{22-5=17, 39-22=17}= shame

June 30th.
5:15 pm (central time)
Dashed from meeting to purchase three tickets for the film event of the summer.
One for me.
One for Julie.
And one for our 11 year old beard.

What? It's opening day people! And I am grown (some might call middle aged) woman who finds herself juggling self respect and a smoosh of shame that I had to had to see it the day it was released.


Whatever.
I am still - forever in fact - Team Jacob.

Doctor Jones (shout out, Denisha!) tells me I cannot possibly care about the essence of the story - and the connection between Edward and Bella - and still identify myself as Team Jacob. She says if I cared about the story, I'd know there never could be a Team Jacob in the first place.

I told her I care about my eyesight, therefore, Team Jacob.

Not that Edward isn't dandy.





Not that Bella isn't just a lovely heroine.




Absolutely the angst of the undead and the headed to undead is well worth the price of admission.

Holy shut the front door!!!
That manboy's body is ridonkulous!!




Six pack? Nah. I think I counted eight.
Yes, I counted.
Shame.




You go see it. I dare you not to count.
The only reason to own the DVD is to paused the damn thing and COUNT!!
Maybe math can be fun?

Film ends.
We are happy and entertained.

Bella took an acting class! Good girl!
Sparkle Tits went the gym. Thank you!
When did Peter Facinelli become British?
You go, Director David Slade!!

I say silent prayer that the people adapting Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows are equally as attentive to the book (Talking to you, Director David Yates)

I returned our up past her bedtime partner in shame, flapping my gums at Julie with insightful little notices like "do you think the nine year old in front of us understood the allusions to foreplay in the training scene?" and "Edward is a cwabby vwampire when the WAY FUCKING HOTTER Jacob is keeping Bella warm on the top of Mt. Kilamongaro!"

I arrived home, kissed Lucio squaring on the lips and headed for the shower.
Evidently my kiss was a smoosh too much for a Wednesday causing Lucio to posture, "How many women your age do you think are going home for a romp with their spouses and thinking of vampires and wearwolves?"

"Does it matter?" I ask. "If it offends your masculine sensibilities that I would like to take my frustrations out on you, you can stay here and watch Brazil and I can see what Pete is doing tonight." (see Pure Romance entry)

"We can't have both?" he asks with a smile.
Gads. I love this man.

Off to the shower.
I daydream a bit while shaving...thinking of Jacobs remarkably hairless chest for a wearwolf.

And then it hit me.
He has no hair on his chest because it hasn't started growning yet.

The actor portraying Jacob is 22 years old.
I am 39 years old. What? I have a month. Shut up.

A 17 year difference. A high school diploma difference.
Uh oh.
Mean stupid math.


The actor portraying Jacob is 22 years old.
Jack is 5 years old.
A 17 year difference. A high school diploma difference.

Shudder.
Cringe.

5 minutes later I am in bed, wet hair, sensible PJ's in place, reading Faulkner's As I Lay Dying.

Lucio crawls in and looks optimistic.

Hopes dashed in an instant.

"I don't think my hearts going to be in it, honey. I did the math, and we need to go see The A Team or something to wash away the shame of it all."


All is not lost though.
Bradley Cooper and Patrick Wilson in the same movie.
39 and 35 and 37.
That oughta work.

My Eyes!! My Eyes!!!

We got trouble.
I say we got trouble.
And it starts with T and that rhymes with P and that stands for pool.

The T of T&A fame.
The Pool of Sholem. For everyone reading this outside of Illinois, you're pronouncing Sholem wrong. It's not "shawl-ohm" or even "shawl-em"
It's Show Lom.

I know. I know. Redonkulous.
Just go with it.

Let me set the stage for you.
Sunny Saturday afternoon, post lunch crowd at the Champaign Park District pool.
Temperatures exceeding 90 degrees in solid humidity.

In this heat, the only place to be in Champaign is at the pool. As a result, everyone who lives in Champaign is there. And a few from Urbana, a couple from St. Joe and a handful from someplace called Bondville.

I feel like I knew people with pools in their yards when I was a kid? No?
Not anymore. Here we are. With the masses. Shiver.

