Womb Hole

Just a few moments ago, I let myself feel, without judgment.  I let it go and smiled so deeply.  I don't even think its intensity manifested into an actual, physical smile.  It was buried within my soul.

My children are 17 and almost 14 years old.  Every year, at least once, I get these little "kicks" in my stomach.  If you've ever been pregnant, then only you can really REALLY relate, because nothing feels like a baby's kick...but a baby's kick.  They're rarely painful.  They're the sweetest surprises and reminders.

Tonight, I felt a "kick."  Normally, I dismiss it like it's not what I think, or rather what feel it is, but I couldn't this time.  It just didn't seem fair or authentic.  I always hide - run away from it.  This time, I wouldn't.  These moments are so rare and special to me.  I'm going to partially credit my early age hysterectomy to this treasure.  Whatever it may be, I love it so much and I can't wait for the next one. I can hardly wait for the next one.

This time, tonight, I exhaled during and after the kicks and let my wandering hand be.  It waywardly circled my tummy.  My eyes closed.  I let them stay that way, until it felt natural to open.  My tummy felt warm.  My hands, there are two of them now, stroked my semi-flat belly. And for those few precious minutes, memory lane was all mine.  The only passengers were me and my baby. The times I sang and read and cried and laughed and listened and prayed and wished and hoped to my baby in my belly came back to me.  They're alive.  Resurrected. Hallelujah. Amen.      

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Call Kaiser

Last night, I popped over to my best friend's house, where our other bestie was, as well. