Santa: Never Stop Believing, a true story.

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Everyone knows the story of Santa Claus. How could we not? Every year that jolly old elf pops up on store shelves shorty before Halloween, and watches over us with a tinkling eye until he comes barreling down our chimneys to eat  eat cookies and leave presents behind. As kids our parents threatened us with gifts of coal from the big man, and as adults, we threaten our kids with the same. Santa Claus is quite possibly the most loved and adored man to have ever “allegedly” walked the face of this earth. With magical reindeer and an army of overly productive elves, it’s hard for any child to not get excited about the thought of Santa coming to visit.

I remember, as a child, sneaking down the stairs Christmas morning hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of that man in red. To my dismay I never saw him, but I never stopped believing either. Over the years my friends would stop getting presents from Santa. They said it was because he wasn’t real. I said it was because they didn’t believe.

My father was possibly the most joyful person you could ever meet. He had a smile that could light up a room, and a laugh that made you feel good all over. There was no better feeling than to be wrapped up in his arms when I would go home to visit, and at 36 years old, I would still sit on his lap and talk to him about my hopes and dreams. I’m almost pretty sure he lived off of a steady diet of cookies and sweets, much to my mother’s dismay, and it was because of this he had quite a bulbous belly that made him recognizable to almost anyone.

To say my father loved Christmas was an understatement. I used to catch him silently staring at the tree from time to time with a glimmer in his eye. One corner of his mouth would turn up, and a gentle chuckle would escape his lips for no reason other than the fact he was looking at the tree. After my brother and I moved out of the house my parents downsized their tree. It went from being a marvelous wonderment we would haul out of the woods, to nothing more than a table top tree from the back yard. However, I would still catch my father chuckling at that table top tree because, to him, it was still marvelous.

Last month my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer. I was so angry when it happened because I wasn’t done spending time with him, and neither were my kids. Like so many “children” I wanted to think that my father would be around forever, but as we all know, all things must eventually come to end. The grieving process has been a roller-coaster. I have my good days, and I have my bad days, but the other day turned it all around.

As we were sitting at the table one night for dinner, the kids and I started talking about my father, aka Papa. I was telling them how much Papa loved Christmas, how it was his absolute favorite holiday. We laughed about how he had a big nose and rosy cheeks, and how his belly shook when he laughed. My son then mentioned how we needed to buy more “cheap Christmas cookies” because we were out, and they were Papa’s favorites. We then all looked at the tree in the corner of the living room. It was all lit up and cast little shadows of homemade ornaments on the walls. Then it hit me.

I looked at the kids and said, “Wait a minute, we all know that Santa doesn’t live forever. Right? I mean, someone has to replace him every once in while. Right?” They agreed. “And who is the jolliest person you know?”


“And who loved Christmas more than anyone else, EVER?”


Suddenly my daughter pops up in her chair, “And who eats Christmas cookies ALL the time???”

“PAPA!!! Papa is the new Santa!!!”

It all makes sense to me now. Why I loved my father’s laugh. Why I sat on his lap every time I saw him.

Why I never stopped believing. Who could ever stop believing when they grew up with the future Santa after all? So, this Christmas, my family can take a little joy knowing that my father isn’t really gone. He will live forever in our hearts and minds as we take comfort in knowing that he will be coming down our chimneys for many Christmas Eves to come.

I miss my father every day, so can you do me a favor? The next time you’re out at the mall or store, and you see Santa, go sit on his lap and tell him his family misses him, but we’re so glad he’s spreading the joy and magic of Christmas.


Towanda! And other things I yell while shaving.

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I have unwanted body hair. Surprising, I know. It grows in odd places, and at odd lengths. It grows in pairs, and threes, and fours. I even think I have at least a half dozen spurting from a mole on my face. My pubic hair decided to elope with my thigh hair, as my calf hair has meandered it’s way to my toes. One arm pit grows faster than the other, as it battles on in some sort of hair war. My lower back has become a breeding ground for whatever hybrid my butt crack developed, and my “happy trail” has become reminiscent of an overgrown driveway on an old southern plantation. I even shaved my arms once, in hopes to at least hide some of the hair. Now, in winter, there is no need for a sweater to keep them warm.

