My son was born a hockey player.  I, of course, didn’t know it at the time, but the coming years spelled out my future as “HOCKEY MOM”.  When I attended my first hockey game at the tender age of sixteen and witnessed blood spewing out of a players mouth streaming across the glass, I swore never to attend another game.  I didn’t realize I would birth a little stick handler and be entwined with this sport for the next two decades.  God’s little joke, perhaps.

When he turned nine, I took him to see Disney’s Mighty Ducks.  From that time forward he was hooked on the thought of playing hockey.  He found a local roller hockey league and persuaded us to let him join.  And thus started our long, long relationship with the sport.  For me, the upside of roller versus ice hockey was roller didn’t cost as much and it was warm: i.e. no ice, no hats, no boots.

In the years to come he played his heart out and we found he had a natural talent.  At an early age his coach told us he was born with a knack of knowing where his other players were and how to best get the puck toward the opposing goal.  He also was, and is, a darn good shooter.

The son was ten when his roller hockey league started a traveling team.  Sounded good to us, traveling around Oregon; bonding with other families; having an overnight adventure.  We happily said yes, but what came to be was so much more than we imagined.

As it turned out, I always seemed to travel with more than just the son.  Along with him came anywhere from two to six other players, their gear, their luggage and their shenanigans.  I firmly believe it takes a twisted, merry soul to delight in this adventure and I was crowned the one.

I stayed many nights in a hotel room loaded with boys.  Not a private thing about that arrangement.  There were hi-jinks, hilarity, body odor and sometimes sleepless nights.  And yet this Magical Mess endured these trips with joy and humor.  Oh, so much humor.  For those boys really did amuse me.  They were wonderfully quick-witted, a trait I admire, and were always ready to engage in conversation.  I learned more than you probably want to know about the adolescent/teenage male that was occasionally frightening but always entertaining.

These misadventures included many trips up I-5 on our way to Canada.  On one particular day the freeway was at a dead stop.  When boys have to pee they have to pee.  Pretend you’re in a long line of vehicles, bored out of your mind, and you turn to gaze at the countryside.  There, you see six young teenagers peeing into the ditch.  Butts out, pants down, not a care in the world.  A truly proud moment for this hockey mom.

Once I inadvertently swallowed a boy’s soft contact lens as he had placed them in my drinking glass instead of the bathroom glass.

I have been called by hotel management to either corral, quiet or usher my boys out of public spaces.  Waitresses have been known to roll their eyes when they see the team enter the restaurant.  I have also viewed the dining table after these lads were through.  It was a disgusting sight, one which I would not tolerate.  Then is when the scary hockey mom came out.  As one boy called it, “Mom’s going to open a can of whoop ass.”  They cleaned and straightened that table and made it almost usable again.  The waitress’ smile was huge and we traded winks.  Yes, I can be a mama lion.

I attended many a movie with my hooligans to while away the time between games.  On one particularly ill-advised occasion, I didn’t do my home work regarding which movies were acceptable or not.  I ushered in four 13 year olds to “American Pie.”  It wasn’t until 15 minutes into the movie that I realized they were the only children in the theater.  I was awarded the Best Mom and Worst Mom award all in one day.  They were delighted with me, so much so that each time another American Pie sequel came out, I was invited along.  They were old enough by that time to get in by themselves but decided as a group it just wouldn’t be the same without me.

Over the years I learned how to lace up skates in record time, clean wheels and bearings, run the clock, wash jerseys and tape sticks.  I spent a fair amount of time and loads of money in hockey shops.  All of this was so out of character for me but I adapted and learned to love the sport.

In retrospect I wouldn’t change a moment and neither would they.  Hockey rules, boys stink, and this Magical Mess found she was quite suited to being a hockey mom.

 

There lives in the land of Portland a cat named Mouse.  He sports an orange tabby fur coat and eyes of green like the fields of Ireland.  He lives the life of a prince.  He considers his home his kingdom and rules with a ferociously loving paw.

His subjects include his human mother, father and sister, two cat siblings and a dog brother.  All of which adore him and bathe him in affection.  Most of the time.

It seems that Mouse can get a little too possessive and has been known to spray his loyal followers to make sure all inhabiting his kingdom are aware who belongs to whom.  This is not a happy event as it carries an odor that befouls the air and has immense staying power.

