Swimsuit Season: Terror in the Dressing Room

I did it, I tried on the first swimsuit of the season.  Men cannot understand how traumatizing this is, they who spend their summers in baggy, elastic waist swim trunks. Most women, however, know that feeling of dread as you walk to the dressing room, a variety of choices in your hand--something colorful, something black; something teeny something tent-like.  None of them will fit right, you tell yourself, let's just get it over with. Or maybe you're optimistic:  They're all so cute, it'll be hard to  pick just one!  (Note:  If that's your internal monologue, you are obviously under the age of 21 and your actual weight matches that listed on your driver's license.  You may stop reading this now, as it doesn't pertain to you.  Or better yet, bookmark this post and come back to it ten years and two kids from now.)

My husband and I are getting ready to go on our annual anniversary trip to Las Vegas (read:  No Kids!!!) and I realized all my swimsuits make me look very matronly.  While some may consider me to be a matron--mid 40's, three kids, minivan and the prerequisite wedding ring--that doesn't mean I want to dress like one. I am hardly obese, but with age comes not only great wisdom, but a slower metabolism.  A few parts of me may be a little rounder, and squishier, than they once were, but that doesn't mean I want to dress like my grandmother.

A few years back I read an article about choosing swimsuits which claimed less is more.  The idea is that if you wear the skirted, cover-up type suit you will look heavier than if you have more skin showing.  The article suggested a string bikini, since the fit is adjustable and therefore will not cut into your flesh, causing...spillage.  In theory this made sense and, feeling adventurous, I went to the local Walmart (first mistake) and choose a couple mix-and-match pieces from the Juniors section (mistake #2) and took them home without trying them on (and three's a charm!).  Let's just say these so-called swimsuit pieces didn't quite cover all my pieces.  I then got to experience the joy of waiting in Walmart's "customer service" line to return them.  The next two summers were very matronly.

This year I planned to get into better shape before our trip through better diet (lots of fruits and vegetables!) and exercise (gym workout every day, maybe running).  As happens all too often, life got in the way.  While I am eating healthier and exercising three times a week, this has not budged a single fat cell.  Apparently my body thinks my family is going to set me adrift on an ice flow, so it is guarding those fat reserves as if my life depended on it.  Let's just say I am not what any self help magazine or lingerie catalog would consider swimsuit shape.

 

So I walked into Target thinking I'd just get a boy-short style swimsuit bottom and maybe a tankini top.  I looked at the choices, which weren't that different from what I had at home, and felt defeated already.  The bikini styles were so much cuter, with more variety and more colors.  And then I remembered that article.  Well, what the H-E-double toothpicks, I thought. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Which is how I ended up in a dressing room in a bikini--black bottoms with tie sides and green and white polka-dotted top.  And it wasn't horrible.  It's unlikely that the pool boys will be throwing themselves at my feet, but it wasn't horrible.  I will probably not even frighten any small children, though I may provide a cautionary tale to those hard bodied 20-somethings.  The way I figure, most of those at the pool will be drunk anyway, who'll notice if I brought my muffin top with me ?  I myself may partake in a blended drink with an umbrella and fresh fruit garnish (for my diet regimen, of course.) so perhaps I might not notice either. 

And there it hangs, on the back of my bedroom door, reminding me every day for the next three weeks that fruits, vegetables and exercise are the holy trifecta of swimsuit season.
 

If Loving You Is Wrong

Sometimes it's a guilty pleasure, maybe the desire for the unattainable, or just an obsession with a bad boy.  Many of us have had at least one love that we know is wrong, but just can't seem to quit.  I have three.  The objects of my affection may never reciprocate my feelings, and while I know it's wrong for me to care for them so, I just can't--no won't--live without them. And my husband isn't even jealous.


First I will come clean and admit that I love my dishwasher.  Before you start googling "human/dishwasher love", let me state emphatically that this is a spiritual love and not anything base or, ahem, dirty.   Most of the places I've lived as an adult had either no dishwasher or the cheapest model available, possibly purchased on a street corner in the dead of night and very likely from a third world country (whose inhabitants had no idea why we crazy Westerners couldn't just wash our dishes by hand).  One of these could barely even be called a dishwasher--dish rinser would have been a more accurate term.  It absolutely would not wash off peanut butter--this had to be hand washed first and then put in the dishwasher, thereby negating the purpose of this appliance.  The model we have now, a Bosch (which those of you in the know will recognize as the Cadillac of dishwashers) will clean pretty much anything.  I like to test it every once in a while to see its devotion to me and my dirty dishes.  Lasagna pan?  Sure.  Old moldy coffee cup that's been sitting in the back of my husband's work truck for a month?  Clean.  Knife with peanut butter on it?  Hallelujah!  I believe!!  My dishwasher is that love that gives you everything you ask for and never lets you down.

