If you notice, I rarely talk about my “Parenting Style” here on my blog because a) who gives a shit, really. b) I don’t really have a parenting style.
I take a “Whatever works” and “Hey! At least I tried” approach to parenting.
I don’t read “parenting” books, nor do I read parenting magazines. I secretly kind of hate people who preach a certain style of parenting as if that’s “The Right Way”. I’ve never allowed other women to make me feel inferior because I don’t make the same parenting choices as they do.
I’ve been doing this “Parent Thang” for 13 years, (since I was 22 years old) and judging by The Greatness of my children, whatever it is that I’m doing is right because, man, I have some AWESOME children.
There have been times where I’ve felt at a loss for an answer to problems my children were facing. like the time my son had a cold and one night, felt like he couldn’t breathe and from that night on was convince he was going to DIE IN HIS SLEEP and, therefore, REFUSED TO SLEEP.
But, most times, I feel completely in control and know exactly what to do in any given situation.
“Gum in your hair? SHAVED HEAD FOR YOU!”
However, right now I’m facing a problem with my daughter and I’m at a complete loss how to correct this problem.
While I’m a little scared to ask The Internet for advice, I’m more scared of having to clean poop off of walls, so, I’m going to take the risk and ask for suggestions.
The problem?
Girlfriend likes to take her diaper off. And not just at naptime anymore! I’m constantly worried that she’s going to take it off when she has poop. So far, I’ve been lucky and I’ve caught her before she’s ripped off poopie diapers, but the girl is FAST and it’s only a matter of time before it happens. It’s like, I turn my back for one second and “Helloooo Pachina!.”
My first brilliant solution to the problem was to put a onesie on her anytime I was going to lay her down for a nap. It worked, until she figured out how to unsnap the buttons.
Now? There is absolutely NO keeping a diaper on her.
I’m THIS CLOSE to whipping out the duct tape because, remember, WHATEVER WORKS.
However, if you have any other suggestions, or, any theories as to why my child is doing this (because, surely it can’t be as simple as “She hates the feeling of the diaper and feels more comfortable naked!”) I’d love to hear them. None of my children have ever “played with poop” and I’d like to keep it that way.
Monthly Archives: March 2006
Because SERIOUSLY
Infectious Cheese
My daughter has another ear infection and a touch of the flu. It’s obvious she’s in pain and uncomfortable by the way she’s clinging to me and letting me hold her in my arms. Normally, being held is torture to her, for there are picture frames that need to be broken, furniture just waiting to be scratched, dented and spilled on, there are toys that must be scattered in every room of the house and little objects to be placed into her mouth.
Not today. Today she wants “mama” to hold her, to cuddle with her and um, to give her The Bobs.
Yes, I’m still breasfeeding my daughter. No, not as often as I used to, but yeah, still doing that whole “tittymilk distrubution” thingy up in here.
DO NOT JUDGE ME.
Let me rephrase that.
Do not judge me as I have judged others, because you may say to yourself “I will NEVER breastfeed a child that can ask for it, but until you become and old, lazy woman who JUST WANTS TO SLEEP IN and you learn the way to sleep in is to bring your child into bed with you and let them drink of The Bobs, well, you really have no business passing judgement on others.
Long live The Tittymilk!
I feel badly for my little girl, I truly hate for her to be in pain. I’ll do anything I can to cheer her up, even if that means drinking excessive amounts of diet coke to WOW her with my contest winning burping skills. There really isn’t anything I won’t do to make her smile, because seeing her sickly breaks my heart.
Lucky for me, it’s not hard to get the girl to smile.
She is such a good natured little girl.
Do not mistake “good natured” with “Always happy and sweet” because Girlfriend is a Drama Queen prone to The Dramatics. However, she’s also incredibly affection, deeply loving and ridiculously funny. She’s a joy to know and a pleasure to care for when sick.
Well, except for the part where I have to take off her puked up jammies. That is definitely not pleasurable. Nor is the writing of checks for “named brand” prescriptions (thank you jackass urgent care doctor, seriouly, ammoxicillan would have been just fine, thank you very much.) But every other aspect of caring for Her Sickness is my pleasure.
Inspite of her pain and illness, she still manages to giggle at my silliness, to lavish my cheeks with her sweet little kisses, to wrap her tiny little arms around my neck and squeeze me tightly whilst telling me she loves me. The girl is an angel.