This is how it goes when you’re a woman. We climb into our showers in the morning with razors, shaving cream, and soap. We lather up from the neck down, and embark on the endless journey to a hairless life. We’re women, we’re supposed to be smooth and soft. Our skin needs to feel fingertips brush against it, and soft breaths move across it. That’s how we are supposed to feel, and what we are supposed to need. Alas, the reality of the situation is hair. Before getting in the shower we all have just enough unwanted body hair to do a one woman rendition of the famous 60’s rock musical of the same name. Out come the round sunglasses as we gyrate in front of the mirror, tapping into our inner hippie and celebrating free love. Maybe not the free love part, or the round sunglasses, but…never mind.

We would love to be able to leave the burly hairiness to the men so they can carry on with their lumbersexual image, and grunt in hairy masculine unity. However, it seems the older we all get, the less hair men have and the more hair us women get. If at this point you all are sitting there reading this afraid I’m going to go rogue and join the “Lady Pit Hair Club”, chill out. My battle with unwanted body hair will rage on. I will proudly raise my razor high, yell “Towanda!”, and shave every last hair from the neck down. I will continue with my contortionist moves allowing me to reach the hairy areas of the unknown. I will spend hundreds of dollars each year on moisturizing raisers for sensitive skin, and ten different brands of shaving cream. I will do all of this, and do it with pride and purpose because my skin deserves the touch of fingertips and soft breaths.

But men, remember what I’ve just told you the next time you hold your woman close and feel her soft skin. Be thankful she deems you worthy of shower acrobats all in the name of woman. Because the struggle is real, and the hair is unruly. Still, don’t buy us a pack of razors in lieu of flowers. Unless, of course, you want us to cut you.

Surprise! Vagina!

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Come one, come all!

You are cordially invited to the annual viewing of:


Join local doctors and medical interns as they gather around my vagina and discuss labia lengths, cervical displasea, HVP, the effects child birth has on the average American vagina, and so much MORE!

The cold hard plastic duck lips will once again be the guests of honor as they force themselves down the deep, dark cavern to the magical jewel, the cervix. Their escort for today’s viewing will be, once again, hospital grade lubrication.

Please feel free to bring a cotton swab to poke around with, as this is the most anticipated moment of the show.

Curtains will open at 1pm-ish

Unfortunately, alcoholic beverages will not be allowed during the show, but are welcome promptly afterwards.

So, if you’re free; slap on a med coat, grab your PAP kit and prescription pad, and get on down to my doctor’s office. This is an event NOT to be missed! I look forward to seeing you all there!

Breasts-Truth From Lies

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Breasts, tatas, pillows, speed bumps, fun bags,mammories, gazongas, melons, titties, chest puppies, chesticles, mosquito bites, rib bumpers, bazongas, udders, air bags, bosom, boulders, hooters, and jugs. No matter what you call them, we all have them.

My breasts. I love them…or I did love them. It’s really a rather difficult thing to deal with, breasts. Once pert and near perfect, they now seem to lack the luster of their younger years. As you grow older, and become a mom, you expect certain things. Like grey hair, you expect them to succumb to gravity a tad, form stretch marks, and keep pace with your growing hind end. As women, we learned about these kinds of things while growing up and watching our mothers. We watched their bodies changed in curiousness as we went through our adolescent years and onto the trauma known as the teenage years. But, just like watching a car crash, it’s never what you expect until it happens to you. That’s exactly what my breasts have become, my own person car crash.