Splashing abounds.
There is neither sufficient reclining chairs for sunning or space in pool ot swim more than three strokes without bumping into someone's ass to whom you're not related.
Ick.

Squeeling children. Balls zooming around.The round playing kinds and a few tucked into Speedos. Gotta love the European trained faculty.

Parents holding, coaching, reprimanding and ignoring their offspring in every corner of the pool.

All in all, a typical Sholem Saturday.

That is, until I saw her.

Clad in a black bikini, a woman ca-thwumping her way into the big pool. Her remarkable gait rivaling the grace of any given rhino is not what made me take notice of her.

Neither that she maybe doesn't have the figure to pull off a bikini (see ca-thwumping reference)

The maybe part? About whether sister can pull off a bikini?
Is a for sure.
You want to know whose judge and jury here sister?
Ding Ding Ding!!!!

Yes, she's smaller than me.
But she absolutely shops at Lane Bryant and if she had ever heard of Nordstrom (which, let's be honest...)she'd be wandering the 3rd floor, next to the kids clothes, same as me.

New Rule: If you're sizing outside of Ann Taylor by at least 4 sizes, a bikini is wrong.
Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong.
Show some respect.
For me.

No wonder people associate fat with lazy!
This twazoo cannot be bothered to notice she is fat in the first place. Hello?

But I digress.

Sister in black bikini had two body parts on full display for anyone to see.
No, not her bubies. Those were both racing towards her toes held up by the same sort of support I use to hold Jack's toys in the tub.

Say it with me. Min-i-mal.

And no, neither was it her twazoo or her tush escaping the confines of her $14 KMart bottoms.

It was her TWO BELLY BUTTONS on full display.

One, in the normal place. and another, about 5 inches above.

Two Belly Buttons.
In a Bikini!!!!

Lucio had to tell me to put my sunglasses down, telling me "The staring with your mouth agape is not helping".

"I think I am well within my rights as a human to ask her to return to the mothership and get the fruck off my planet!!"

Upon hearing this, Lucio grabbed Jack and headed for the lazy river. Incidentally, Jack seemed as phased as his mother and if he someday tells me he simply doesn't fancy women, I will recall this day as the one where I am certain he began to wonder.

Walking back to my chair in my figure appropriate halter suit with rooshing and skirt, thank you very much, I looked around at my fellow pool dwellers.

Yikes. "The People of Sholem Pool" is fast replacing "The People of Walmart".
If you don't know, google it.

And yes, I will try to get a picture next time.

Do aliens react poorly to having their photo taken?

Elastagirl, sadly, I am not

I am feeling protective.
Wanting to get my arms around everyone I love and hold them close.
Keep them warm.
Safe.
Protected.
Loved.

Wish I was Elastigirl.

From The Incredibles.

I already have her hair.
And her ass.
Wish I had her waist.


Want my arms to grow and stretch all the way to Jack's classroom, where he is completing Kindergarten and growing with such speed I fear if I don't grab him now, he will soon tell me he doesn't want to snuggle me anymore.

Want to grab Lucio in that warm hold and tell him that we can be successful in everything we do as long as we try.
Together.

Wish I could stretch a little more to hold tightly to Harrison and Piper, who are slipping from my arms a little more each day.

Want to grab Kevin and Steph everytime I see them, tell that living next to them has changed our relationship forever, and that for every up and down we've had, I love them each more than I ever knew I could.

My arms are letting me down.

I cannot reach my mother to hold her and tell her she is proving to be a stellar grandmother. The best ever, in fact. We've done some checking and she really is top of her class.

Nope, cannot reach Florida, to assure Caye she looks amazing and the woman in Ross was clearly "special". No hugging, Caye. I know.

Cannot stretch my way to Leigh and hold her hand when we walk, which she always lets me do.

I cannot get to Becca and tell her I knew happiness would find its way back to her home. Or how happy I am that it did. I cannot throw my arm around Lori's shoulders when she frets over her first home purchase. Cannot offer reassurance to Danielle when a tree falls on their house, let alone laugh with her until it hurts.

