There should be bathrooms along the roads. At least a porta-potty here and there. Something. Because let me tell you, there is nothing worse than having to go to the bathroom and there not be a place to relieve yourself.
The family and I were out at a street festival in a neighboring town. My mistake was the free chocolate sampling. I loved the chocolate. The chocolate did not love me. The sensation was sudden and strong. Of course, it didn’t hit until we were in the car in the middle of a deserted street with nothing but trees on both sides.
I was in full-on panic mode accompanied with the sweats and a little nausea. No amount of “the dance” was going to help me. So, I did what every proper and self respecting woman would do. I screamed at DH to pull over. This business could not wait another second.
I rifled through the glove compartment and found 2 squares of one-ply napkins. The kind you get at the chinese take-out restaurant. I practically rolled myself down the embankment and into the woods. Not quite sure how deep I went. My attitude was equivalent to that feeling you have when you are in the throe’s of childbirth. You could not care less if everyone including the Pope was there watching.
So to answer my own question? Yes, they do. And apparently so do grown women. Words from the wise: Never have anything less than 50 two-ply napkins in the car at any given time. You never know when you will really need them.
I was inspired by “Brittany Herself” to write about this subject. You should check out her blog at www.brittanyherself.com. She’s a great writer. And she’s really, really funny. No, she’s not a personal friend. She doesn’t even know I exist. I just follow her. Because she’s a funny female. Something I am aspiring to be. But I digress.
I’m no Twiggy. I’m not a size 4 or 6 anymore but I’m not Plus size either, not yet anyway. I would say I was average. Average is average, right? So why in the world is it so damn difficult to find a pair of cute riding boots that fit around my calf?
Two Christmas’s ago the only thing on my list was a pair of brown riding boots and a pair of black ones (yes, the same ones that made my feet look and feel like the inside of a chum bucket). DH wanted some suggestions. So, I took myself to the local mall and began my search. I thought it would be easy. Every other woman, girl and child were wearing them. I’ve already seen half a million different boots that I loved. Easy. Breezy. And as the kid would say, “no probs.”
I loaded my arms with what seemed like a dozen half pairs and asked the salesman for a size 7. Thank you very much. I waited with anticipation for the footwear fashion show that I was about to have for myself right there in the middle of the Macy’s shoe department to begin. I was so charged. I thought the only problem I was going to have was to decide which pair I liked best.
After a few minutes, Tom the Salesman came out of the stockroom with a pile of boxes. I was beyond excited. You know that feeling you get right before you get on a roller coaster? That excited. Except without the feeling-like-you’re-going-to-throw-up part.
As I pulled on boot after boot, I was discovering that not one single pair will close around or pull up over my calf. It was like trying to squeeze a rhino into a girdle. And no shoe horn in the free world was going to help me.
The air was let right out of me. Not gingerly, like when you don’t want the balloon to pop in your face so you put the pin through a piece of tape you adhered to the surface kind of air release. This was the real thing. Complete with the loud bang accompanied by a small heart attack. Quickly, my “no probs” turned into a “probs.”
“Why,” I said to Tom, “are the shafts on all of these boots so tight? Who are these made for? Barbie?” He then went on to explain to me that a lot of women started complaining to shoe companies about the size of the calves on boots. They were “too big.” Too big for who? Oh right. Barbie. I’m calling bullshit. 90% (not a real statistic, I kinda made that up but it’s gotta be close) of the female population is not Barbie. Perhaps Skipper. But not Barbie.
I am Skipper. My neighbor is Skipper. 4 of my 5 sisters-in-law are Skipper. Ok, so my best friend might be Barbie. I am no mathematical wizard, but it seems to me that most of us are at least Skipper.
So, where did I find my “wide-calved” boots? On the internet. After hours upon hours of completely stressful and irritating searching. Yes, I like my boots. I don’t love them like some I’ve seen on other women. But I do like them a lot. I even will get the occasional compliment. But I’m allowed to have a little bumfest.
So now I just walk around in complete boot-envy hell. That’s okay. Spring should be here any day now. Then I won’t have to worry about it for another 6 or 7 months. My flip flops fit great. You can’t take that away from me Barbie. Well, unless these become popular:
Then you’ll just find me in the Caveman exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. Because that’s what I’ll be. A barefooted caveman. Or a hippy. Wait, that could be fun. I was at Woodstock. Ok, I wasn’t. But I could have been. Who cares if I was 2. I’m sure I was barefoot then too.
Remember when we were kids and our moms would tell us about how when SHE was a kid, she had to walk up hill both ways to school in the snow sleet and rain a hundred miles barefoot? Well, I have not only turned into my mom, but my dad, grandparents and great aunt combined. Every time we would visit mother’s childhood town, she would show us the exact route, where she stopped to cross the street and the place where the soda shop used to be. I could walk every step of that route. On my own. Blindfolded.