I really thought I was prepared to get older. “It’s a piece of cake!” I thought to myself. I smiled, and accepted my grey hair coming in at a rapid pace and the dimples on my butt. It’s all a part of becoming a mature woman. I was READY damn it! Bring. It. ON! Well, my breasts brought it. They brought it with a vengeance. Over time I suddenly found myself having to sort out the truth from the lies when it comes to your breasts and aging.

  • After you have children your breasts shrink back.
    • Bullshit. They don’t shrink, they grow. They grow as if you have been slathering them with fertilizer. They will indeed grow to unruly proportions so you will no longer be able to see your feet, and may even end up taking over your entire body.
  • One breast will grow slightly larger than the other.
    • I am one bra purchase away from spending a small fortune extra on custom made bras. As it stands now, my left breast is a full two sizes bigger than the right. I have been walking with a port side list for the past two years, and it’s almost impossible for me to lean to the right.
  • Over time, gravity will cause your breasts to sag.
    • It will also cause your nipples to point directly at the bathmat when you get out of the shower, and make you feel as if small demons are swinging from them as they try to rip the flesh from your chest.
  • The weight of your breasts could cause shoulder pain over time.
    • Have you ever carried a five year old on your shoulders for eight hours? Yup, pretty much the same feeling.
  • Breast pain may increase as you get closer to menopause.
    • No shit Sherlock! Although “pain” in not necessarily the general word I would use to describe the sensation I have when taking off my bra during PMS. I might as well turn to Steve and ask him grab a hold of these bad girls and give them an full out yank because that’s what if feels  like when they are “set free”.
  • Breasts may become more tender.
    • I’m assuming this refers to “pain”. Please see above. This is a sore subject for me. Pun intended.
  • Increased sensation.
    • Bread crumbs in your bra become thorns, and the popped under wire…..well you might as well lob that bitch off because that’s exactly what it feels like. On a positive note, nipple sucking in the heat of the moment…..that’s pretty much my most favorite thing on earth now.

As you can see, my breasts and I hate don’t like each other. It’s a daily struggle to maintain the status quo. I curse them as soon as I stand up in the morning to the time I tuck them back into my armpits at night. In turn, they retaliate with pain and uncharted growth spurts. I miss my toes and dream of running down a white sand beach in a bathing suit without fear of injuring those around me. My breasts are a pain in my ass, and if they keep growing I will be able to wrap them around to my actual ass. I can’t wait. Yet as I sit here in a granny bra I can’t help but worry about them. What if I find a lump? What if they get sick? What would I do if I actually “lost” them?

Breasts are a constant battle for women, they’re too big, they’re too small…….my implant popped, etc.. No matter how frustrated they make you, remember, you have to take care of them. Do a self check every month. Let your doctor have a go at them at your physical. Let your partner have a feel for you. Your breasts are the one thing you can’t feel enough! So, as we lumber through the month of October toward winter, whip them out and give the girls some love. Take five minutes to give them a little squeeze and a rub down. If you feel something suspicious, call your doctor. It’s always better to be safe than sorry when it comes to your breasts. Guys, you should do this too. Breast cancer isn’t sexist. Once you’ve given them some love, you can go back to cursing them. I know I will.



Compliments-Pass It On

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I have a rule in life, compliment sincerely and compliment often.

We live in a fast paced world that never looks up. Everyone is either too busy or has their nose in some sort of electronic device. We have become self absorbed; distracted by online videos and social media. As we our eyes fixate on the beautiful bodies and scenery dancing across our screens and monitors, we fail to let them fixate on the beauty around us.

When was the last time you looked at your significant other and told them they look good? How about a perfect stranger you passed on the street? It could be something as simple as saying you like their earrings or as unique as you love how their smile lit up the room when they walked in. I used to work in a doctor’s office, coming across cancer patients, pregnant women, the elderly, and every other kind of person. It didn’t matter who they were, what they looked like, or where they were from; I always greeted them with a smile, asked them how they were, and looked for something positive about them. It wasn’t always easy, but 80% of the time I could come up with something.