As he is kicked out of his domain for this act, Mouse silently wonders, “What the heck?  Why aren’t they grateful for this medal of odor?  Don’t they understand the honor I am bestowing?”

Mouse has had his share of adventures and his share of mishaps.  Take for instance his title of being neutered twice in his life.  How can this be, you ask.  Well, listen to this.

When Mouse was but a baby his first human father got custody of him.  Knowing full well he needed to take care of certain appendages of Mouse’s,  in order to have a more peaceful and kitten free environment, he took him to the Vet and asked for a “procedure.”  Mouse was not too thrilled with this but being a kitten he took it in stride.

However, his father had been reading up on the psychological problems that can befall a male cat when his jewels are removed.  It seems that said cat becomes very embarrassed by the lack thereof and somehow, (I don’t quite know how anyone knows this), is traumatized and is never the same.  (Isn’t that what we’re hoping for; no tomcat shenanigans, no illegitimate offspring to suddenly spring up wanting child support, no howling toward the midnight moon?)  But, in the world of cat whisperers I guess this is an accepted premise.  Mouse’s former father bought right into this philosophy and so, along with the removing of the dangly parts, he ordered up a pair of implants.  These are call Neuticles.  (I kind of love that name.)

At one point he considered going up a size, but thought better of this.  Not really knowing how big Mouse would get, he didn’t want to run the risk of over-sizing him and causing an unusual stride.  In Mouse went and out he came looking none the different.

A couple of years later Mouse’s former dad could no longer care for him and that is how he came to live with his original mother’s family.

His was a life of ease and occasionally, during good weather, Mouse would take an expedition throughout his realm lasting several days.  His winning personality and looks bought him welcoming visits with neighbors far and wide.  But, at the end of his mini-vacations, he would take himself home to his adoring family and all would be right with his world.  Not that his mom didn’t worry about him, especially on one such sojourn that lasted two weeks.  She fretted, stewed and mourned his absence until one day there he was, back home again.  But, he was missing something.  Something that wasn’t the original equipment but had been with him since childhood.  Yep, those implans were nowhere to be found.

Mouse’s story will always be shrouded in a little mystery, but here is what his mum has surmised.  In certain neighborhoods in his realm of Portland, there exist a coalition of well meaning individuals who scoop up stray cats, have them neutered or spayed and place them back at the point of origin.  Mouse must have been in one of their groups.

Can you image the surprise of the volunteer Vet when he lanced through the skin and finds … The Neuticle.  A solid piece of silicone.

Recently his highness has had trouble peeing that has warranted more surgery in his nether regions.  Poor Mouse.  Now no neuticles and a shortened urethra.  What is a royal cat to think?

Fortunately, Mouse’s rule is now undisturbed and he is back in the palace with his subjects, purring, kneading and being the most beloved of the land.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What follows is a conversation I recently had with a patient while trying to schedule a consultation.  I write this in conversational form to convey the lunacy that ensued.  My words appear in regular type, but my thoughts will appear in parentheses.  Body language will appear in italics.  Keep in mind this all happened on a Monday.

ME:  May I help you?  (voice is bright and perky)

PATIENT:  I’d like to schedule an appointment to see the doctor.

ME:  I’d be glad to help you with this.  When did you have in mind?

PATIENT:  I’m in a lot of pain and need to be seen this week.

ME:  Alright, let’s look at tomorrow.  Do you like mornings or afternoons?  (I really want to help this woman.  Smiling on the phone to convey friendliness)

PATIENT:  Tomorrow’s not good.

ME:  What day would be better for you?

PATIENT:  Any time really, just not tomorrow.

ME:  How about Wednesday?

PATIENT:  What time?

ME:  What’s good for you?

PATIENT:  Anytime, what do you have?

ME:  Well, I have morning or afternoon times.  Which would be better?

PATIENT:  What time in the morning?

ME:  Do you like early, mid or late morning?

PATIENT:  How early is early?

ME:  7 AM.

PATIENT:  Are you nuts?  How late are you open?

ME:  Our last appointment is at 3:40pm.

PATIENT:  Wednesday is not going to work. (Heave a little inaudible sigh)

ME:  Will Thursday work for you?

PATIENT:  What time do you have?

ME:  I have several times available.  What would you like?

PATIENT:  What do you have?  (are you kidding me, bigger sigh)

ME:  (deep breath) I have 8:00, 9:15, 10:30, 1:00 and 2:45.

