Nipples and Nudity: Happy Mother’s Day

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a bit left of center and blew the word ‘unique’ out of the water. So this Mother’s Day I feel that I should pay homage to my mother and grandmother who made me this way. So sit back and relax, I’m about to tell you how it was growing up in Maine under the influence of the women who raised me.

My grandmother was an art teacher. In reality I really shouldn’t have to say much more than that. We’ve all dealt with art teachers dressed in homemade clothes with their bifocals dangling from around their neck on a beaded tether. <= That was my grandmother. My first memory of her was when my mother and I were living with her in a small little New England home overlooking the ocean. I ran into the bathroom one day to get my pet hamster, isn’t that where everyone keeps their hamsters? and saw her with her underwear down to her knees bent over spraying them with perfume. As I stopped short in my tracks she simply looked up at me and said, “There is no reason for it to ever stink.” I now know that ‘it’ meant your cooter, but at the time I was convinced ‘it’ was your underwear and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why your underwear would stink.

Throughout the years I watched as my grandmother would shamelessly yank off her shirt in the midst of a hot flash in the middle of dinner and frantically walk around the house in her underwear. When I was in college we would have entire conversations about her boobs and how gravity had taken them south. When she would fart she would say that she was deflating, and we would be in tears every time she hugged someone due to the fact that every hug would inevitably squeeze a fart out of her. After she passed away in 2008 I found a bottle of her husband’s Viagra (he had passed a few years before) in the night stand on his side of the bed. Right then it was confirmed that up until 2006 my grandmother was still at least trying to have sex.

As they say, the apple never falls too far from the tree. They also say that your children are three times worse than you were. Enter my mother. She isn’t an art teacher, but she did want to be a hippy. Every summer growing up my mother would walk out the door in her underwear and start mowing the lawn. It’s quite possible I miss this the least since leaving home. Quite often more than I’d like to admit if my brother and I heard rapid footsteps coming toward the kitchen we knew that she would soon be sliding across the floor in nothing but her socks yelling “Ta-da!!!”

Summers growing up included happening upon my mother on the back porch sunbathing topless every weekend and winters being mooned by her in her ancient night-gown. The older I get the more stories I hear and the more comfortable she feels about going bra shopping with me for herself.

And that’s how it was for me growing up. Listening to their stories about sex and boobs, and wondering if I was ever going to have nipples like my mother. They were never shy about nudity and taught me it was a normal part of life. Even now I have conversations with my mother on the purpose of ‘manscaping’ and how an underwire bra helps to combat the look of gravity.

It’s because of them that I now  put on deodorant in that little area where my thigh meets my crotch cracks BF up every time he sees me do it, enjoy pants off Friday, encourage BF to motor boat me, and have taken my shirt off in public more than a handful of times…ok, that last one was probably due to tequila but my mother always taught me to never blame the alcohol. Therefore I blame it strictly on genetics. Thanks mom!*wink wink*

So this Mother’s Day I want to thank my mother and grandmother for molding me into the free spirited nudist I am today. Without the constant influence from them both I can only imagine that I would have become a stuck up bitch who doesn’t know the first thing about wacky sex and underwear perfume. I miss my grandmother every day and continue to be thankful every time my I come to realize my mother is becoming more and more like my grandmother. This means one thing….I am sure to stumble down the same path and so is my daughter. Watch out world, this mommy is undressed for a reason!