With almost every compliment I gave out the reply was a look of shock followed by a shy “thank you” and a smile. You would be surprised how much easier a difficult person can be after they are complimented, especially if they aren’t used to it. As time went by, the compliments multiplied. As patients came back for returning visits they would come to my window and compliment me back. The woman in the wheelchair who usually came in complaining about the handicapped parking now came in with a smile saying how nice it was to come in here, and the mom (with two kids in tow) breathed a sigh of relief when I distracted her kids with compliments about they super hero shoes and green magic marker mustache.

One day  co-worker asked me why I gave so many people compliments, and if I really meant them. I told her I didn’t always LOVE their earrings, but there is always something kind of cool about them worth mentioning. As for why I gave out so many compliments, it’s simple: you never know what someone is truly going through. they may have a picture perfect life, or they may be on their shred of hope. Either way, a compliment isn’t going to make their day any worse, the least it can do is carry on that person’s status qua. Besides, a happy person is easier to deal with than a disgruntled person.

We compliment people far to little these days. Now that I have switched jobs, there will be times when it will be two weeks between compliments. I am lucky to be a fairly confident person without a lot of stress in my life, so going a couple weeks without a compliment isn’t going to kill me, but what about that person you’ve never noticed before? How long has it been since they received a compliment?

I make it a point to compliment at least three different EVERY day, not including once a day for my kids and Steve. So, go ahead, try it. Slow down for a second and look up. Compliment someone you pass by. Tell them you like their hair, their necklace, or shirt. If they brush you off, try someone else. Try this three times every day for a week. It might not show, but you just made a positive difference in their life. Besides, there’s no better way to feel good about yourself than helping others feel good about themselves. Happy complimenting peeps! Enjoy!


Silver Spoons and Summer People

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This is actually a re-post of a guest post I did last year for one of my favorite fellow bloggers, Daddy Runs A Lot. With summer quickly approaching us it seemed fitting to put it back out there.

The town where I come from isn’t for everyone. It’s the coast of Maine but it’s not the little vacation town you might think of. The houses aren’t little cottages nestled in the trees along the water and the beaches sandy.
It’s here where the roads are quiet and rush hour consists of 10 pickup trucks headed to the old gas station on their way home from a day on the water.
The locals look nothing like anyone you’ve seen in a Hollywood movie. Here the boy I had a crush on in junior high is still wearing the same basketball t-shirt he wore under is gown at the high school graduation.
The mullet is alive and well in these parts. All forms of it. It peaks out from the backs of salty ball caps and gets combed into a perfect quaf for those hot dates down at the lobster pound.
It’s here where the women don’t care how much money the men make, all they care about is how loud the pickup truck is as it comes down the road. It’s prefered the engine be a diesel so as to produce the perfect rumble of a mating call.
Bottle redemption centers run by men with like Cupcake and Spiderman nestle up against local art galleries run by women with names like Kat and Misty. And the tourists flock here for these very reasons. They want their taste of redneck as they file into town one by one in their SUV’s and minivans.
Come July Chancey and Tansy from Connecticut are digging in the sand with “That bastard’s” son and “Man Hand’s” daughter. And like many summer people around here, Chancey ends up marrying “Man Hand’s” daughter and a whole new wave locals and tourists washes ashore.
My days as a kid were spent watching these little silver spooned children fall in love with the mullet clad locals. I hoped and prayed I too would fall in love with some kid from away and share in the glory of the confused families. Alas, that was not my fate in my home town. My path lead me to become one of the summer people instead. I now travel with my little mixed family from Connecticut all the way to Maine every summer and watch as my urbanized minions interact with the son of the local garage own and the daughter of the lady who drives the heating oil truck, and it makes me smile.
I may now call an entirely different state home now, but I still get to enjoy the uniqueness of the summertime interactions here in Maine. I don’t know if I myself will ever move back to the area but there is always hope my kids will one day fall in love with a local and find themselves raising a family here much like my parents did with me.