An angel who says “Shit” when pissed, but still, an angel.
Opa
Last night my grandpa was rushed to the ER. His potassium level was dangerously high and his kidneys began to shut down.
He’s not doing well, but being carefully monitored at The Veteran’s hospital.
I can’t even begin to describe the fear and sadness I fell at this moment because my grandfather is more important to me than any words could ever express.
I can’t write about it right now because emotions are running too high. I took a 2 hour nap while my daughter slept, I’m grumpy and have cried about everything today.
I’ve tried to keep busy with Gabby to take my mind off of it. We spent the entire day playing, reading books, singing together and also, completely ignoring the incredible amount of housework that needs to be done.
I’m feeling regret for not visiting him more often and yet, I haven’t been able to make myself go see him in the hospital for fear of what I’ll see. I don’t want to see him weak or in pain and I realize that is so damn selfish because he wants to see me.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m being a selfish coward. I need to go see him.
And I will go see him, but I’m telling you, it’s not going to be easy for me at all.
Funny how the most important things in life are always the hardest.
It’s like my own little bakery, but not really.
There’s no delicate or pretty way of saying this, and yes, I realize there’s the option of NOT saying it at all, but, why should I only write about The Goodness of my Vagina?
Apparently, I’ve got a yeast infection. I was going to say that I am about 2 hours away from popping a loaf of bread out from down there, but that would just be gross, so I’ll refrain from actually saying it.
I was rather irritated (HA! HA!) by this sudden turn of events in my crotch, so, I decided to investigate what could have triggered the sudden onset of the yeast infection and came across The Greatest Yeast Infection Explanation Site in History. An informative, yet HILARIOUS site about yeasty crotches. BOOKMARKED!
Anyone still reading? Because now I get to the reason I actually felt I needed to write about my yeast infection.
I went to Target to get some medication for my condition. I found “the aisle” for vagina related medications and was SO HAPPY to see that they had “generic” brand medication for yeast infection. And it was $4 cheaper! SCORE! However, after I picked up the box, I was MORTIFIED at what I saw. Unlike the Monistat 7 box, which discreetly says “for yeast infections” or some crap like that, the box for the people who can’t afford the “named brand” shit because they are living on one very modest income had these words in NOT SO SMALL letters sprawled across the front of the box….
NITRAL VAGINAL CREAM
VAGINA ANTIFUNGAL
Oh HELL NAW.
I panicked because, while I really wanted to save four dollars, did I REALLY want the checker to know that I was currently sporting vaginal fungus?
I DID NOT.
But, damn. Four dollars is a trip to Chick Fil A, people.
So, I swallowed my pride and tried to pretend as if I didn’t care about the VAGINAL ANTIFUNGAL statement on the big blue box and threw that bitch on the conveyer belt.
I considered starting a conversation with the man in which I would casually lie and say “I’m just doing some shopping for my mom, because, she’s ‘sick’. down there. Hence the VAGINAL ANTIFUNGAL cream” and how “haha! you probably thought that was for me, huh?”
I was THAT embarassed. And trust me, people, it takes a LOT to embarass me.
That’s just wrong. Do the makers of the generic brand think people who can’t afford the name brand VAGINAL ANTIFUNGAL have no dignity? Seriously, folks, that in the wise words of Whitney Houston, “That shit aint right.”
(I wonder if anyone actually read through to the end of this post. And if so… WHY IN THE HELL?)
UPDATED TO TELL YOU OF FURTHER EMBARASSMENT
I have the box of ANTI VAGINAL FUNGUS cream next to my computer and my son just walked in from school, picked it up and said “HEY! What’s this mom?”
Me: Ummmm…(as I watched him read the words on the box. THE WORDS!)
Him: *reading* v-a-g-i-n-a-l-f-u-n-g-u-s…
Me: Ummmmmmm… it’s for ummmmmmm, an infection mom has.
Him: *placing the box down in a very quick manner* ah, oh.
I think he’s going to go throw up now.
The one where I go all “Tony Robbins” on The Internet.
Life is short. And I’ve wasted enough time in my life hating my body.
For the first time in many, many years, maybe even in my entire life, I am starting to feel comfortable in my skin.
It’s a choice I’ve made. It doesn’t come naturally to me to love this body, especially since it’s so torn up.
Saggy breasts, hanging skin, stretched out belly button, stretchmarks, cellulite, fat everywhere.