PATIENT: Nothing later?

ME:  No, we never schedule anything later than 3:40.  (Would like to sound stern but am holding it in.  Starting to roll my eyes)

PATIENT:  Well, this is a problem.  I really hurt and need to be soon, ASAP.

ME:  (Heavy sigh, just not audible)  Let’s go back to tomorrow.  What can I make work for you?

PATIENT:  I could be there at 4:30.

ME:  Our last appointment is at 3:40.  (am I not speaking clearly?)

PATIENT:  Well, I work until 5 but could get off early, like at 4:30.  (is this some weird prank phone call?  Have started to lean my forehead on my palm.)

ME:  Let’s try Wednesday again.  Can I make a time work for you?  How about our last appointment at 3:40?  (Just barely keeping it together. Starting to rub my temples.)

PATIENT:  No, I have a pedicure appointment at 3.

ME:  Okay, how about an early appointment at 7:30?

PATIENT:  I have to be to work at 8.

ME:  (seriously thinking about retiring after getting off this phone call.  Head lowers down to the table.)  Do you work every day?

PATIENT:  Yes, 8 to 5.

ME:  (Thinking about just lying here and sucking my thumb.)  Okay, it sounds as if the earliest appointment we have at 7:00 would work out best for you.  How about I make it for Thursday?  (My perkiness has left me, I am now holding out for civil)

PATIENT:  How long will the appointment be?

ME:  (Maybe we’re getting somewhere.  I raise my head up a little)  Twenty minutes, we’ll have you on the road by 7:30 at the latest.

PATIENT:  That just won’t work.  What do you have next week?  I have to be seen soon, I’m in a lot of pain and can hardly walk.

ME:  (Seriously?  You seem to be able to walk into have your toes done.)  Okay, next week we are pretty open.  What would work for you?

PATIENT:  What do you have?

ME:  (Have now taken the receiver an am silently swinging it around my head a couple of times.)  Why don’t we do this, you give me a time and date and I’ll make it work, somehow.

PATIENT:  Well, what do you have on Monday next week?

ME:  (slightly hopeful.  Now back upright in my chair.)  I can fit you in at 3:40.

PATIENT:  That won’t work, I have to take my daughter to swim lessons.  Any other time, though.  (I thought this woman worked til 5)

ME:  (Just about to throw in the towel, starting to feel dizzy with a desire to bang my head on the desk.)  Do you work next week?

PATIENT:  Of course, I don’t have a day off for the next two months.  I really need some help, my leg hurts so much.

ME:  (Thinking of opening up the noon hour for her because I still have a smidgen of kindness left.  Leaning back in my chair and putting my feet up.)  If I opened up a spot at 12:30, could you come then?

PATIENT:  I usually go out to lunch with my co-workers.

ME:  ( I have lost the will to care.  Leaning back even further.)  A huh.

PATIENT:  I guess I could miss one lunch.

ME:  A huh.

PATIENT:  Can you do that on Thursday of this week?

ME:  (Yep, caring has gone, now I just want to survive without getting written up)  I think I just might be able to do that.

PATIENT:  Are you sure you don’t have anything earlier for this week?  It’s really bad.

ME:  Nope, nothing earlier for this week.  As we were talking, all the spots filled up.  (Lying my face off, don’t care.)

PATIENT:  Well, I could come in for one of those noon appointments this week.

ME:  Sorry, the doctor is in noon meetings all this week.  (Just making stuff up now.  Starting to close my eyes.)

PATIENT:  You know, if I take off time from work I maybe could manage an appointment on Tuesday.

ME:  Like I said, all appointments are booked this week.  (Actually I have several blank spots open, but there’s no way this woman is getting any of them.)

PATIENT:  Oh, guess I missed my chance.

ME:  Yep.  (Not feeling a bit bad about this lie.)  Do you want a time next week?

PATIENT:  Yes, what do you have?

ME:  (Slipping into blissful unconsciousness.  Head back, phone receiver dangling from my hand, feet up.)

PATIENT:  Hello, hello, is anybody there?

ME:  (Right before blackness overtakes me.)  Let me transfer you to our schedulers………..

 

 

The husband routinely endeavors to teach me math and science.  These are not my strong points but they are his.  I have no interest in science and the only math I like and understand is used in measuring fabric or cooking.  But, I try to feign interest.

