place. It should be noted that special scientific laws apply to fat and cellulite; namely, they can’t be flattened or smoothed, but they can be redistributed.

The padding from my butt and thighs, squeezed downward, oozed out the legs of the body shaper until the tops of my knees looked like two loaves of bread. My love handles smooshed upward, out the top of the shaper, giving me every appearance of a second set of breasts and the need for another brassiere.

My rear end and mid-section – as promised – were perfectly shaped and smoothed, for what it’s worth.

I’m pretty sure I heard Judge John snickering under the bathroom sink as I pleaded with my last pair of size six jeans this morning. My feelings were so hurt; I almost couldn’t finish my second stack of peanut butter pancakes.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jodigreen/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Growth Forces Sale, Make an Offer!

For sale: 2 cubic feet of cellulite. Expansion forces sacrifice of this sizable collection. I'm willing to entertain all serious offers, but must confess I've become quite attached. Might make good insulation for custom building project or filling for overstuffed chair? Lovely cottage-cheese texture may make acceptable substitute for popcorn ceiling. No phone calls, please - I'm keeping the line open for Jenny Craig.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/toreajade/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

All the Wright Moves

The homeschooling next-door neighbors with six kids and the homeschooling family across the street with six kids laid hands on the huge trailer attached to our Suburban. They prayed for our safety, and thanked the Lord that we were leaving.

Our northern Snohomish County community was nice enough, but we really were the freaks of the neighborhood. Back then, we only had five kids; all of our neighbors had six. We were irresponsible enough to send our kids to public school; our neighbors all homeschooled.

We were preparing to move to the Lake Chelan Valley, and I was protesting the entire plan. No one could understand my resistance, and many asked, “Isn’t your whole family there?” as if that weren’t enough reason for my unwillingness to return.

The truth was, I had a bad feeling about the move. When Murphy penned his famous law, I suspect he had our future move in mind.

Our new house didn’t close in time, but summer soccer practice started right on schedule. That meant getting up with Princess at 3:00 a.m. every weekday morning, making a pot of coffee and driving over Stevens Pass to get to practice in Chelan by 7:00 a.m. There were still a lot of things to be done at the old house before our renters arrived, so after practice we drove three hours home, where I boxed and scrubbed and wallpapered and painted until I fell unconscious.

Our renters couldn’t delay their move-in date, and we had to start moving things out of the house before we actually had a new home to move them into. Mr. Wright rented a storage unit in Chelan and borrowed a friend’s pickup truck to haul boxes and bins over during his inter-county trips between his new office and home.

During a late-night trip over the mountains, Mr. Wright was involved in an accident when another driver fell asleep at the wheel. He wasn’t terribly hurt, but I used the incident as further proof that we shouldn’t be moving.

I was frustrated at having to move everything twice; once into the storage unit, and again into our new house when – and if – it ever closed. Fortunately, someone broke the padlock on the unit and relieved us of many of our possessions, so there wasn’t quite so much to move in the end.

Two days before the renters were due I sat, teary-eyed, in the middle of the living room floor, a gallon of sand-colored paint spilled on the carpet in front of me. I’d only meant to touch up the window sills.

We loaded the last of the boxes into the huge trailer, only to realize there was too much weight, and the tires were beginning to flatten with the pressure. Mr. Wright pulled furniture and bins out, rearranging them, until the weight was more evenly distributed and not directly over the tires.

“The trailer’s too heavy,” I said. “We’re either going to wreck our transmission, bust a tire, or make it on sheer faith.” I called the homeschoolers. Everyone laid hands on the trailer and the Suburban, asking God to provide us with safe travels and mechanical miracles.

We cleared the top of Stevens Pass just after dark. It was all downhill from there, as they say. At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Wright glanced in his side mirror to see a wheel spinning down the road. It passed, crossed in front of us and came to a smashing halt against the guardrail.

“You don’t think…” I began, as Mr. Wright pulled over to the side of the road. I never did finish the sentence. I didn’t have to. We both knew where the wheel had come from.

As we approached the back of the trailer, it was clear that one of the center wheels had come off. We both broke into hysteric, unrestrained laughter that lasted far too long. (Think Tom Hanks in “The Money Pit,” when the bathtub falls through the floor.)

When he could manage words, Mr. Wright took my hand and said, “Let’s go find the lug nuts, Babe,” and we walked and walked up the highway, flashlights piercing the darkness.

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