There’s not much to love about it and I’ve spent a great deal of time being horribly ashamed of it.
I have avoided people and places because of it, I’ve made excuses why I can’t go here or there because of this shame.
I’ve worked very hard to try to improve this body. I want it to be healthy, to be in shape and to last me a very long time. And that wasn’t going to happen by hating it and not taking care of it.
Enough is enough, I said to myself and I kicked things up a notch. I started going to the gym 5 nights a week. I would have much rather stayed home, sat on the couch and watched TV with my family. Infact? Sometimes? I cry when I have to leave. I cry and I cuss about how much I hate having to work out when there are skinny bitches out there who can eat whatever they want and not get fat like me! I hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
I told myself I didn’t have to like it, that it was ok to hate it, but it had to get done. I had to go to the gym, even when I didn’t feel like it and that one day, it would pay off and that it would all be worth it.
Pounds started to fall off, clothes started to get bigger, inches were disappearing.
Then, the compliments started coming.
“You look great! What are you doing?”
“Are you losing weight?”
My Mother in law called me sexy. SEXY!
I can honestly say, the payoff has finally arrived and the payoff is this.
I no longer feel “Shame.”
Infact? I actually feel proud of myself.
Is my body where I want it to be? No. I’m still overweight. There are still things I hate about it, there are things I will always hate about it, but, I am not ashamed of it.
I’ve worked so damn hard to get where I am at and I am allowing myself to take pride in my accomplishments. I don’t usually allow myself to do that, because, I don’t feel I have much to be proud of. But, you know what? I could have very easily not done anything about my weight because DAMN IT, it is overwhelming and it’s hard to imagine ever getting to where you want to be when you’re over 200 pounds. I felt hopeless and unable to do it. I would find myself so envious of people who were losing weight. I didn’t think I had it in me to do what they had done.
If there is anyone out there who feels that way, let me tell you, I know how that feels. Oh my God, I know. I remember feeling like throwing up at the thought of going to the gym because I was so out of shape and Oh! How The Fit people would laugh at me. Then, I realized that it wasn’t ABOUT ANYONE ELSE BUT MYSELF.
I had to stop caring about what I loooked like at the gym. It didn’t matter, I was there for my health, and that wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.
I finally, FINALLY realized that I was worth the effort.
Now, I find myself taking dance class 3 times a week. Me! In dance class. I’ll never forget the first time I took it. It happened by accident that I ended up in that class, and when the instructor said “Tonight, I teach hip hop” I headed for the door. Hell to the no on THAT. But there was a lady there who convinced me to stay. “It’s fun! And who cares if you mess up? Just relax and enjoy it.”
“But! I have no rhythm! And my ass! It will shake! And my boobs, dear GOD, my boobs!”
Then, I took a deep breath and said to myself “You’re here to burn calories and lose weight, not to be a dancer. JUST DO IT.”
Now, I go every week, three times and just last week, the instructor pulled me and my cousin aside and said “You two are the best students I have. I can’t explain it, but having you in my class is a joy, you make me very happy.”
Yeah. I cried and let me tell you why. In the past, I wouldn’t have even tried it for fear of looking stupid, or messing up, or thinking I couldn’t do it because I was fat and I suck. But, I didn’t give into that negativity and I just freaking did it. Now, I love it and it shows, because my dance makes people happy.
Ha! Ha! Haaaaaaaa!
I don’t even know where I’m going with this anymore, but I know I’m getting more excited as I type and I want to tell every person out there who wants to lose weight but is feeling hopeless to please, PLEASE, stop listening to the lies that you can’t do it, or that you’re not worth it, or that you can never reach your goal.
You can and you will, you just have to decide that you’re worth it.
Who do I think I am? A motivational speaker or something? God.
The Cheese. It lives.
Tears of Cheese.
I’ll never forget the day my first son was born. It was thirteen years ago today.
I was sure I was having a girl. My mom was sure I was having a girl. My entire family was sure I was having a girl. Everyone at my baby shower was sure I was having a girl and spoiled me with lots of little pink outfits and pink blankets.
After many hours of labor and over 2 hours of intense pushing, imagine our surprise when my first baby finally slid out of my vagina and the nurse yelled…”It’s a BOY!”
This is the conversation that followed.
Me: HAHAHAHA!
Tony: Thank you JESUS!
Me: Ok, enough with that, Tony.
Doc: He SHOULD be thanking Jesus.