Every story from walking long distances to using pay phones are told to the kid at great length and in great detail. She rolls her eyes at me just as I did at my mother a generation before. When the kid complains about having to walk ANYWHERE, I am reminded of the story of what I had to do at her age.
I was pushing the ripe old age of 12 and my family made a transition from our rural country Tennessee home to Yonkers. It was a stop along the way to our permanent home. You know, just temporary. And thank God it was just that. Temporary. Or I may either be dead or….well, dead.
On the first day of school, my mother walked my 2 brothers and me to our schools so that we would know the way. We had one chance to learn the route, so we were paying close attention. The walk to P.S. 23 was exactly 1.2 miles one way. That’s really not that far if you think about it. But when you are 11.5 years old and you have to walk through a literal war zone in the process, it’s not so fun.
To top it off I was knobby kneed, weighed 50 pounds soaking wet and happened to be very afraid of my own shadow. Also, remember my mom made my clothes. Need I say more? During that first week, a mean girl decided to stare me down. So I did what every self respecting white girl in the middle of the ghetto should do. Stared right back at her and didn’t back down. BIG mistake. No. HUGE mistake.
I was rewarded with a nice jump on one of the street corners on my walk home. It wasn’t as bad as you might think. They just pushed me around a little. My brothers were younger than me but they weren’t exempt of any danger. One of them had a knife pulled out on him. By a girl. Who was 7. A 16 year old boy threatened to kill my other brother. My other brother was 9. Awesome.
So, next time your mom complains that they had to walk 15 miles one way through the great flood, ask her if she was jumped, knived or had a price on her head. I bet she didn’t. It’s cool. We survived. What is that saying? What doesn’t kill you, makes you stonger? I don’t know if I’m stronger, but I won’t stare down a mean girl ever again. Or go for a walk through the Amazon.
DH and I have different views on how you should care for a car. For me, it’s 4 wheels with a roof that gets me from point A to point B. I don’t mind if it dents, scratches or buckles. I will wedge myself into a parking spot with barely room to exit (I proved so here) if it means taking less steps to get to my destination.
My husband believes in caring for your car as if it were a new baby. Gently parking it in what I refer to as “the nosebleed section” of the parking lot. If I wanted to walk that far, I would have left the car at home. I know he’s doing the correct thing. For resale value, treating your car with kid gloves is the way to go. But I intend to drive my car into the ground. So I’m cool with it.
Did I mention that I am married to the Car Whisperer? His dent radar goes off every time I have a mishap. And I have a mishap often. I have hit those stupid cement pillars in underground parking lots (who puts those things there anyway?), I have run over mailboxes, deer heads and nails. I’ve backed up into bushes and down embankments (that only happened once and my driveway was icy so don’t judge me).
Once I completely didn’t see a large carcass of I-don’t-know-what in the middle of the road. It literally scraped against the undercarriage of my car. That stench stayed with us until we traded her in. Anyone who has had the pleasure of coming into my driveway knows that there is a huge rock to the left of it. I have even hit that and blown out a tire. I think my husband has given up. My next car will most likely be a leftover from the demolition derby, I’m afraid.
But don’t be frightened to drive with me. I have less accidents and traffic tickets than most. In fact, I really am an excellent driver. Just ask the deer I hit.
I was in the car the other day and a popular 1980’s rap song came on the radio. It led me to start thinking about the differences between my rap music and the kid’s rap music.
Today’s rap music teaches our children about drugs, sex and really bad words. The newest rap song about shopping in a thrift store is really, really catchy. The only problem is they say the “F” word 5 times. “Shit” is spoken 4 times. And “damn”, “ass” and “bitch” are thrown in there for good measure. Oh, I forgot they also use the other word for “penis” (in case you don’t know, it rhymes with lock). But dang, that song has a good beat. I hate to admit that I kind of like it. Although I’m not thrilled about the kid listening to it. When you hear it on the radio, every other word needs to be bleeped out. Really, what’s the point?
Our rap music talked about aliens who like to eat heads, cars and bars. Fighting for the right to party. Telling us to bust a move. And my favorite: Wonder Mike wanting to say hello to all the races. They were cheesy, but we could listen to them without giving our parents a damn heart attack. I’m sure we had some rap that wasn’t very appropriate, but I never heard it on the radio.
Then there’s the song called Gucci Gucci. Is it about having expensive, high-end designer clothes? I don’t really know. I do know the chick who sings it likes to throw “bitch” around a lot and talks about medication for the treatment of ADHD and narcolepsy. I have the feeling it’s about a whole lot more but the obvious generation gap doesn’t allow me to know what the bleep bleep she’s talking about.
Oh, and all you parents out there. If you hear a rapper rappin’ about “Molly,” it isn’t his new girlfriend. “Molly” isn’t quite a cute little blonde chick. No. “Molly” is the newest word on the street for Ecstasy. How do I know? I received an email from anotha’ motha’. We momma’s gotta stick together. I should make a rap song about that. Maybe I will. Peace out.