He is constantly viewing You-Tube videos about theoretical science, astrophysics, you name it, if it’s about science he will tune in.  One of his favorites is Neil deGrasse Tyson’s appearance on PBS’s Nova.  If anyone can interest me in listening to science it will be him.  He’s very likable.  I don’t agree with his opinions of the  beginning of the Universe, but I’ll forgive him.

Basically the only concept I grasped from the whole lecture series was this . . . there is a theory that black holes are really shaped more like funnels.  And, if a person/thing were ever to be sucked into this black funnel, they would be stretched thinner and thinner and longer and longer in order to fit through the tip of the funnel.  (Ending up where, no one knows.)  This process of stretching and thinning is call, wait for it, Spaghettification.  For some reason I love this word.  I love spelling it and saying it.  It feels so fun rolling around on my tongue.  THIS is what I rememberer.  In fact, I’m renaming one of my spaghetti dishes Spaghettification.

If frustrates the husband when I mention this because, through all of the videos I have watched with him, he feels this is the most unimportant, insignificant fact I could glean.  But, there it is, Spaghettification.  Say it with me.

So, the next time you’re in a situation where the conversation is lagging and the dreaded silence is looming, pull out the story about Spaghettification.  You will be remembered.

Got your attention with that title, didn’t I?

Sometimes friendship knows no bounds.  Take for instance agreeing to accompany a friend visiting her step son at the South Fork Prison Camp in the Tillamook forest.

How he came to be there is a whole other story, perhaps best never told as it is sad, stupid and has caused much heart ache.  But the fact is, he is a 28-year-old, handsome boy with a generous heart, winning smile and too much moxey for his own good.  And he is in the pokey for a three and a half-year stint.  Through good behavior and his natural charm, he got himself transferred out to the prison camp where life is much better over all.  If one can say that about prison.

Because of her past experiences in visiting him, she was able to guide me in the dress code.  No short shorts or skirts, no denim, and no underwire bras.  I can only guess that the wire could be extricated and used as what?  A weapon?  Other than poke your eye out, I’m not sure it could withstand much force.

One time, when visiting her little felon, she forgot about the no underwire rule and marched straight up to the metal detector, which she then set off.  The guard, who actually had a sense of humor, asked, “Underwire?”  It donned on her that she indeed had worn the wrong bra.  He suggested she retire to the restroom and try to pry them out of said bra.  With what?  She did have a little pair of scissors in her purse, but she was not allowed to bring it into the building, so it was placed in a locker outside.  There were no scissors or knives at the check in desk, for obvious reasons.  All the guard had to give her were a pair of nail clippers.

In she went to the most inhospitable, hot, dreary restroom one could image.  There are outhouses better equipped than this little hovel.  She stripped off the offending piece of clothing and endeavored to make a slit in the fabric in order to take out the dangerous wires.  This act went on for several minutes, all the while she was sweating, muttering to herself and picking away at the seam.  It seemed as if she would never make it and she had to face the fact she might have to put the thing back on and go home.

But, finally there came to be a tiny hole, and then a bigger hole and then a hole large enough to slip out the wires that could potentially become a weapon.

Now, what exactly was she to do with them?  Put them in her pocket?  No, they would still set off the alarm. Throw them away?  She thought she could put them back in later.  So, out she stepped with the wires and gave them to the guard.  He didn’t bat an eye as he threw them away.  Oh, well.

And that is how her piece of mutilated undergarment became known as “the prison  bra.”  I now have a “prison bra” of my own, which begs the question; how do two Christian women, both brought up in small town America, leading lives for Jesus come to have “prison bras?”  Life is continuously throwing you curves balls and catching them with grace and humor is key to living well.

From now on, whenever she wants me to accompany her to see the step son, all she has to do is text the day, the time and the words, “wear your prison bra”.

Second in line to the Dunham throne is The Boss Baby, my title for the youngest, charming, and oh so mischievous grandson.  He is turning two soon and his personality is large and booming.

He spends his days alternatively enticing everyone in sight with his smile and then turning on his most loving family with screams and cries.  This in order to get their attention and make sure they are doing his bidding.

