Filed under: Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, doctor, doctors, employment, gynecology, health, humor, jobs, manufacturing, medicine, Middle-Age, OBGYN, occupation, occupations, sex, sex toys, subourbonmom
Every once in a while I have a great business idea, and if someone ever acts on them, just throw some of your millions my way to say thanks.
The other day I made my sort-of annual visit to the “girl doctor.” Now, I know that we all have to check our dignity at the door for that particular visit. my way of coping is to stare at the annoyingly cheerful pictures of kittens and tropical beaches taped to the ceiling, willing myself away to my happy place while they do whatever they have to do.
Which brings me to my question about OBGYN visits: With all of our medical knowledge and scientific advancements, why does visiting the OBGYN still have to be so awkward and uncomfortable?
Spas have heated massage tables – why must we lay on a cold, vinyl-covered table in a chilly room wearing a tissue paper “robe?” How about a heated table and some steamy towels instead?
And for that matter, since we end up waiting interminably for the doctor to arrive once we’re scantily clad, why not add cup holders and a minibar so we can relax a little bit? If they can add stirrups, they can add cup holders.
We have medicine to eliminate pain, repair skin and counteract venom. How have we not developed OBGYN instruments and examination rooms to make an awkward situation less…awkward?
So, while I was in the waiting room, I started Googling on my phone. For those of you that know me, this is NEVER A GOOD THING.
I learned that medical instrument sales and manufacturing is an estimated $133 billion industry. The sex toy industry, pre-Fifty Shades of Gray, was about $15 billion, and estimated to reach $52 billion by 2020. So how is it that these two industries have not gotten into bed together and made gynecological instruments that are more comfortable? To me, mating these products should be an obvious business decision.
The main tool that’s used looks (to me) pretty much like a curling iron with a light attached to the end. When I looked at the ones for sale (because for some reason you can just buy these on eBay – exactly who is buying this stuff?), they were all metal or acrylic. Why not make them out of the same latex-free materials that (I hear) are on sex toys? In fact, why stop there? Why not put a heater in there too? Our body temperature is 98.6 degrees – why on earth are we using instruments that feel like an icicle?
If these two industries could just swipe right and meet in the middle, I guaranty women would be more likely to come.
In fact, if all those crazy sex toys ads that clutter up our email are even remotely true, by using their technology OBGYN medical instrument manufacturers could change how women view going to that particular kind of doctor – in fact, they could revolutionize the industry. Preventative OBGYN medicine would become the norm as women no longer dreaded their visits, but actually looked forward to them. Disease rates would decline with early detection. Jobs would be created as new product lines are developed and manufacturing could return to the U.S.
So their you have it folks – how I would bring the “O” (I mean “occupations”, you gutter-minded people) back to the dreaded OBGYN visit.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, children, family, graduation, high school, humor, kids, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, Seniors, south, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens
As the end of Daughter #1’s Senior Year approaches, the final sprint towards final exams, AP tests, and Senior Project has begun. Not to mention prom, graduation, college selection, and the never-ending game of Senior Assassin (more on this later). For Seniors this means tearing themselves away from watching vines and shopping for prom dresses and studying for exams, throwing together last-minute power point presentations and agonizing over roommate selection. 
For parents this means panicking when you realize you never ordered graduation announcements, approving and paying for the last prom and graduation dresses, and deciding how to celebrate this momentous of times – do we have a keg at the party for the adults or not?
It also means attending the Senior project presentations. At our school, Senior Project is a year-long process involving learning a new skill or challenging yourself in a new way (like learning to make cheese, hatching and raising chickens, trying to understand the lyrics to Rhianna’s songs, etc.), documenting it, doing a research paper, and presenting the whole thing in front of a small group of parents and teachers.
As I sat there watching these impressive young adults show how they started their own yoga classes, created scholarships, ran half-marathons, published their own international blog on Russian politics and even learned how to fly fish, I wondered What the hell have I been doing with my life?
I was impressed and depressed all at the same time. These young people were avidly exploring new ideas, challenging themselves and getting out of their comfort zones in ways that many adults never will.
Thank goodness these kids will be in charge of me when I finally become an adult.
I was depressed because I took an inventory of my recent years and realized I haven’t done much in the way of challenging myself other than to start a new job. Somehow I don’t think trying new food at the local Iranian restaurant counts.
And then I realized that my Senior Project isn’t done yet. I’m still researching how to raise successful women on a daily basis. I’m nearly always out of my comfort zone. My PowerPoint presentation is currently still housed in my laptop under “Pictures” and in the copies of report cards and assignments I’ve kept over the years. And, I present my project in front of my parents every time they visit or call.
