Running Red Momma

I always have crazy dreams when I am pregnant.  Usually, they are paranoid twists of my normal reality.  Sometimes they are a venture in paranoia.  I had a dream that I had hairy man nipples . What, for the love, is Freud trying to tell me?

It seems I don't grow much wiser with age. I used to hope for it. Now,  I am amused at the slowness of my human learning.  I just enjoyed the delights of a lovely BBC miniseries-- North & South.   It has all of the charm we ladies love: complicated love, men loving woman who refuse them, passionate declarations, costumes, compelling musical scores and of course... kissing while holding the woman's face. Yes, I rewatched some scenes on you tube.  I found it very romantic.  I don't know what it is about wide skirts and accents that gets me every time.   But, I also paused to think on my own relationship.   I am swooning over these scenes and maybe neglecting my own personal ones.  I have a sweet, dedicated husband who I can kiss all the time.  He has a deep, romantic baritone voice, plays the guitar, has a deep laugh, is kind, thoughtful, intelligent and hard working.  Yet, I have probably seen the kissing scene from this BBC actor a few extra-times.  What is it about wom...

I fought blogging for a long time because it seemed so strange to stick personal details out in public. But then I found how fun it has been to record stuff that just doesn't belong in more serious memoirs. My weighty concern is a personal grooming curse. I have always been a hairy sort of woman. When I taught Asian students in my outreach programs, they would pet my arms and ask me what was wrong. "Genetic misfortune" or having one's family history be ape, I would explain. The malady has always given me the thought laser would be better than the oodles of supplies I purchase in a vain hope it will stop the undergrowth. Laser treatments seemed so extravagant I would stop myself. Until now...I have the most unfortunate of pregnancy complications. I cannot stop getting ingrown hairs in my rather large (think ape) bikini area. I speak of grotesque monsters with their own names. (If you want further descriptors, I could email--don't think I will provide photos.)...

Recently, we watched my BIL finish a triathlon. He finished strong and got a medal which was fun. As we watched the buff male and female bodies stride by us, the muscles were far more interesting than a typical running race. Running usually involves lanky, spare frames that run forever. Mastery of three separate sports requires time, devotion and some decent equipment. We found ourselves looking at their bodies and trying to guess their ages. A triathlon will have the age written in marker on one calf and the gender on the other one. This kind of racing creates muscular bodies which seem to defy age expectations. We were stunned by how well kept some of the racers were. It was so easy to guess how old someone was and then just glance down at the person's calf. Just think how fun life could be if two simple stats could be printed on one's calf. This information could be of immense help to interested parties. The rules only allow two facts. So you need to get to basics. ...

Last year, as 39 crept into the door, I purchased an internet deal on facials. No big deal. I was feeling the quiet tickle of old-age on my face. Chemical peels seemed to be the answer. One year later and I had finally got around to redeeming the specials. I hate wasting money more than age spots. Having done this before, I was looking forward to a dark room and pleasant smelling stuff on my face. At the time, it did not concern me that I had a different esthetician. Sure, it burned a little more. It was probably working. During the weekend my face went from red like a sunburn to "who drug your face behind a skateboard?" I hunkered at home like a pimply thirteen-year-old. That Sunday, I was in charge of getting the children to sing loudly for Father's Day. No sweat, they always sing so cheerfully for me. In addition, I knew my local gathering of church goers was going to realize I was pregnant. (Yeah, did I mention I was pregnant?) This perfect storm of s...

Driving along the road, an older American car pulled up along side of our car.  There sat a younger man delighting in his cigar.  Smoke tendrils curled around his contented face while he sat waiting for the light to change.  Looking through the haze, I noticed a long twirly-ish mustache which seemed to match his cigar but not his decade.   As he stretched back in his solitary delight, one could observe the decorations of his castle.   There on the rearview mirror were two peach fuzzy balls.  What on odd color and shape for an ornament one at first thinks.  However, as one kept looking, the deeper pink centers and general atmosphere of the car give the obvious a-ha! He's got ta-tas! Nothing says personal style like boobie balls.  This folks is why I love cars, people and America.

I actually had a few perfect moments last week.  It would be a slap to the universe if I didn't acknowledge them.  I took my children and one extra neighbor to the park which can sometimes be a lot of walking, running and watching.  However, I found myself sitting against a tree holding my youngest while the older ones played.  My littlest curled into me as we watched the others. The sky was bright blue, the sun was just right and I sat there for an entire five minutes. It really was perfect. Later that week, I went to see my parents for the weekend.  I finally have hit that point where I have rebalanced the mind set between my parents are perfect and my parents are so "wrong". Now, they are loving people who do they best they can.  I enjoy their company in a way I couldn't when I was younger. I am more okay with their quirks and individual ways. There are many simple changes that come with aging.  Hooray I say.  When I visit my parents for the weekend, it usually i...