He does not like being redirected from his chosen path.  In fact, one wintry day, while walking in a local mall after getting a smoothie, The Boss Baby decided he wanted to enter a store all by himself.  His parents did not think this was a good idea.  His older brother did not think this was a good idea.  Boss Baby, on the other hand, thought this was just the ticket.  Toward the entrance he trotted, his tiny smoothie firmly in his grasp.  His mother quickly realized he wasn’t going to be herded away from his prime directive, so she picked him up.

Revenge seemed to be high on The Boss Baby’s list of things to do, so he took a large sip of smoothie, turned to face his mother and spit it out with all of his might, right in her face.  She was now dripping the contents of his cup.  As you can image, the Boss Baby lost his smoothie privileges and proceeded to walk the walk of shame down the rest of the mall.  To add insult to injury, his big brother happily sipped his choice of drink in front of him.  It was a cruel, cruel day for the Boss.

He has been known to cry in the car all the way from Eugene to Portland.  Seems he doesn’t like to be corralled in the car seat.  He also doesn’t like to have his diaper changed.  I think he doesn’t want to miss out on anything and a diaper change does take a few moments.  The Muse has named this trait FOGO = Fear of Missing Out.  The Boss Baby has this in spades.

On this other hand, he is the most charismatic little dude one could possibly meet.  When asked to smile for the camera, he somehow scrunches up his face til his eyes disappear, his nose wrinkles and the grin comes out.

He is physically loving, very free with hugs and kisses.  He will capture your attention and not let go.  He routinely tackles his big brother to the ground only to end up on top of him giving ferocious hugs.  This grandchild will be a force to be reckoned with and heaven help anyone who tries to stop him.

On Mother’s Day, as we sat in church, his mom could hear him crying from the children’s room.  Dutifully she went and fetched him and as she was re-entering the Sanctuary, he turned to the crowd and gave the a perfectly executed royal wave to what he considered his adoring fans.

In the coming years, I will try my best to keep up with his emotions.  I will try even harder to keep up with his little feet.  This will be interesting.  Nana versus The Boss Baby.  If you care to place a bet on who the winner will be, bet on Nana.  Remember, I’ve raised a hockey team.

 

 

I have two grandchildren, both boys and both big personalities.  The oldest one I call Itty Bitty for he is a close replica of his father, my son.  The little one I call Boss Baby.  You can make your own conclusions about that moniker.

I write today about Itty Bitty and our first theatrical experience.  A few years ago, when he was just 3 1/2, the best friend and I thought it a good idea to celebrate the Christmas season by taking him to a play in downtown Portland, which has a great children’s theater.  That holiday season they were performing Mary Poppins.  A good choice for a three-year old; not too scary and she does get to fly.  Tickets were purchased and arrangements were made to have Itty Bitty spend the weekend.

He is just a joy to have over.  He always wakes up with a smile on his face, goes to bed easily and his eating habits are simple.  Even as a three-year old he was fascinating to talk with, better than some adults I come across.  Yes, I know, he’s my first grandchild and I love him to pieces; so, of course, I think he’s the bees knees.  His only fault was he didn’t have a quiet voice.  Didn’t get the concept of the whisper.

Anyway. . . down to Portland we drove.  I love live theater and was so excited to be sharing this with him for the first time.  In the three of us went, got situated and then the house lights dimmed and the music began.  What you need to understand is the stage play of Mary Poppins is not exactly like the Disney movie Mary Poppins.  Oh, the basic story is the same and the music is all there; but in order to flesh out certain scenes they added some new characters.  Like a butler, a clumsy butler, a very inept, awkward bumbling butler.

One of the scenes took place in the kitchen with counters and cupboards.  During this episode several of the cupboard doors were left open.  As the dialog was unfolding, in the background the butler silently went about his duties and proceeded to bang into one of the doors thus knocking himself unconscious.  As he dramatically slumped over the counter, laughter ensued.  It was at this point Itty Bitty stood up on his seat and said in a loud, clear voice, “Nana, is he dead?”  (interesting how he went right to thinking he was dead instead of sleeping.)  I quietly whispered, “No, I think he’s just unconscious.”

Again, in a very audible voice he says, “No, I think he’s dead.”  I took a second to glance over at the best friend only to find her silently laughing.  I answered Itty Bitty back by asking him to lower his voice and whisper.  I also said, “No, he’s not dead, just sleeping.”

Seated behind us was a very nice father and his delicate daughter who hadn’t said a word during the whole play.  But, in response to Itty Bitty’s resounding denial of my claim, she asked her father, “Is he dead, Daddy?”