My mom: It’s a BOY??
Me: HAHAHAHA
Tony: Hallelujah. (Don’t ask. He was SUPER SPIRITUAL that day.)
Me: Tony!
Mom: It’s A BOY? Ohhhhhhh man.
Me: HAHHAHAHAH
My mom: What are you thinking right now, Y?
Me: About all of the clothes I have to take back!
Tony: HAHAHA
Mom: HAHAHAH
Me: HAHAHAHA
Doc: Did they TELL you it was a girl.
Me: No. I just thought it was.
My Mom: We HOPED it was. It was a hope.
Doc: Idiots.
Ok, he didn’t call us idiots, but you know he was thinking it.
I’m so glad it wasn’t a girl. The poor thing would have been named Whitney Elaine.
WHITNEY! Or wait, was it Soriah?
SORIAH GRACE! It would have been Soriah Grace.
She would have hated me at some point in her life.
It was a boy. A little boy.
I had a son.
A perfect, soft, scrunchy faced, precious little boy.
I’ll never forget how perfect he was the first time I layed my bloodshot, tired eyes on him. He had all of his fingers. All of his toes. Scrunched up little eyes, eyebrows shaped just like his daddy’s, a nose just like his grandpa’s. Fuzzy, black hair and full, perfectly shaped lips.
The first time I held him in my arms, I felt my heart explode into a million little pieces and I knew in an instant that it no longer belonged to me. That little boy in my arms was now the Owner of My Heart.
I can’t describe the pride I felt as I stared at his sweet little face. I can’t describe the love I felt as I kissed his fuzzy little head. I can’t describe the joy I felt as he wrapped his precious little hand around my finger. There are no words to describe it.
Amazing. Awesome. Incredible. Exciting. Beautiful. Astounding. Breathtaking. Miraculous. Marvelous.
Those are powerful words, and yet, they don’t even BEGIN to accurately describe what I felt in my soul on the day my son was born.
My son.
Nor or there any words that could accurately describe what I feel inside of my soul today. The day that beautiful little baby turns thirteen.
I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m excited. I’m sad. I’m overjoyed. I’m sad. I’m proud. I’m sad.
Bittersweet That’s the only way to describe what I’m feeling.
Last night, we had the Greatest Dinner Conversation Ever.
Shrinkage. Sweaty balls. (And what one must do to unstick that sweaty ball from ones leg.) How to release poops that are stuck.
We all laughed so hard we cried.
At one point, Andrew was taking a drink and as Ethan got up to demonstrate how HE deals with Sweaty Balls, Andrew spit his drink out and started choking from laughing so hard.
It was in that moment it hit me that my son is a teenager. And at that point, the tears from laughter turned into tears of sadness, because I don’t know if I can handle him growing so quickly.
First. The Hairy balls. Then, the Fuzzstache. NOW THE TEENAGE YEARS.
Girls. Dates. Dances. Getting jobs. Driving.
Time is moving incredibly fast and my heart hasn’t had a chance to catch up to speed.
That sweet smelling, soft, calm, perfect little baby is now a teenager who has an incredible sense of humor, who is witty, kind, respectful and thoughtful of others.
And as I watch him become a young man, I feel just as much pride as I did the first time I held him in my arms. I’m so damn proud of the incredible human being he’s become in the thirteen years of his life.
My God, I’m so proud of him.
And yet, at the same time, I wish I could shrink him back into that little baby boy who cooed, and cried, and sucked on his little fingers and wanted nothing more than to be cuddled safely in his mommy’s arms. Because as much as I love the person he has become, as much as I enjoy his company, as much as I enjoy every day with this amazing young man, my heart aches because I can no longer hold him in my arms and kiss him all over the way I did when he was just my little baby boy.
I wish someone had warned me about how much it would hurt to watch your children grow. I mean, it’s beautiful and wonderful and exciting… but it’s equally painful and sad. Because you there comes a point where you realize they will be independent adults and when you’ve spent your ENTIRE ADULT LIFE being “their mom”, the thought that one day they won’t need you in that way anymore is a crushing blow to your heart.
Leave it to ME to make my son’s THIRTEEN BIRTHDAY a depressing event, rather than the joyous, exciting one it should be.
I know HE’S not sad today, I know he’s the happiest kid alive today because he can now proclaim that “HE IS A TEENAGER!”