I don’t know what my final grade will be, but I’m no longer depressed. I’m more and more impressed with my project every day.
Now if I could just figure out how to cite all those parenting how-to websites I’ve visited over the years.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, Cats, dog toys, dogs, family, humor, Lily, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, Pets, puppies, rescue dogs, south, southern, SPCA, subourbonmom
We have a house full of cats, (by that I mean we have three, which makes any house smell like there’s a cat hoarding situation going on – call Animal Planet), 
and I’m not a fan. Hubby and the Daughters each have a cat that loves them – I am merely the House Staff that is tolerated. I have been relegated to taking care of Larry The Fish – who, let’s face it, isn’t exactly stimulating company.
I wanted a dog.
So our latest acquisition, quickly falling under the “What were we thinking?” category, is our new “free” dog, Lily. Lily is a rescue, and she’s everything I said I didn’t want when we first decided to get a dog: she’s a puppy, not housebroken, and high-energy. I’ve since been informed that what I really wanted was a housebroken sloth.
We’re pretty sure Lily’s never been in a house before, walked on a leash, or hung out with people…ever. She’s terrified of just about everything except other dogs. In the 3 weeks we’ve had her she’s run away 3 times, decided that pooping inside is preferable to standing in the cold by the woodpile, and will only walk through the front door.
But we love her.
Ok, I love her. The rest of the jury is still out.
Which is why I found myself standing in the dog toy aisle in Wal-Mart, looking for something Lily might like to play with to get her mind off the Scary Box That Talks (the t.v.), the Scary Smaller Box That Talks (the radio), the Mean Cats, Scary Couch, Scary Pillows, Scary Kitchen, Scary Bathroom, etc. I’m a pretty firm believer that the same parental coping strategies can apply to dogs as to children – give them something to keep them busy so you can do the things you need to do.
So for the same reason I gave my kids questionable Mac-n-Cheese and off-brand Cheerios when they were little (they don’t know the difference and I’m cleaning up their poop anyway), I decided to go the cheap route and visit my local big-box store to get Lily some toys.
I stood in awe, looking at the range of wild animals and Muppet-like things that squeak, crackle, crinkle and smell like peanut butter. Some even looked disturbingly like sex toys. (My co-worker’s dag actually has this one, but she assures me it doesn’t come with batteries.) 
None of them were under $3.00, and none of them are any kind of off-brand, that I could tell. Um…just to be clear, this is something I’m buying for my dog to shake and chew on, right? What happened to just having your dog pull on an old sock?
So there I was, squeezing every toy like a toddler in one of those saucer things parents use to keep their child occupied while Mommy drinks her wine. I was obsessed. I couldn’t stop making those toys squeak and crackle over and over again, sending loud, annoying, fake mouse shrieks up and down the Pet section, and into Lighting and Paint. It was like scratching an itch – it was wrong, but it felt ooooh, soooo right.
In the end, I opted for a raccoon, a blue elephant and something that looks like a rat crossed with a parrot. Two days later, raccoon stuffing littered the dining room, and the elephant’s ear has gone missing – I’m pretty sure Lily ate it. I’m looking forward to seeing that on the dining room floor tomorrow morning.
But somehow Lily managed to worm her way quickly into my heart, and the Fam’s too. She always manages to redeem herself by putting herself in her crate when she’s been “bad”, or lying next to us (only slightly under duress) on the couch while we watch the Scary Box That Talks. But the next toy I buy will be a toy in the shape of a cat, with life-like meows…or I could go high-end, and just let her chase our actual cats.
Who’s the Staff now, little kitties?
(maniacal laughter fading….)
Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, bra, clothing, Exercise, gym, health, humor, Middle-Age, sports, sports bras, sportswear, subourbonmom
As I continue my journey back to moderate fitness so I can flail around in an inner tube all summer with my cup of bourbon, I have come to the realization that my old school sports bras are holding me back – not up.
Everyone moans and groans about the hardships of exercising – the exhaustion, frustration, injuries and limited food choices, but women don’t usually address one of the most difficult post-exercise struggles that many of us face:
Removing that sweaty sports bra.
Let me begin by explaining that I’ve had my four sports bras for at least 5 years, which is longer than I’ve stuck with most t.v. shows and celebrity crushes. And I’m told it’s probably not a good thing – they are designed to keep The Girls contained, and to prevent the pain of all the independent jumping about they like to do. I’m pretty sure at this point those old sports bras are not doing much more for me than keeping everyone from realizing it takes me at least 15 minutes to warm up when the gym thermostat is set to “arctic.”
Oh they’re comfortable enough, like my fave pair of sweat pants – soft and stretchy. But they also have that irritating habit of turning into a boa constrictor-like leviathan I can’t remove once I’m done punishing myself for eating that entire pan of Rice Krispie treats.