My next love is as big of a shock to me as it was to my teenage daughter.  Who would think that a middle-aged mother of three would fall so hard for the rap song  "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore?  The first time I heard it I was just flipping through radio stations, went past it, then had to go back.  But then I knew:  we were meant to be.  It has a catchy beat, quirky lyrics and will get stuck in your head before you can say "I'm gonna pop some tags." By a Seattle-based rapper, the song and video do not talk about drugs or contain half naked women (which seem to be the staple of the rap world), although I'm sure "your grammy, you aunty, your momma, your mammy" would not approve of some of his language. But that's part of the fun of this song--I get to remember the me that could use swear words with impunity. Now my kids looked scandalized when I sing along with "I'm in this big ass coat."  Thrift Shop is that bad boy we've all fallen for--sure he's fun, but you can't take him home to meet the parents.  Or you kids.

This last love has left me so conflicted, I can barely say it here.  I love Amazon.  While this local company lets me purchase everything from rain boots to MP3 downloads from the comfort of my own laptop, delivered to my door in two business days, I am wracked with guilt every time I log in.  In my former life I was a bookseller at Elliott Bay Book Company a well-respected, independently owned bookstore.  Many independent bookstores are slowly being forced out of business by competition with huge companies, who can bargain for higher discounts and therefore offer lower prices.  This sounds all well and good to the consumer (competition is good, right?), but when you consider these smaller bookstores are staffed by real live people who actually have a say in what appears on their shelves (as opposed to say Costco, who has a corporate book buyer determining their stock), Amazon is the devil.  But I love Amazon!  It all started when I got a Kindle for Christmas a couple years ago--I was hooked after the first ebook download. I can read, play games, stream movies, search the internet and then toss it in my purse and take it with me.  The Kindle was my gateway drug.  Soon I discovered all the wonders that Amazon.com had to offer.  Not just Kindle books (which I download for free from the library), but clothes and shoes and toys and and ipod cases and movies and...Oh, I was hooked big time.  But what about my bookseller friends?  Was I being disloyal?  Was I shopping them out of a job?  It doesn't count if I don't order my books there, right?  I'm very likely going to bookseller's purgatory, where the none of the books have spines and you receive 20 cases of  Donald Trump's rewrite of "Pride and Prejudice."  Amazon is that boyfriend that showers you with attention, but treats your friends like shit.

Barbara Mandrell, that country songstress who rose to fame in the 1980's, knew the turmoil a heart goes through when your love is forbidden. 

Your mama and daddy say it's a shame

It's a downright disgrace

Long as I got you by my side

I don't care what your people say

If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right.

 

 

 

 

A Dog's Life

Many of us have memories of a favorite pet from childhood.  My family's dog Ralph came to us when he and I were both one.  My mom said that during my toddler years he would follow me around the yard, guarding me from trouble.  Of indeterminate parentage,  Ralph taught me the unconditional love only dogs can offer.  He made me a dog person before I even knew what it was to be a person.

Yet, if you had told me that I would one day spend what roughly equals a mortgage payment on medical bills for my current dog, I would suspect you'd been dipping into the kitty's catnip.  However,  I recently financed (yes, financed) cancer treatment for a dog who only cost $250 brand new, straight off the show room floor (complete with new puppy smell).

Granted, this is not just any dog.  Jack is a 6-year-old yellow lab who is known and loved by the entire neighborhood. He was named after the dog in Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House series and the main character from the book I, Jack by Patricia Finney.  As a puppy he loved nothing more than chewing up anything left unattended:  shoes (especially if they were new), the kids' toys (several Polly Pocket dolls lost limbs one summer afternoon) and even the pump hose while it was still attached to swimming pool, thereby flooding  the entire backyard with water.  Luckily for us all, he grew into the best dog ever.   He knows how to sit, spell (W-A-L-K) and when to act ashamed ("Uh-oh, Jack, what did you do?").  He is a bird dog extraordinaire--pheasants and ducks alike quake at the mere mention of his name.  He is the giver of kisses and the healer of broken hearts.  Jack is a good dog. 