From Internet Cafes to Smart Phones

When I was a senior in high school the internet was just beginning to take off. Even at my little boarding school in New Hampshire we were only allocated 30 minutes a day on the overloaded dial up. We would wait anxiously as we watched the little bar on the computer screen fill up. I desperately wanted people to email but was limited to  my friends at school for the most part.
Going home for the weekend meant no more internet with its lulling sound of the dial up and no more chain emails asking me who my secret celebrity crush was or when it was that I last clipped my toe nails. It was torture being away from the time consuming mainly due to the ‘speed’ of pages loading internet.
In college I would spend my free time and money at the local internet cafe. I would hand over $20 to the girl at the counter to get my password for 30 minutes of wonderment on the computer. Then I would hand over another $2 for a vanilla cappuccino. By noon every computer would be full and I would get bumped as soon as my time was up.
I lived for internet cafes and the strange little group of people who gathered there to sip coffee and join chat rooms. It was because of these cafes that I had no need for internet in my apartment. I had my mother’s old computer for a while, but only used it for the word processor to type term papers. I should add that by this time it was the year 2000 and I didn’t even own a cell phone.
Being up in Maine at this point cell service was scarce and those who had them paid half a months pay for it. My parents had a bucket phone for their car which rarely got used. It collected dust more than minutes. When I joined the Coast Guard later that year I shipped off to boot camp without even an email address.
Once I graduated the need for an email account was inevitable and so was the need for a cell phone. The 85 people I had just spent every minute of every day with for the past 2 months were dispersing all over the country. Luckily every CG unit had internet and its own email system.
By 2003 I still didn’t have internet in my house and only used email every so often while under way on ships to tell my family everything was ok. My cell phone only ever got used when in home port and even then it stayed in my purse most of the time. Any time spent on the internet was still done at internet cafes and I loved it. Getting stationed in New Jersey was like heaven for me. There seemed to be an internet cafe on every corner. And I broke down and joined the world of the smart phone with my Sidekick. But still didn’t have internet in my own home.
In 2006 a friend introduced me to MySpace and my internet world opened up! A year later I found myself with internet in my house, wireless at that, and a kick ass MySpace page.
From there it has been all downhill. I quickly branched out into cyber space from MySpace to Facebook to Twitter and inevitably the blogosphere. Now I have a wireless internet that can support up to 5 computers at once and an Android phone from which I am currently blogging from. It’s amazing how quickly my life came to revolve around the internet and everything it has to offer. And all though I do enjoy now being able to wake up at 3am and surfing through my Twitter timeline and being able to blog on a 2″x 4″ smart phone, I enjoy my time playing with minions and smuggling with BF more…..and then tweeting all about it.
Happy surfing my fellow internet addicts!

I Have 3 Cats?

I’m not a big fan of cleaning in general anymore much to BF’s dismay. But I do it as rarely as possible because I have to. Yesterday BF went on a cleaning frenzy which he only seems to do when he’s sick and I was told that on Sunday we were cleaning our bedroom.*cue crickets*
I hate cleaning my bedroom more than cleaning anything else on this planet. I’ve scrubbed sea creatures off of harbor markers and climbed into sewage tanks to clean out filters. Can someone go tell Mike Rowe that for me? But there is nothing which needs cleaning that makes me more miserable than cleaning my room. This isn’t a new thing like my overall disdain for cleaning which came about after the birth of my daughter. No, this roots down much deeper.
Growing up I was ‘that’ kid. There was a clean path from my door to be bed and that was about it. Dishes piled up on the tv and dirty clothes were shoved under the bed. My parents would ground me until my room was clean. There were times I would be grounded for upwards of a week or more.
As I grew older and had my own place I made an ultimate decision that my bedroom doesn’t have to be clean because no one actually has to come into my room except me. It’s a privilege of being an adult in my world. When I was dating I rarely had men over to my house, and if they did come over it was for dinner and a movie and then out. No one was allowed in my bedroom!
And to this day no one goes in my bedroom really, except me and BF. And I like it that way. To me the bedroom should only be used for two things, sleeping and sex. That’s it. It’s not my safe haven. It’s not my point of Zen. It’s not a place I entertain company.
So when BF informed me that we were going to clean said bedroom on Sunday I was immediately taken over by my inner child and pouted. And I continued to pout about it for 12 hours until I went to look again for my missing slipper. I got on my belly to look under the dresser which hasn’t moved in almost 4 years. I started pulling things out from underneath. A sock. A sewing project. A bra. Jeans. A sweater. Then came the big discovery………I had no idea I had a third cat made of dust bunnies and cat fur!
So tonight I am going to clean my room while BF is out! Not sure how much wine its going to take, but I will have that damn thing cleaned! There will be no more random cats found in my bedroom damn it!
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The Sandman