And if you’re changing in a gym locker room, it’s even worse – there are witnesses to the absurdity that happens after every workout.
After every session I try to let myself cool down as much as possible before turning myself into a pretzel in order to get that stretchy monkey off my back. It never works, but I do have a system:
Step 1: Try in vain to pull the sports bra over my head by grasping the sides, like you would a t-shirt.
Step 2: Succeed in twisting the bra into a tourniquet, where it becomes stuck, wrapped around my upper chest like my own hand-made mammogram.
Step 3: Proceed to thank God for my inhaler that allows me to breathe during this most difficult part of my workout.
Step 4: Bend over at the waist and scrabble at the back of the sports bra with two hands to try and pull the damn thing off.
Step 5: Curse my stiff shoulders and vow to do more stretching.
Step 6: Get one arm out, accidentally getting a whiff of my armpit and the nasty, sweaty bra at the same time.
Step 7: Gag.
Step 8: Pull bra over my head while exhaling and fling it across the room in victory.
Step 9: Swear (again) that I will splurge and actually buy a quality, zip-shut sports bra.
I can’t even imagine what it must be like for my friends who are more…buxom, and have to “double bag” The Girls every time they work out. Taking off two of these Lycra straightjackets would be enough to make me give up on the whole exercise thing together.
In case these struggles are preventing you from exercising, don’t worry – they make snap- and zip-front sports bras, an sexy ones, too. Apparently this is not a new phenomenon – others had these struggles as well, and shopped for sports bras more recently than 2005. But until I can get to the store, I’ll push (or pull) on, trusting that I’m building triceps every time I get undressed after a workout.
Filed under: Exercise, Food/Drink, Middle Age, Posts, Spring Break | Tags: adulthood, bikini, bourbon, Exercise, gym, health, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, Running, Running Tourette's, south, southern, Spring Break, subourbonmom, summer, treadmill, Virginia, weight loss, winter
After walking around all winter grumbling about how I hate the way my stomach has started moving independently of the rest of my body, I finally realized I was actually going to have to do something about it.
I was going to have to start…dare I say it?
Exercising.
And even worse… Eating Better.
So I did what I always do when I realize Virginia winters don’t require the amount of extra insulation I’ve been building up. I tried a few things, and quickly realized my intentions do not match the reality of the situation.
Intention: I am trying to eat 5 fruits and veggies a day and limiting bread to get more good carbs and limit the bad.
Reality: My body went into a fiber-induced shock. Apparently, granola is not everybody’s friend, at least not at first.
Intention: I am limiting alcohol – and by that I mean I am only having drinks Thursday through Saturday. (Some folks asked me “why include Thursday?” Well duh…because Thursday is “Little Friday!”)
Reality: Middle Age takes care of some of that desire; I now have a whole list of drinks that make me have hot flashes, so I’m definitely weighing my choices more carefully – is it really worth having to change out of my sweat-soaked my PJs at 3:00am to have that glass of wine? Nope.
Intention: I bought a few Clean Eating and exercise magazines to give me inspiration and ideas.
Reality: They make me feel like I am being healthy without actually being healthy…until I look at the 20-year-olds in the pictures who clearly have never had children and don’t sit in an office cube all day like a veal. I also refuse to spend a lot of money on special spices and high-end oils that those Clean Eating magazines seem to demand. And, I have never once tried any of the exercises in the fitness mags – mostly because I couldn’t follow the diagrams any more than I can put together anything that says “some assembly required.”
Intention: I am regularly exercising at the office gym, mostly doing ab work and cardio to get the weight off as fast as I can.
Reality: Running on the treadmill comes with two hazards I wasn’t expecting:
1. Watching my reflection in the windows as I run makes me unbalanced – I had to grab the rails before I shot off the back of the machine like a sweaty, horizontal human waterfall;
2. I thought my new cheap headphones were mildly electrocuting me every few seconds, until I realized that in the winter treadmills acquire a lot of static electricity. So, every 3rd or 4th step I had to slap the metal rail with my hand to prevent the static zap from reaching my headphones and inner ear. I don’t know what the people walking by the gym window thought, but I’m pretty sure I looked like I had a case of Running Tourette’s.
Intention: I am going to look awesome in a bikini this summer.
Reality: I will once again spend too much money on a conservative tankini that my mother will approve of.
But in the meantime, I’m going to be burning those extra calories flailing at the metal treadmill rails – maybe those expended calories will turn into that bikini body I remember. Or maybe they’ll just let me eat that extra helping of summertime happy hour appetizers.
Subourbon Mom 