Filed under: Spring Break | Tags: Bahamas, clothing, family, humor, Middle-Age, mom, resorts, south, southern, Spring Break, teenagers, teens, travel
Spring Break at a resort in the Bahamas—what a great place to people-watch! And, like anywhere else, there are stereotypes galore. Here are a few I enjoyed watching as I sat by the pool, turning my skin into leather and racking up more dermatologist bills:
UnderBoob: The woman who wears her bikini top on the water rides, and unbeknownst to her, it rides up
Aqua-Velva Man: Sixty-year-old men who consistently try to pick up 20-year-olds in the casino
Flash More-Mom: Mom whose bathing suit is too small for her augmented breasts
SliderMan: The guy who slides his way in front of you at the bar and gets served first
Fatman & The Toy Wonder: The fat, Eurotrash guy who has a trophy wife/girlfriend on his arm; the toy is usually blond and significantly younger.
EnvironMan: The granola tree-hugger who walks around the resort in recycled flip-flops and a t-shirt that says “Save the (fill in the blank),” but drinks from a Styrofoam cup
Narrow: Named for the narrow strip of banana-hammock (man-thong) occasionally seen on European men, which only makes other men and women narrow their eyes to reduce the sight as much as possible, without looking openly grossed out.
Dumber Woman: Can be pretty or not, often has a high-pitched squeal of laughter, orders champagne because it’s the only drink she can remember, and wonders why other women avoid her like the plague
The Incredible Bulk: The fat, pasty-white guy/girl who sweats all over the lounge chairs by the pool, and leaves a film of sunscreen in the water
Octopus Prime: Club dancer whose hands roam so much it’s like there are eight of them
Selektra: The teenage girl who, like, must agonize over which, like, lounge chair to sit on, which, like sunscreen to use, and, like, which frozen drink to order;
Green Banter: The jealous men and women who viciously make comments about the others at the resort; when it’s not about you, it can be funny
Filed under: Exercise | Tags: Exercise, gym, humor, Middle-Age, mom, southern, sports, workouts
In my quest to keep myself occupied at the gym, I have started playing the game, “What animal does he/she look like?” Most of the time the people look like what they are—overweight homo sapiens. Occasionally, though, some stand out. Here are a few:
The Gerbil (this would be me): I didn’t realize I look like one until a guy walked by grinning and making gerbil hand motions at me as I powered through on the I-limp-and-drool. There are a lot of us doing this, so I didn’t feel too bad, but it did cross my mind that if Obama is looking for alternative energy sources, he could just hook something up to the gym machines in America. Of course, there would have to be tax incentives.
The Sloth: These people trudge into the gym, wearing the same expression one has when sitting down in a chair to read a book, which is what the Gym Sloths do. They bring a book/magazine/iPad to a recumbent machine and proceed to slowly pedal for a good 45 minutes. They rarely break a sweat and are in zero danger of causing undo stress on their heart or joints. But hey—they’re not sitting on the couch.
The Peacock: These members are usually dressed in some form of spandex or lycra, and deserve to wear it. They preen and pose and flex as they work out, glancing around to see who is watching. (In the gym I go to, these folks don’t show up until after 5:00 p.m., when happy hour is fueled by exercise endorphins, instead of cheap alcohol.) What’s fun is watching one peacock show off for another, only to have the one they are trying to attract start preening for someone else. Not much different than a club, or a henhouse, I suspect.
The Magpies: These are the moms who show up in groups or meet there for some much-needed adult chat. They frequently climb on the treadmills or the I-limp-and-drools and chirp away, moving at a pace fast enough to justify being there but not so fast they gasp as they gossip. While they exercise, their bodies pop up and down, heads bobbing, looking like birds in a nest (or whack-a-mole).
The Chameleon: (me again) This person begins their workout with a normal skin tone, probably a little pale from pecking away in a cube all day. However, as their cardio workout progresses, their face and body language undergo some changes. First, their cheeks get pink, then red, until their faces turn into something resembling a rare tuna steak. At this stage, blood vessels burst and sweat drips onto the machinery. Controlled movements become a weak flailing, and their breathing sounds like a locomotive, or the puffing one hears during Lamaze class. While their appearance isn’t intended to serve as a form of camouflage, their ability to change appearance is remarkable.