Hell Tacos

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I can’t tell you why the donor ever decided to get double box springs for the Queen sized bed he purchased back in the summer of 2006. It was a Queen sized bed. A Queen. Not a King. Not a California King. A Queen. We weren’t sleeping in some vast luxury bed needing the latest in bed frame technology so as to give you the best night’s sleep possible. It was a simple Queen sized bed, a cheap one at that. After 6 months of use it formed a large mountain in the middle thankfully causing the donor to sleep on one side and me on the other. Much to his dismay, no amount of turning the mattress would remedy the ever-increasing mountain in the center of the mattress.

I vaguely remember the day the mattress was delivered to his small apartment in south Jersey. I’m pretty sure my pregnancy hormones got the best of me as I questioned him up and down about why on earth he would order a double box spring for such a small bed. I’m sure his explanation had something to do with being easy to move or being on sale or both, but I have since forgotten. All I know is that I still curse the day those damn box springs showed up. For a while I was convinced I didn’t like them at first because I wasn’t a huge fan of the donor at the time of the purchase. Maybe there was some sort of karma thingy clinging to the wood a fabric just to spite my petty feelings of him at the time. Although the whole karma thingy may still be partially to blame for the hell these box springs have put me through, I am now mostly convinced it’s just double box springs are unnecessary for such a small bed and flat-out suck. If I were ever buy a king sized, or bigger, bed I would be more inclined to take out an entire wall of my bedroom before buying double box springs again.

About two years Shortly after BF came into my life I decided I actually liked sleeping net to someone and thought maybe it were in my our best interest to get a new mattress, one that actually allowed us to *gasp* cuddle after sex. I had a bonus from work come through and I bought us an early Christmas present. Brand new top of the line Queen sized mattress…and that was the end of the mattress budget, a new box spring would have to wait. After wrestling the old beast down the stairs and out the front door and cursing our way back up the stairs with what we were sure to view as heaven. And it was. So soft was the pillow top as it engulfed us both in its fluffy embrace. We both smiled as we envisioned joyful mornings after sleeping in heaven all night. As we crawled into bed that night we gave it a test run, a good one. So far the new mattress was perfect. By morning it was a different story. I was exhausted and things are still a bit hazy in the memory department but I’m pretty sure flames were shooting from BF’s eyes as he asked me what happened during the night.

We had woken up in what was nothing like the soft embrace we had felt the afternoon prior. Instead it was as if Satan had come in during the night and folded us in a hell taco that resembled our new mattress. The middle had sunken in beyond what one would consider normal. After we calmed down we decided to give it another try, but the next morning it was the exact same thing. Our backs hurt. Our limbs hurt. We had been folded into Satan’s hell taco once again. What on Earth was going on? Then it hit me. The donor’s fucking double box springs! The overall weight of the new mattress was just enough to not cause the mountain as with the last one, but a hell taco/sagging middle. I cursed into the air swearing if the donor still lived down the street I would have driven to his house and shoved one box spring down his throat and the other up his ass, and then sell my first-born so I would have the money to go buy a new box spring. Alas, he no longer lived down the street and I do have quite a growing affection for my first-born despite the screams coming from my house every morning before school.

There we were, BF and I, stuck with the double box springs and a hell taco. So we came up with a plane, BF was pretty sure there was a large piece of plywood at work he could bring home to hopefully keep Satan at bay. That night we slid the plywood between the mattress and box springs, because it was not as big as BF had thought, crossed our fingers and hoped for the best. the next morning the hell taco wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been but we could still feel the tug of Satan from the hell fires below. That night BF brought home 3 very long 2×4’s to stick under the box springs. All of his tools were at a side job so we didn’t have a saw to trim the boards to the appropriate length. Naturally the double box spring and mattress sat 2 inches above the bed frame for almost 6 months but at least we no longer woke up in a hell taco.

