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?

"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

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?”


"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

Tricks of the Trade-Off

Getting what you want from your spouse is easy...
if you know how.
(Photo by Dean's Photography, Everett, WA)

You’ll never hear Mr. Wright speak an unkind word against me. Well, from my point of view, anyway. See, I don’t think it’s unflattering to be described as “wily, calculating and manipulative.” In fact, I think it’s just another way for my husband to acknowledge my brilliant creativity.

After ten years with my beloved, I can say with confidence, I’ve learned the best ways to approach him, given any particular situation.

For example, if I find a dress I love at my favorite boutique, and I know he’ll balk at the price, I simply purchase the dress, along with another, less flattering, more expensive dress. When I get home, I say, “Honey, I bought two dresses today, but I’m going to take one back. Which do you like?”

He’ll check the price tags, and invariably insist I keep the one I originally wanted.

Like most men, he responds positively to any promise of Grown-Up Time at day’s end. If I need something painted, some heavy thing moved, or a major purchase, I know if I suggest there’s an act of physical fun in it for him, it will make the chore much more pleasant for him. You know, a spoonful of sugar and all that.

The real trick is, of course, not to promise anything I don’t have a hankerin’ for in the first place. That way, I don’t make extra work for myself, see?

Take yesterday, for example. After I got the little ones off to school, I spent the day in search of distraction to keep me from housework. It was no easy task, either, considering the amount of work to be done. Anyway, nearing the end of the day, I’d done everything but the housework, and I began to suspect Mr. Wright would notice the mountain of dishes in the sink and the avalanche of laundry spilling out of the utility room and into the hallway.

Mr. Wright is not, by nature, a Noticer of Things. Still, there are some things I can’t sweep under the rug – not that I didn’t try it with the avalanche of laundry.

Anyway, I did what any other wife would do… I took a photo of myself, sans clothing, with my camera phone and sent it to my husband, along with a note saying, “Let this serve as official notice I did absolutely no housework today.”

I didn’t even have to mention Grown-Up Time.

What’s that? You don’t do that every time your husband is headed home from work and you “forgot” to clean his house and cook his supper? Really? Perhaps you should. It worked out smartly for me.

Mr. Wright was awfully happy to do all the dishes and laundry last night. Can you imagine? I figure, after a couple repeat photo sessions, he’ll hire a maid and send me to photography school.

For the poor husbands out there, wondering if Mr. Wright got his Grown-Up Time, don’t fret. He did. I simply can’t resist a man in an apron, mopping my floors.

Gosh, what woman can?

If You Read Naked, They Will Come

I may have mentioned, on occasion, I'm terrified of reading in public.

Someone suggested to me the old trick of imagining the audience naked in order to put me at ease. Have you SEEN my audiences? Sure, they're fine, handsome folks, but between people from my church and family members, I think it best not to imagine them, sans clothing.

Perhaps the trick is to arrive naked, myself. That way, the audience will be too distracted to notice how nervous I am.

That being said, I'll be you can't wait for my reading tomorrow at Odd Hours Books. Can you? It's Cindy Davis's tenth anniversary as the owner of Odd Hours. That's a really great accomplishment! I'll be there from 3-5:00pm to help her celebrate, and hope to sell a few books in the process. Check out the event flyer (click to enlarge):

If you're on Facebook, you can RSVP for the event here.

Hope to see you there!

(Banner and bunny ears added to my nekkid self by GonzoJenny. You can thank her. Imagine the alternative! Well, actually, DON'T.)

The Chonies I’ll Be Wearing When I Die

With all the excitement and travel, I almost forgot to post this week's Gonzo Mama newspaper column! No worries, readers. Here it is:

If I’m ever involved in a tragic accident, I’m pretty sure I won’t be wearing the lacy black Victoria’s Secret panties that always find their way to the back of my drawer. Even worse, it will probably be Laundry Day, and I’ll be wearing some sort of faded cotton granny panty. The waistband, its elastic long popped and ineffective, will be held together with nothing but a prayer and maybe a safety pin or two.

I have a near-clinical fear of flying or riding in any vessel that travels at extreme speeds or altitudes. In ten hours, I will be boarding a plane to Japan, where I will embark on a journey that begins with a bullet train.

For precisely this reason, I’m packing only my best chonies.

Yesterday really was Laundry Day. Not only were we preparing to leave the country for a week, but we were also preparing for the housesitter who, under no circumstances, should be forced to live for a week with the mountain of laundry I should have done two weeks ago.

I was upstairs, cleaning the toddlers’ room (because our housesitter must also not be led to believe that we allow our children to raise livestock in their bedrooms) when my keen eye and excellent perception helped to discover the mountain of dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. I’m a great detective like that. With my arms full of pink textiles, I trotted down the stairs to the laundry room, where I saw Mr. Wright folding a load that had just finished in the dryer.