Cannot catch Jamie as he moves to quickly.
Can barely grab hold of Julie as she jets off west again.
Wishing wishing my arms could hug Vivian everyday. Hardly seems believable that our friendship is this strong when we only lived near each other for 21 months, long ago, in the mid 90's.

Can't reach Denisha and tell her it's their loss.
Cannot contain my want to show happy fingers when I think of a week in July in Walloon Lake with Leslie and the girls.

Cannot control my glee at thought of sitting snug in chairs with Laura and Kayrn in Colorado later this year, maybe. Just the thought of getting to them makes me smile.


Yes, I am feeling the need to protect what I love.
I think it's okay.
I think it might be Facebook's fault.
If I want to throw hugs to people I have not seen in decades, some of whom I was only marginally close to, it's no wonder I consider smothering love on those few people whom I've loved all along.

If I see you and I hug you, please let me.

You can even hug first.

My Mother's Daughter

My mother visited last week.

Arriving essentially at a moments notice to look after my niece and nephew whilst their parents sought to find a home in South Carolina before the tax credit expired.

Lois got the call on Saturday and was here for dinner on Monday.

Lois rocks.

You know what else?

I am so completely turning into her.

Lois stereotypes.
She says things become stereotypes because they are true.
I say, yes, that is right, but that doesn't mean we can call an entire sect of the population stubborn just because of their ancestory.

I've tried logic.
"Mom, you're Polish. Are you stupid?
She looks at me with not a trace of a smile.
"I am Irish. Am I drunk?"

"The Irish are impervious to analyis," declared Lois.
She has said this before -usually to illustrate my father's rigidity.
She wasn't wrong about Dad, but I still think my message was lost.

"Mother, please don't stereotype like that. It makes you sound foolish, " I plead mixing love with just enough mortification to make my point.

Yes, my vantage point from perfection is lovely. Thank you for asking.

Fast forward to dinner on Saturday night.
We are wrapping up, boys are already playing in the other room.

A loud motorcycle roars past the house, catching the attention of 15 month-old niece.

"No motorcycle men for you, " Stephanie trills, bouncing her daughter.

"That's right," I chime in, "Motorcyle boys are never sufficiently educated."

Lois looks up.

Gulp.
Double gulp.
Have completely forgotten she is dating George, who both owns and rides motorcycles.
And is also an educated, well paid engineer.

"Sorry about that," I tell her looking at my plate.

It's hard sometimes for me to get my head around the changes in my mother in the last three years.

At the ripe age of 70, she now rides motorcycles, goes to backyard jams (whatever the hell that is) and goes deep sea fishing. She is also, much to the surprise of the children she put through Catholic School, part Jewish.

I love the internet and am gleeful for sites like www.ancestory.com and the nugets they've unearthed, but I think she found the Jewish part mostly to make my oldest living relative, Aunt Vivian (see Jamie Davis blog) certifiably crazy. Vivian and Lois are basically the same bloodline yet somehow my mother is Polish and Vivian is Scandanavian. It's a puzzler.

Lois is clearly ready and eager to respond to my stereo-typing ways.

"Most of the cycle people I know, Heather, are well educated and earn quite well. It's actually a very expensive hobby."

Having no retort, I wait for someone to jump in.
All Steph can come up with is "Oh, of course. We just meant the Hell's Angels."

Like Hell's Angels is recruiting and looking for a nice crop of toddlers to round out their memebership.

There's a bit of off silence in the room.
A few minutes pass.
We all pray one of the boys will set off the fire alarm.

Finally Mom decides I can be let off the hook for being narrow-minded about motor cycles.

"Was that your neighbor before when we were on the porch, Heather?" Lois asks while Lucio and I are gathering dishes.

"Her boyfriend," I tell her, getting up from the table and walking to the kitchen.

"Those were two mieskeits!" Lois declares.

Look it up. I had to to spell it correctly.

I turn the corner into the kitchen, where Lucio is grinning like a idiot.
Through my smile I whisper, "how can she be so judgemental?"

To which Lucio answers, "You mean like when you saw the Grow -Don't Mow bumper sticker on his car and decided you would call the police if the lawn went more than 2 weeks without a cut?"

"Well, that's completely different."