So when we found the lump on his lip the size of a blueberry and the vet mentioned the dreaded C word, I was more than a little upset.  I knew Jack couldn't stay with us forever.  Maybe one day when he could no longer keep up with the younger dog retrieving the birds, after our son went off to college, when our girls had grown past the age that a snuggle with the puppy boy made a bad day a little brighter, I knew we'd have to let him go.  But not yet.

My husband's parents were originally farmers.  Any animals they had served a purpose:  cats killed mice, dogs kept away coyotes, pigs were bacon.  My husband always told me he'd never let a dog sleep in our house--they'd be in a kennel outside.  Today our dogs each have a memory foam bed next to the fireplace.  He always said that he wouldn't pay large amounts of money to keep a dog alive--he'd just go back across the street and buy another lab for $250.  Yet we agreed that Jack was too good of a dog to let go without a fight.  And this kind of fight costs roughly the same as our house payment. 

Yesterday the vet removed the tumor, took chest x-rays and an aspiration of his lymph node to see if the cancer has spread.  Now we wait and see if our future holds a dog named Jack.  And while we make payments on his medical bills, we love him and spoil him and let him give us as many kisses as he wants. 

When the day comes that Jack is no longer a happy dog, when going for a walk no longer makes him wag his whole self with excitement, when his body no longer lets him enjoy this life, I will have to let him go.  That is what good pet owners do.


Jack is the dog our kids will remember their whole lives.   He will be the dog that sets the benchmark for every other pet they ever own.  When they come back to visit us as grown ups and we reminisce  about the old days, I know Jack will come up with every other memory.  Remember when we first got Jack and his coloring was so much like Sam's we said they were brothers?  How about when he was a puppy and used to stand on top of the dining room table?  Or how he ate half of that birthday cake and then got sick all over the house?  Now that was a good dog.

White Girls Can't Hula

(I am a week and a half into my Lenten Facebook Fast and realized that without my addiction, I have lots to do.  Like lots of stuff I wasn't getting done because I was busy dinking around on Facebook.  So, being busy, and therefore exhausted, I also haven't been writing much.  I was determined to get something written tonight, when I discovered this post I started in January and never finished.  Here I give you the reason why I'm giving up my Caucasian Membership Card.)


I recently returned from a family trip to Hawaii and I have come to a startling conclusion:

I am entirely too white.

Yes, it's true--with a ethnic background made up exclusively of Northern Europeans, I spent a week in tropical sunshine and never got more than a shade past pasty.  I have tried to embrace my milky skin tone, but having married into a family of olive-complected sun-lovers does tend to give one a bit of a complex. 

How I look to Hawaiians

While I would have liked to come home with a Coppertone tan, I realized during our trip that it was more than my skin color that pales in comparison to the Hawaiian natives.  It became clear as I listened to tour guides, talked to locals and watched the dancing at a luau that perhaps my personality was also too white.  Have let myself slip into a stereotype of a "typical" Caucasian American?  I might as well been wearing Bermuda shorts, socks with sandals, and camera draped around my neck.  As the locals talked about traditions and local culture, I felt like I must seem pretty bland and boring to them. 

While I don't mean to suggest that being a Caucasian American is a bad thing, let's face it, we don't always embrace differences, which doesn't make much sense, living in a melting pot of a country. (Give us your tired, your poor--unless they speak a funny sounding language or worship a god other than our own.)  We also don't have the best reputation when dealing with native people (smallpox anyone?) or those with skin color any darker than taupe (I'll take a side of segregation and Jim Crowe laws, please).  What did we Northern European Americans contribute to the cultural landscape?  White bread, fast food and strip malls, to name a few. I can proudly say my own ancestors brought you Ballard and lutefisk.  (Ohh, how exotic!)

One of the bus drivers in Honolulu explained the meaning of aloha as "sharing the breath of life" and that Hawaiians used to greet each other by breathing through their noses into each other's face, thus sharing their spirit.  "Haloe", he said, meant "one who doesn't share the spirit."  Apparently some non-natives took offense to strangers exhaling in their face. 

I have decided to be haole no more.  I will breathe in your face and accept the spirit of my fellow humans.  I will learn about other cultures and step out of my comfort zone. 


How I think I look in Hawaii

I will not wear socks with my sandals.