I feel like an ass of a mother for having to go to a wedding on this momentous day in his life and he knows I’m not happy about it and is making me feel like a bigger ass at every chance he gets.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving me on my THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY!”
And just as I start to cry from guilt, he laughs and says “I’m just teasing you mom! I understand that you have to go, I’m not mad at you.”
(Can you understand why I’m so damn proud of him? Not just proud. DAMN PROUD.)
I love that boy, even if he did go and turn into a “teenager” faster than I had ever imagined and I truly hope that this is a great birthday for him. He deserves all of the happiness in the world.
You look like a monkey and you smell like one too.
I’ll never forget the day my first son was born. It was thirteen years ago today.
I was sure I was having a girl. My mom was sure I was having a girl. My entire family was sure I was having a girl. Everyone at my baby shower was sure I was having a girl and spoiled me with lots of little pink outfits and pink blankets.
After many hours of labor and over 2 hours of intense pushing, imagine our surprise when my first baby finally slid out of my vagina and the nurse yelled…”It’s a BOY!”
This is the conversation that followed.
Me: HAHAHAHA!
Tony: Thank you JESUS!
Me: Ok, enough with that, Tony.
Doc: He SHOULD be thanking Jesus.
My mom: It’s a BOY??
Me: HAHAHAHA
Tony: Hallelujah. (Don’t ask. He was SUPER SPIRITUAL that day.)
Me: Tony!
Mom: It’s A BOY? Ohhhhhhh man.
Me: HAHHAHAHAH
My mom: What are you thinking right now, Y?
Me: About all of the clothes I have to take back!
Tony: HAHAHA
Mom: HAHAHAH
Me: HAHAHAHA
Doc: Did they TELL you it was a girl.
Me: No. I just thought it was.
My Mom: We HOPED it was. It was a hope.
Doc: Idiots.
Ok, he didn’t call us idiots, but you know he was thinking it.
I’m so glad it wasn’t a girl. The poor thing would have been named Whitney Elaine.
WHITNEY! Or wait, was it Soriah?
SORIAH GRACE! It would have been Soriah Grace.
She would have hated me at some point in her life.
It was a boy. A little boy.
I had a son.
A perfect, soft, scrunchy faced, precious little boy.
I’ll never forget how perfect he was the first time I layed my bloodshot, tired eyes on him. He had all of his fingers. All of his toes. Scrunched up little eyes, eyebrows shaped just like his daddy’s, a nose just like his grandpa’s. Fuzzy, black hair and full, perfectly shaped lips.
The first time I held him in my arms, I felt my heart explode into a million little pieces and I knew in an instant that it no longer belonged to me. That little boy in my arms was now the Owner of My Heart.
I can’t describe the pride I felt as I stared at his sweet little face. I can’t describe the love I felt as I kissed his fuzzy little head. I can’t describe the joy I felt as he wrapped his precious little hand around my finger. There are no words to describe it.
Amazing. Awesome. Incredible. Exciting. Beautiful. Astounding. Breathtaking. Miraculous. Marvelous.
Those are powerful words, and yet, they don’t even BEGIN to accurately describe what I felt in my soul on the day my son was born.
My son.
Nor or there any words that could accurately describe what I feel inside of my soul today. The day that beautiful little baby turns thirteen.
I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m excited. I’m sad. I’m overjoyed. I’m sad. I’m proud. I’m sad.
Bittersweet That’s the only way to describe what I’m feeling.
Last night, we had the Greatest Dinner Conversation Ever.
Shrinkage. Sweaty balls. (And what one must do to unstick that sweaty ball from ones leg.) How to release poops that are stuck.
We all laughed so hard we cried.
At one point, Andrew was taking a drink and as Ethan got up to demonstrate how HE deals with Sweaty Balls, Andrew spit his drink out and started choking from laughing so hard.
It was in that moment it hit me that my son is a teenager. And at that point, the tears from laughter turned into tears of sadness, because I don’t know if I can handle him growing so quickly.
First. The Hairy balls. Then, the Fuzzstache. NOW THE TEENAGE YEARS.
Girls. Dates. Dances. Getting jobs. Driving.
Time is moving incredibly fast and my heart hasn’t had a chance to catch up to speed.
That sweet smelling, soft, calm, perfect little baby is now a teenager who has an incredible sense of humor, who is witty, kind, respectful and thoughtful of others.