And that wasn’t all I saw.

There, in all his glory, was a naked Mr. Wright. Well, almost naked. A swath of powder blue cotton/Spandex® blend stretched over my husband’s nether region, and I couldn’t help but notice it was a small swath. I mean, bikini-small.

“What are you wearing?” I asked my strictly-boxer-brief man. “Are you wearing… bikini chonies?”

He looked at me, as if to say, “Clearly, I am. It’s Laundry Day,” but remained silent. Suddenly, I became extremely curious – okay, obsessed – about where the pale blue offenders had come from. Was Mr. Wright carrying on with some trollop who told him, during nights of steamy romance, that he would look mighty fine in a set of micro-shorts?

Well? Was he?

No. He assured me the chonies in question were circa 1988. Why he hadn’t tossed them by now is anyone’s guess. Maybe he hasn’t worn them often enough in the last 22 years to feel he’s really gotten his money out of them. Always the spendthrift, that husband of mine.

My main concern now is ensuring that the light blue bikinis don’t find their way into Mr. Wright’s luggage. They are precisely the type of chonies that invite disaster, and if our plane starts plummeting into the Pacific or the bullet train jumps the track at 200 miles per hour, I don’t want to have to check Mr. Wright’s pants to see if it’s his fault.



Photo credits:

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

http://www.flickr.com/photos/27923176@N02/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Wife, Mother… Exhibitionist

To date, I have subjected three generations of Wright men to the horror of my naked body. My husband, the middle Wright, seems unharmed by the experience, but it’s unlikely that the eldest and youngest of the clan escaped permanent scarring. Neighbors, parcel deliverymen and some unsuspecting Jehovah’s Witnesses have also been victimized, but I don’t share a dinner table with any of them, so I can’t comment on their respective rehabilitations.

Three years ago, we adopted a Lab puppy. My husband had expressed a desire for “a good hunting dog,” and I’d found the perfect candidate. His name was Rufus, and he resided with a Slovakian foster family. There were problems, of course. First, Rufus was a rescue, and we didn’t know much about his history, except that he had been taken from a drug addict. Second, Rufus spoke Slovak fluently, but pretended not to understand English commands at all. Finally, Rufus’s mind operated on an intellectual level so high that we mere humans remained blind to his devious plots until it was too late.

Of course, it is entirely possible that Rufus simply had one too many hits off the crack pipe in his first home. He was anxious and high-strung, and when the prescribed “doggy downers” didn’t work, we resorted to gulping them down ourselves and hiding behind locked doors from his destruction. No good. Rufus laughed evilly at our feeble human brains and picked the locks. He could open any door in the house, at any time.

As I undressed for bed one night, The Dude approached my closed bedroom door and lifted his hand to knock. Before he completed the motion, Rufus appeared and offered (in dog Slovak, of course), “Hey, you want that door to open? Let me help you out!” Before The Dude could translate, Rufus opened the door and pushed it open. The relative quiet of the house was pierced by my startled scream, and The Dude shrieking, “My eyes! My eyes! Oh, please, make it stop!” as he ran into his room, slammed the door, and collapsed, sobbing, into the fetal position.

Being seen naked is a traumatic experience for nearly any woman over 30, but for a teenage boy, seeing his mother naked requires years of therapy. Spending the monetary equivalent of a college education on psychotherapy might help him survive, but it will never, ever erase the horrific image from his brain.

My least favorite feature in our house is our front door, which is actually just a huge pane of glass with a little metal frame around it. Any visitor is treated to an unobstructed view into not only my bedroom, but the downstairs bathroom, as well. For this reason alone, I am attempting to train everyone to keep both doors closed, lest anyone be treated to a peep show they didn’t count on. I, of course, always close both doors. I’m not some sort of exhibitionist!

It’s the high-speed streaking between the closed doors that I need to work on.

A few months ago, I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around myself, and retreated to the bedroom to get dressed. As I dried off, I remembered that I’d set my clean clothes on the bathroom counter. To this day, I can’t think of one good reason that my clothes and my naked body ended up in different rooms. Furthermore, I can’t rationalize why I didn’t take that towel with me when I darted from my bedroom to the bathroom (though, to be honest, it happens pretty frequently). Mid-streak, I realized that my father-in-law was standing at the front door, finger poised to ring the doorbell.

I tried to pretend that maybe he didn’t actually see me, but The Dude confirmed it after a visit with his grandparents. “Grandpa mentioned that it was pretty embarrassing when he saw you running to the bathroom without a towel,” he reported. “I told him I know how he feels.”

Perfect… they’ve formed a support group.