A recent issue of Sunset magazine has an article about the Hawaiian lifestyle, by Kaui Hart Hemmings, author of The Descendants. In it she describes the kind of laid back life style and spirit of community many would envy.  I am ready to embrace my place as a true Hawaiian cousin.

I may have been born an uptight white girl, but I believe I have the soul of a wahine (who just happens to burn unless she's wearing SPF 30 sunblock). 





(In researching the term "haole" I stumbled across an article entitled Haole? The Unbearable Whiteness of Being.  I wish I would've come up with that title first.)


I'm with Stupid

It was my great misfortune to be born into an intelligent family.  I am the youngest of five children and whatever nugget of wisdom I came upon was already old news to my siblings.  I remember coming home from first grade bursting with the knowledge I had gained that day, excitedly sharing with one of my brothers my new found facts.  I was told in the most bored way possible (which can be achieved only by an older sibling to an occasionally annoying little sister): "Well, of course, everyone knows that."  I was the youngest, the smallest and knew the least.  No one asked for my opinion.

This did not squelch my thirst for knowledge, but only drove me to learn more.  I became an avid reader, got good grades in school, attended college and got my BA in English.  I still assume everyone knows more than I do, but this just makes me want me to keep learning.

Now, I am no Einstein; there are many things I do not understand.   There are gaps as big as the universe in my comprehension of such things as actuary tables and football, calculus and insurance policies.  However, I try to consider more than one side to any argument, gather as much information as I can, and carefully weigh all facts before forming an opinion. (I also hate to be wrong, which makes it sometimes difficult for me to come down firmly on one side or another.)   I will freely admit to many unflattering character traits:  I am a mediocre house cleaner, at best; I will choose to eat apple fritters over vegetables and wonder why I'm not losing weight; and I rarely remember to floss.

But I am not stupid.

Which is why I feel compelled to remind those on social media  (or the news media, or any particular religious group or political party):  Just because I don't share your opinion doesn't mean I don't understand the topic.  Facebook is a great place to catch up with old and new friends, share recipes and ideas.  I have no problem with you voicing your political or religious views there.  But please, for me, your oldest friend from high school/new acquaintance/fellow soccer mom, don't make broad statements against those who might not share those views.  That political figure you didn't vote for?  Guess what, I did.  That group of people who don't think your religion is the only way to heaven?  Might be me.  People who prefer dogs over cats?  Guilty as charged. 

Am I a bad person because I don't agree with you?  I hope you don't think so.  Remember, it's me, Kristin/Kris/Krissy/KLAG.  We used to finger paint together/skip study hall/stay up all night complaining about our parents/boyfriends/jobs.  Don't you recognize me from over there?  I am not crazy because we're on different sides of a debate. We're just on different sides. 

You can rest assured that I weighed the same facts you did, I considered the "what ifs" and "what fors" and might have come to a different conclusion.  Please do not group me into the "you're either with me or you're wrong" group of those who may (or may not) be ruining our country.  Just because I took 2+2 and got 3+1 or 5-1 instead of 4 doesn't make me against you.  I just see it in a different way.

I try not to take it personally, but I have to say the presidential race was tough on me.  So many opinions being shared so vehemently.  I try to remember that these are people that I know and respect, friends and family.  People who have taken 2+2 and gotten 4, while I was composing an essay on what the number 4 means to me.  I'm trying to be open minded and take it all in stride.

So feel free to share with me whatever you're passionate about.  Tell me how your day was, boast about your kid, promote whatever cause you want.  Un-friend me for my opinions if you must, just please don't call me stupid.

Candy Revolution

I don't know if you've seen them, hanging out in front of the local grocery store in their blue vests, stopping people and asking for money.  They always have impeccable manners and a winning smile, pawning off boxes of candy on their unsuspecting victims.

They are Camp Fire girls and they are out to take over the world.

It seems innocent enough:  young children raising money for an organization by selling mints and Almond Roca--even their candy supports a local company (Brown & Haley out of Tacoma, Washington).  They ask politely and they always say "Have a nice day" if they're turned down. 

I suggest you don't turn them down. 

The Camp Fire organization promises to give young people the "opportunity to find their spark, lift their voice, and discover who they are."  Sounds like a call for uprising to me.  They send out these fresh-faced minions in their badge-covered vests, weaseling their way into the community with their Almond Caramel Clusters and sweet smiles.