Itty Bitty could not leave that one alone.  He turned around, still standing on his seat, and said clearly for all to hear, “Nope, Nana says he’s not dead.”  The best friend now had tears running down her face.

I grabbed my little commentator by the waist and gently guided him into a sitting position.  As he turned to me I whispered, “Shush.”  He answered me with a shush of his own, but his included a little attitude and a whole lot of spit.  After wiping my face with a tissue, I settled him down and prayed the rest of the play would end quickly.

Mary Poppins flew, the finale was played, applause was gladly given and it was time to exit, stage right.

I will again endeavor to share my love of theater with my grandsons.  I will again coach and share theater etiquette.  And, surely as I’m writing this, our grand theatrical excursions will go comically wrong.  (Can’t wait to see what The Boss Baby comes up with.)

 

Kilauea, Hawaii’s explosive volcano, has been at the top of the news for the past month.  As it erupts leaving a path of devastation, I can’t help but think of Madam Pele, Hawaii’s fire goddess.

In legend it is she who causes all this fuss, and it is she who controls the timing of events.  Her temperament is volatile at best and sometimes there are years, decades even, between eruptions.  But lately, she has gotten out of hand and is laying waste to the beautiful island of Hawaii.  What, I wonder, has gotten under her skin to make her this upset?

Just so you all know, I don’t believe in gods or goddesses.  I am aware of the scientific explanations behind all of this.  But, I do enjoy the whimsical thought of there being a woman hidden somewhere on that big island that is mad as hell and isn’t going to take it anymore.

Which brings me to my next thought.  Madam Pele is much like human women everywhere.  We take and take whatever life has to hand out and are expected to take even more with serene calmness and aplomb.  We are, after all, the mothers, wives, daughters, sisters to the world and that comes with a certain amount of expectation.

We are expected to clean up, feed, nurse and entertain the human population of men.  We are expected to work, raise and nurture families, whether they be our own or not.  We are expected to be the soft, firm, gentle, feisty women everybody can count on.

So take all this expectation and put years of service behind it and you might, just might, come up with a Madam Pele.  Pressure builds, much like that ooze and steam sitting under Kilauea.  Pressure can only fill an area so much before it needs to come out.  And then the whole thing blows and you either end up with an active volcano, or a woman who has lost her composure and is now spewing her thoughts and actions far and wide, leaving no one unscathed.

I can relate to Pele.  Forty years ago I traveled to the top of Kilauea and observed her.  She was fairly calm, just throwing up a few fire bombs; tiny really in comparison to now.  I actually have a picture of myself, standing up there in the wind with my long red hair flowing up and out.  My friend captioned it “Madam Pele” for it looked like I was on fire.  I was 20 and didn’t realize there would be a time in the future when I would, like the Madam, blow sky high from the pressure of life.  But blow I did, with the destruction mainly falling on the husband.   For the past 37 years I’ve erupted occasionally, mostly at life’s injustices.  As the fire bombs would start, the husband expertly fielded them with his calm demeanor.  Then my inner volcano would wind down and life would return to normal.

To this day he still remembers an evening long ago.  We were in the dating phase and I was expecting him to pick me up at a certain time.  Unbeknownst to me, he had a flat tire on the freeway.  No cell phones in those days.  He arrived at my door an hour late and by that time I had myself in a tizzy worthy of the Madam.  I greeted him on the stoop with an attitude and fire in my eyes.  He later told me that was when he first realized he loved me.  The man has dangerous tastes.

As I’ve gotten older the eruptions have abated quite a bit.  Mainly because I’m too tired to spew; and also I’ve come to the conclusion I can’t change the world.  Now I just concentrate on my little part of existence and find it more manageable.  Life with the Magical Mess has evened out, but every now and then I think the husband misses the grand cavalcade of emotions of a woman with fiery hair, eyes that can glow and a soul that burns for him and only him.

Don’t get me wrong, I still burn, but slowly and I try not to consume everything in my path.  Really, just embers instead of a blaze.  I know not whether Madam Pele would still consider me part of her family.  But I do know this Magical Mess of a Creature is a lot easier to handle.

Let me tell you a story about a girl, a pool and a Miracle Swimsuit.  Several years ago I traveled to Kauai for a wonderful Hawaiian holiday.  In preparation for the trip I lost what I considered to be a fair amount of weight.  I was feeling thinner, sassier and a little full of myself.