A few weeks ago a saw made its way into our house and sat silently in the laundry room on top of a box of Borax and some extension cords. It wasn’t until we decided to clean out our room that we decided to go ahead and cut the 3 boards jetting out at shin height so that they would set nicely into the bed frame as nature had intended. BF grinned from ear to ear as he cut each board covering the floor in saw dust. Saw dust we could handle. Hell tacos we could not. As we had hoped, each board fit nicely in the frame as did the box springs and mattress. That night we climbed in patting ourselves on the back for finally finishing this project. As we both put our weight onto the mattress there was a deafening noise! WTF was that? We shifted our body weight to try to glance under us where the noise was coming from. There is was again! It was almost as if the bed were yelling at us. Yelling at us in a blood curdling scream.

We held as still as possible figuring the noise was the wood rubbing on the metal frame. We could deal with this for a night. But we were horny. So now what? Do we go back downstairs to the couch for a quick romp or just stay in bed and test it out. Naturally we stayed in bed. It was horrible. I couldn’t concentrate on my rhythm. All I heard was that damn noise. Frustrated we tried another position. And another. And another. Fail. Fail. Fail. Somehow we managed to finish but it was by no means as enjoyable as our earlier elation should have resulted in. The next night it was the same thing. There had to be some way to make it stop. There had to be!

My parents had planned on coming to visit the next weekend. They were planning on staying in a hotel and we were sure to find a way to silence the noise before then anyway. The day before they came I was informed they had changed their minds, they were going to stay with us. Shit. We hadn’t done anything to fix the bed. Now what? So I cut up and old sweater to place between the boards and the bed frame. BF had since done some investigating into the noise and informed me it wasn’t the wood making the noise, it was the bed frame itself. I didn’t care. I had to put the sweater pieces in there just to make myself feel better. Maybe he was wrong doubtful. Maybe it would at least help.

But no. No, it didn’t. Maybe it was paranoia but I think it made it worse. This was Satan’s way of getting back at us for nixing the hell taco. He and the donor must have been in contact with each other about the double box spring and this is how they were getting back at me. The entire weekend was spent trying to move as little as possible in bed so my slumbering parents below wouldn’t think we were having endless sex marathons all weekend. We move and the sound wakes us up. We sneeze and the sound shoots us out of bed. Tonight I may actually rub butter all over the bed frame in a last resort attempt at getting the noise to stop. If it doesn’t work I’m convinced we may never be able to have se in our bed again.

A Little Preview of What’s to Come

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It’s been a while since I last blogged. A long while. It’s not for not having anything to blog about. There are plenty of things to blog about when you’re a parent. I have an endless library of stories to tell people filed away in my brain library. At any given time I can rattle off a story of Pheobe claiming, explaining, and demonstrating how she has 3 butts. Or how Theo is convinced he’s going to swallow his newest loose tooth while sleeping despite my constant attempt at easing his mind by telling him if he does, we can search his poop if we have to. hey now, desperate times call for desperate measures. I could tell you about how the daycare probably thinks I’m a horrible mom because I usually end up in hysterics when they call to tell me one or the other has a new black eye or a splinter.

I could tell you about BF and I finally cut the support boards for our double box springs thus resulting in making se next to impossible due to the deafening noises coming from the now non sagging yet noisy bed frame with the $3 yard sale sticker still on it. Or maybe something about my inability to actually finish and follow through on just about every aspect of my life including weight loss and electric bills.

This morning I even had the inevitable instance where I discovered Pheobe had used her sticky fingers for bad rather than good when I found a scared little herd of plastic daycare animals in the bottom of her nap bag. My child. My evil dear precious child, had *gasp* stolen something other than her brother’s pack of gum.

So as I said, I’m at no lack of stories to over-share with tell you. I’ve just been…well…busy. So let this be a preview of what’s to come for all you who have been waiting anxiously for the next installment of Mommy Undressed. The best is yet to come my friends. I promise. Mommy is about to drop it like its hot…or something like that.