The Cat: These women come to the gym dressed in sleek, black spandex yoga pants and fitted tops. There is not a panty line in sight. They are generally long and lean, and attract the envy of the other women, and the lust of everybody else. Men actually stop what they are doing to watch as these cat-like creatures slink through their routines. They slowly bend and stretch, demonstrating their flexibility and toned musculature. Having the grace of a hippopotamus, I’m totally jealous. Meow.
The Chicken: These male gym creatures come in all ages. They spend most of their time doing upper body work, and have the bulging pecs, biceps and triceps to prove it. However, they neglect the lower half of their bodies. Below their workout shorts emerge two spindly legs, looking remarkably like two pieces of kindling, or chicken legs.
Who knew the gym was such a wealth of entertainment? It’s my own personal version of Animal Planet.
Filed under: Middle Age | Tags: clothing, demons, ghosts, humor, Middle-Age, mom, Pat Robertson, possession, religion, shopping, south, southern, teenagers, teens
The other day, television evangelist Pat Robertson said demonic spirits can attach themselves to some objects. “I don’t think every sweater you get from Goodwill has demons in it,” he said, “but it isn’t going to hurt you any to rebuke any spirits that might attach themselves to those clothes.”
Well, that explains a couple of thongs and bras I wear that have minds of their own.
The idea that demons can attach themselves to objects isn’t new. I saw The Amityville Horror, so I get the whole haunted house thing. And Stephen King’s Christine was pretty creepy, even though the premise was a little weird. But really—clothes? And why did he mention clothes that are second-hand? What about clothes that are new? Can demons attach themselves to those, too?
Clearly, I’ve got to re-think my shopping strategy…no longer can I just peruse the stores and buy what I need as soon as it goes on sale. Now I’ve got to carry a small vial of Holy Water and a crucifix. I would love to wave any of those items in front of a pair of jeans I want to purchase and watch what happens. The pockets might turn into demonic eyes, glowing red, and the zipper would slide open, becoming a talking mouth, spewing curses and projectile vomiting on the sweaters carefully stacked below. I’ll bet I could get a really good discount after that! Just imagine strolling through the mall in your possessed jeans, as they rant and rave at all the other people walking by. Now that might even make shopping fun for those (like me) who somehow didn’t get that gene.
If what Mr. Robertson says is true, it would explain a lot of things in my life. I don’t necessarily think whatever possesses my thongs and bras are “demons;” I think they must be some kind of nomadic spirits, because these items seem to wander around my body of their own free will. In fact, I would venture a guess that these spirits are recently-passed Floridians, travelling north when the heat and humidity gets to be too much. Pantyhose spirits would be Snowbirds that migrate south. They would also be male spirits, because no female would make something already uncomfortable even worse.
Sports bras are probably more likely to be possessed by actual demons. They look innocuous enough, but the minute you try to take them off after a workout, they curl up and cling to you like a succubus from a bad science fiction movie. To remove one, short of sprinkling it with Holy Water, you have to contort yourself into a pretzel, nearly dislocating a shoulder in the process.
There must also be a whole troop of young, playful spirits that think its fun to move things from room to room. They are especially fond of concealing reading glasses, socks, earrings and t.v. remotes. For them, it must be a never-ending game of hide-and-seek.
There are teenaged spirits as well. These you could probably call demons, if, like, the mood is right. They favor, like, electronic gadgets, and, like, computers. One minute, these gadgets are like, entertaining, helpful and cooperative; the next, they, like, go dark for no reason at all, refuse to help, and skulk around with one glaring, electric eye.
So maybe Mr. Robertson is right. But I would rather have a family of “demons” in my things than face the fact that I can’t remember where I put anything, I’m technology-repellant, and my body is changing so much these days that nothing fits anymore!
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, aging, elderly, family, growing old, humor, memory, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, south, southern
I remember the day I was with my kids in an antique shop, and I had to explain what a typewriter was and how it worked. They were interested for about twenty seconds, and then I heard myself droning on and on and on, like all older people do when they get a chance to reminisce about “The Good Ol’ Days.”
When I mentioned this incident to some friends, we began talking about the things that we will one day start doing to our kids to drive them crazy. So, while drinking our coffee on the deck at some un-Godly hour in the morning (because that’s when us Middle-Aged people get up now), we made a list of things to remember as we approach The Golden Years:
1. Make sure you have a hobby and stay busy. It will help keep your mind alert, and it will help keep you from driving the rest of your family crazy.