To celebrate this feat and, honestly, to accentuate my newly found curves, I grabbed the best friend and went . . . swim suit shopping.  Yes, the shopping event that is despised by any woman over the size of 0.  There is not a dressing room in the world that benefits this occasion in any way.  The room is too small, making it hard to tug and pull.  The lighting is atrocious making one look like a sick, beached walrus.  Let’s face, the whole experience is frightening because you are now face to face with all of your imperfections and trying to slam them into a small amount of spandex.  But, women persevere in our quest to be cute on the beach and endure this high form of self humiliation.  I was one of those women.

While thumbing through all the selections available to me, I happened upon a number with the name of Miracle Suite.  The tag said it would hold me in all the right places, giving my curves a much needed boost and smoothing out so many areas.    Sweet, I thought.  It will make my weight loss look even more so and give me that hour glass figure I was hoping to have.

As I hugged this Miracle Suite to me and grabbed the best friend, I entered the portal of truth, the dressing room.  It was then I learned when the tag said it would hold me in and boost me up, what it really meant was the suit would slam my outside fat into my inner organs.  It would then lift and shape my breasts to Marilyn Monroe proportions, basically becoming a beautiful, barely stretchy straight jacket.

The donning of this suit was a tad difficult as I had to tuck myself into it.  (I felt like the prey a Python was trying to swallow).  But, the end result was amazing.  Curvy, taut and smooth in all the right places.  I tugged it back off and bought it in a happy frenzy.  Swim suit conquered, now onto the Islands.

Let’s skip forward to the first day at our beautiful condo where there resided a lagoon pool.  Just so you know, I love a lagoon pool.  This one came with a lazy river, twin slides and a waterfall one could swim under and rest.  My blue heaven.  In breathless anticipation I skipped out past the lanai dragging the best friend with me.  I stripped off the swim suit cover-up and entered the most heavenly water and frolicked in the lagoon to my heart’s content.

The best friend swam a while but exited to a chaise lounge with a cocktail.  I eventually got out to join her but decided before I became situated for an afternoons rest, I would frequent the restroom.  In I went and proceeded with the task at hand.  I was ready to pull up this one piece suite when I then realized all was not heaven inside the potty hut.  I was wet, the suit was wet, and the stall was very small.  I inched, tugged and pulled that swim suit north only getting as far as my knees.  Meanwhile I was getting frustrated, hot and claustrophobic in the small space.  I didn’t have room to really flex myself into said suit, so I peeked out to the main bathroom area looking to see if anyone was there.  Empty.  I edged myself out into the open and continued inching, tugging, pulling and stuffing myself into that suit.  It was slow going.  I tried inching it past my knees, up to the thighs hoping to at least get it to my waist.

If anyone had entered the hut at this point they would have witnessed a wet, slightly frantic red head with her leg up on the counter top trying to get a wet swim suit up and over her ample butt.  You see, it’s not as easy as one might think to achieve proper placement of the suit into all the lady curves.  One might get one side up but not the other and visa versa.  I was getting hotter and sweatier, which didn’t help with the slip factor.  It was at this point I thought I might have to wrap my towel around my half naked self and creep back to the room.  I also thought, Miracle, my ass.  Are they kidding me?  A swim suit is inherently meant to get wet.  Do they not expect a woman to pee?

More tugging and stuffing ensued and the suit finally inched slowly but surely up my torso, headed for it’s proper place.  Now, there is a phenomenon I believe happens when a wet, hot, sweaty, stressed out body is put back into the Miracle Suit.  This phenom is never mentioned on the tags or in any Google site.  I call it the skin-on-a-wiener effect.  It seems that when the aforementioned is stuffed back into the wet swim suit it starts to expand, filling up any spare space that might have existed.  It more than fills up, it starts to strain at the seams, to where one feels like one is inside the body of the aforementioned Python.  This was happening to me and I started to panic.  All alone, claustrophobic and sweating even more.

That day I learned a valuable lesson that has kept me sane throughout the years; how to calm myself down.  I alternatively practiced calming thoughts, deep breathing and even talking to myself and of course I prayed.  It was when I thought of peeling this thing back off that I decided to buck up and get on with life.

I slid into my chaise lounge, took a sip of iced tea and looked over at the best friend.  She looked back and said, “What took you so long?”