And as I watch him become a young man, I feel just as much pride as I did the first time I held him in my arms. I’m so damn proud of the incredible human being he’s become in the thirteen years of his life.
My God, I’m so proud of him.
And yet, at the same time, I wish I could shrink him back into that little baby boy who cooed, and cried, and sucked on his little fingers and wanted nothing more than to be cuddled safely in his mommy’s arms. Because as much as I love the person he has become, as much as I enjoy his company, as much as I enjoy every day with this amazing young man, my heart aches because I can no longer hold him in my arms and kiss him all over the way I did when he was just my little baby boy.
I wish someone had warned me about how much it would hurt to watch your children grow. I mean, it’s beautiful and wonderful and exciting… but it’s equally painful and sad. Because you there comes a point where you realize they will be independent adults and when you’ve spent your ENTIRE ADULT LIFE being “their mom”, the thought that one day they won’t need you in that way anymore is a crushing blow to your heart.
(Leave it to ME to make my son’s THIRTEEN BIRTHDAY a depressing event, rather than the joyous, exciting one it should be.)
What’s that in the butter?
Last night I decided to mix it up get a little kahraaazy at the gym…
by getting a tan.
I’ve only “tanned” once in my life. I do not like tanning beds. They scare me. But, tomorrow is The Wedding and I thought it would be nice to have a little color on my skin.
The girl that works there took me into the tanning room, handed me my protective eyewear, and then, hands me a bottle of some kind of cleaner and informs me that I MUST CLEAN THE BED BEFORE I GET IT.
I have “germ issues”, and issues with “other people’s body sweat”, and so I would have preferred that the bed had been cleaned FOR me. Since that wasn’t happening, I forced a smile and said “Awesome! Thanks!”
Before she walked out, I asked her for a towel. I wanted to drape a little towel over my nipples (That word. Kills me.) because, I don’t ever want to experience burnt nipples.
“Sorry, we don’t have towels.”
Once again, I forced a smile “That’s ok! No big deal!”
But, actually, it was a HUGE deal to me. I did not want crisp-ay nipples and the thought of not having a towel to cover them with filled me with panic and anxiety.
It was time to “clean to bed.”
I picked up the spray bottle, got a bunch of paper towels (enough to protect my hands from Sweaty Wimmin Germs) and was about to spray when I saw “It.”
A pube.
Right there. In the middle of the bed. All alone, all curly. Just laying there.
Instant dry heaves.
No. Seriously. I couldn’t stop heaving.
A strangers Pube! On the bed I was going to lay naked on! STARING AT ME! ALL CURLY LIKE!
After I was able to stop heaving, I came up with “a plan.” No way in hell was I going to come near that thing, so, I decided to blow it out of the way. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and blew as hard as I could.
Now that The Pube was somewhere other than on the bed, I sprayed the shit out of that bed and after a couple seconds of wanting to throw up, I began to wipe that sucker down.
I am not ashamed to admit I cleaned it FIVE TIMES.
I began to get naked, but decided to keep the chonis on because NO WAY IN HELL was my naked butt going to lay on a bed where another woman’s pube had resided 3 minutes earlier.
Once I was naked (except for the chonis.) I had to decide what to do about “The nipples. I was seriously terrified of them getting burnt to a crisp and I can only imagine how much that would hurt. It only took me a minute and Ha! I had a plan! I came up with the awesome idea of making nipple covers out of paper towels. I tore a couple of small, (ok, large, because… ARE HUGE) round pieces, licked them and slapped those babies right on.
Pure genuis. I know.
After I made sure the protective eye wear was fitted perfectly on my eyes to avoid PERMENANT AND SEVERE EYE DAMAGE like the scary ass sign haning above the bed so clearly warned me about, I felt like I was ready to push the “start” button.
I took a deep breath, checked my Custom Nipple Covers to make sure they were in place, adjusted the glasses one last time to make sure that they were completely covered and finally… pushed the start button.
Six minutes later (I know, most people tan for about 12 minutes, but, being the paranoid freak of nature that I am, I asked her to cut my time in half because I was afraid of burning or getting blister and man, I would hate to show up at a wedding with blisters all over my body.) the whole ordeal was finally over and my skin has a lovely, very slight, darker tone to it.
I’m not quite sure it was worth all of the Drama, but, hey, it’s good to “live on the edge” and get a little wild and craaazy every once in a while.
And for me? That was wild and crazy, people.