The Sandman. That little man who comes into your room every night and sprinkles sand on your eyes to make you sleepy and help you drift off into dream land. There have been songs and poems written about him. Mothers pray that he will come sprinkle sand on the little children across the hall who won’t shut up don’t sound anywhere close to tired. And people with insomnia curse him as they toss and turn wondering why the little bastard guy keeps skipping their house.
Whether we love him or curse him, we all know who the Sandman is. And starting today, Theo also knows. I’m not sure who told him his after school program teacher but he was none too pleased with this discovery. Instead of the Sandman being a little fairy like guy who brings you peaceful slumber he was convinced that the Sandman was somehow a tormentor. Now you have to understand where my son is coming from. He can be anal retentive and has recently had his entire life flooded with little girls trying to dress his favorite dinosaur in dresses.
With all this going on he had talked himself into believing the Sandman comes into your room, holds open your eyes and puts the equivalent of table salt in your eyes to make you sleep. There was no amount of reasoning with him on this matter. If he hid under the covers, the Sandman would find him. If he closed his door, the Sandman would find him. If he closed.his eyes really tight, the Sandman would pry them open and force the burning sand in them.
No matter how many times I told him, or how I worded that the sand used by the Sandman is like fairy dust, he was not going to fall asleep. As little tears started to form in his eyes I told him that I would go downstairs and call the Sandman to ask him to ‘please’ use different sand tonight. It seemed to do trick. I kissed him goodnight and headed downstairs to make the phone call.
Fast forward 20 minutes=>=>=>I’m in bed ‘wrestling’ with BF. I’m obviously winning because I have him pinned under me when we hear little footsteps start down the hall. Seeing as how I had BF in a *em* compromising position, the best I could do was lay down on top of him with the covers up over my shoulders.
“Mommy, you were right. After you called the Sandman he used different sand and it doesn’t hurt!” With that he said goodnight and went back to his room. So glad we remedied that situation while I was wrestling
Don’t worry fellow parents, when I called the Sandman I asked that he use different sand for your kids as well. You’re welcome.

Flat Broke and Happy

Happiness. To me its not something that can have a monetary value or should be taken for granted. I feel like every day I see more and more couples ‘faking’ their happiness. They cover up their dirt with fancy things which cost more than I could ever imagine spending.
Suddenly a $1000 vacuum cleaner takes the place of evening cuddles on the couch. $100 brushed Egyptian cotton sheets take the place midnight spooning, and the $4000 livingroom set takes the place of morning coffee together.
Life spins wildly around us every day and quite often scoops us up with it for the ride. We let ourselves get caught up in the mess of the day to day which quickly becomes the week to week…and before you know it, months have gone by. Suddenly we look back at ourselves and realize we have no idea what has become of our relationship with our significant other.
Maybe its now just a touch off of center, but all too often it becomes something unrecognizable.
Instead of measuring our happiness in smiles and laughter, we started measuring it in furniture and trinkets. We can no longer look at our partners in life and laugh for no reason or find the joy in just holding eachother.
I was there once. I believed that my happiness would only come with my husbands…which would only come with his need for money and the freedom to spend it. I had lost sight of myself and the things that made me happy. The laughter of my children. Lazy afternoons. The great outdoors. Music. Friends. It had all slipped away from me.
Two years ago I vowed to rectify all that. I wanted my simple life back. The life where I actually stopped to smell the flowers and enjoy myself and those around me. It took some digging and stripping and a whole lot of struggle but I’ve finally reached that point of happiness.
So now on Saturdays my house is filled with children’s laughter as they blow bubbles in the kitchen or tell tall tales on swingsets about how they once swung so high they went all the way around the poll. We have popcorn for dinner at least once a week and there’s an endless supply of cuddles at any given time as soon as you sit on the couch.
Laundry piles take over corners in the livingroom and dishes fill the sink as Sundays are now dedicated to doing absolutely nothing. And by nothing, I mean NOTHING. No plans. No schedule. Nothing.
Everyone, even the big kid, gets nightly snuggles and back rubs. Stories are read, yes even to the big kid, and songs are sung. Kisses are given so often that they have become as second nature as breathing and hugs have become our way of greeting eachother even when we pass through a room.
We have no money as bill collectors call daily and we struggle to keep the gas on and the phones connected. Creative financing has taken over the grocery list and how we cook dinner, and pennies are collected in an old coffee can in the kitchen.
We are flat out broke and then some, but the truth is that we are truly and honestly happy. No amount of money has made us this way and no amount of money could make us happier. We have found our happy place in the little old house we call the Redneck Palace.
Tomorrow BF and I move on to a long awaited stage in our relationship. No we’re not getting married so don’t go ringing the church bells. It’s a stage that I’d rather keep to ourselves odd for me I know so that we can bask in its glory in our own little way. We have come this far to find our happiness and we’re not about to stop now.