The next thing you know, the whole country is living the Camp Fire way of life.  They will teach your children manners!  They will encourage our young people to participate in charitable giving (one local group collected donations for a no-kill cat shelter) and involve themselves in the community (marching in Christmas parades and making Valentines for veterans).

They want your children to spend their summers outside!  At camp!  During these indoctrination "summer camps" your children will learn to swim, in lakes, and breathe fresh air.  They will roast marshmallows and sing songs of revolution, such as Tarzan of the Apes (in which the radical Tarzan proclaims his love for "bananas, coconuts and grapes") or Black Socks ("They never get dirty, the longer you wear them the stronger they get").

Once they learn the Camp Fire way, these youngsters will grow into responsible adults, with a sense of camaraderie and money handling skills.    They will become community leaders and contributing members of society.  They will possess the secret of the Creamy Smooth Mint Patties.  There will be no stopping them.

What can we do about this coming coup?  I suggest you stop politely when approached by the Children of the Blue Vest, ask what they recommend, and then open your wallets to them.  They will remember those who've supported their cause and will find room for you in their brave new world. 

And when you see that other subversive group, the Girl Scouts, peddling their cookies next month, give 'em a wink and the secret hand shake.  Tell them the Camp Fire Girls sent you.

 

 

(The Camp Fire organization is made up of both girls and boys, but I 've only come to know the female of the species.  My apologies to the young gentleman revolutionaries for excluding them.)

 

 

 

 

Hollister Knows Breast

Recently at a Houston mall some moms got into trouble with the mall cops for breastfeeding their babies at a Hollister store.  If you're not familiar with the Hollister chain, it's where anorexic teenagers with too much money go to have their hearing damaged--oh, and to buy clothes.  When you walk into the store you will notice two things:  it is too dark to see the clothes and too loud to hear what the sales clerk is saying.  "I think she just welcomed me to the store.  Or did she say I was too fat and old to shop here?"  Just smile and nod...

Which makes me wonder why anyone would want to feed their baby there.  It is loud and dark and full of sulky teenagers.  How can this be healthy?  They may be well fed, but you will probably have to teach them sign language.

Now, don't get me wrong, I am all for breastfeeding.  I successfully breastfed three babies past the age of twelve months.  I often fed my babies in public and was never once asked to leave or given a dirty look.

Why, Kristin, how is it you managed to give your baby the best choice in nutrition, at any time of day, without having to stage a militant rally? 

Umm...I didn't flash my boobs?

Before you had children, did you walk though public places with your breasts hanging out or did you keep them in your shirt?  (Spring Break freshman year doesn't count)  Why is that once you reproduced the rules changed?  The pictures these women posted on Facebook of their Nurse-In shows several side-boob shots (okay, also seen at every major awards show) and several full boobie shots with baby attached to the end (kind of like a baby pastie).   

I understand the argument these women make.  Breastfeeding is not dirty--they should be allowed to feed their babies any place and not have to huddle in a smelly public restroom.  When my children were newborns, they ate so often it sometimes seemed that I should just leave the darn things out.  And I know some babies resist being covered with a blanket, but if you can't be discreet perhaps it's time to rethink the breastfeeding-in-public thing.  Or move somewhere that's a little more comfortable with bare breasts, like Rio De Janeiro, or some place featured in the old National Geographic magazines.  (And honestly, Honey, the girls don't look quite as good as they did freshman year.)

The thing that bothers me the most about these stories is it makes breastfeeding mothers look like some sort of weird, new-age hippie freaks.  (You know, like Alicia Silverstone or Mayim Bialikok.)  I never chewed my children's food for them, nor did I carry then around twenty-four hours a day until they were bigger than me (and I had developed a herniated disc).  And I say once a child can sit up at the table and order for themselves off the menu, it's definitely time to wean them. 

Breastfeeding is a wonderful experience for both mother and child.  But not for the others shoppers at the mall.

The funniest thing about this story would have been the reaction of the Hollister employees to a nursing woman. ("OMG!  That lady has her boob out!  Eww, totally gross!")  The store manager asked the woman to leave, telling her she couldn't do that on Hollister property.  She told him
"It’s Texas. I can breastfeed anywhere I like."  Apparently hungry teenagers in over-priced clothes are outside the jurisdiction of the state of Texas, as the manager informed the woman "Not at Hollister." 

Ah yes, Hollister does know breast.


(Spell check didn't like how I spelled "boobie."  Too bad, spell check.  Boobie, boobie, boobie.)