2. Go out and make new stories so you’re not telling the same ones over and over. It’s ok to tell the same family history stories over and over again—especially if you’re Southern. That’s how family legends are born. But make sure you have new ones, too. Otherwise, you’ll become one of those crazy legends. (I suppose that’s not half-bad, either–at least they’ll remember you).
3. Keep a list by the phone of things you want to discuss with people. When they return your call, you’ll have a better chance of remembering why you called them in the first place.
4. Don’t wear Velcro shoes. Those are for preschoolers ONLY.
5. Don’t talk about your sex life. Nobody wants that mental image.
6. Label the furniture and knick-knacks in your house. If it has a story behind it, write that down, too. Let your heirs know why it’s in your house in the first place, and maybe it’ll end up in theirs instead of an estate sale.
7. Clip your fingernails and toenails—enough said.
8. Make it a regular practice of being fully clothed during the day. Nobody wants a preview of what’s to come.
9. Admit you really can’t hear/see/remember things. Don’t try to work through them. In the words of Clint Eastwood, “improvise—adapt–overcome.” Get a hearing aid/glasses/notepad. (Refer to #3 if you forgot)
10. Stop trying to convince yourself that the Darth Vader wrap-around glasses are cool. They’re not.
11. Trim ear/nose/eyebrow hair. No one likes hanging out with a living chia pet. Grandchildren can help you with this. They love scissors.
12. Help protect the environment—turn down the heat and put on more clothes. Just because you’re almost done with the environment doesn’t mean the rest of us are.
Feel free to add to my list in the comments. Now, I’m going to post this list somewhere important, like next to my pill-a-day box. Then, I’m going to try to remember where I put the remote and turn up the t.v. I’ll bet it’s somewhere near the phone.
Filed under: Sports | Tags: family, French kiss, humor, kids, Kissing, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, raising kids, sex, south, southern, subourbonmom, teenagers, teens, Valentine's Day
I’m beginning to understand now why my mom never talked to me about anything to do with sex or relationships. The topic of sex and love with your kids is a minefield, and I am regularly blowing my opportunities to impart wisdom.
Take, for example, the topic of first real kisses (the French kind).
While driving to pick up the girls from school on Thursday, I was thinking about Valentine’s Day, which led to reminiscing about past Valentines, and from there I digressed into past boyfriends. Somewhere between Wal-Mart and Barnes and Noble I remembered my first kiss. Not the fireworks that I anticipated…
I can’t remember where my keys are, but I can bring THAT up from the vault?
I vaguely recall it as being in a dark room with a boy I didn’t really like that much, REO Speedwagon playing in the background, and a spinning bottle… and a lot of spit.
As I waited in the carpool line, I wondered why people kiss in the first place. I mean, think about it. Who on earth thought touching lips and tongues would be sensual? We eat, sneeze, cough, and probably have bad breath most of the time. Not to mention the weird thing in there we call a tongue—not a particularly attractive anatomical feature, if you ask me.
According to a couple of strange and unreliable websites, some anthropologists speculate kissing is a primal way of sampling a potential mate’s pheromones, determining a mate’s personality and potential. If that’s the case, no wonder I was so grossed out.
Others speculate kissing was a learned behavior, since other animals do it. I don’t believe that one–after all, we don’t lick ourselves, do we?
So I took a survey of some friends’ first kisses, and the nearly universal response was that it was…”awful.” But there was one caveat—if you were kissing someone who was older (read “more experienced”), it was definitely better.
The other thing I found out is there are several kinds of “awful” first kisses:
The Slobberer
The Tongue Thruster
The Tongue Sucker
The Lip Biter
The “I-Have-No-Idea-How-Much-My-Head-Weighs” Leaner
The Absentee (no tongue at all)
The Stuffer (similar to the Tongue Thruster but more tongue, less movement)
The Side-to-Side Rotator (just pick one side of the face to stay on for a while!)
So, when my daughters asked me what it would be like (and I’m assuming, like an ostrich with my head in the sand, that it still hasn’t happened yet), I told them it probably wouldn’t be all that great the first time, and poured myself a drink.
And then, in a moment of stupidity, I told them it would get better.
Yep, I basically said practice makes perfect.
Excellent parenting.
Subourbon Mom 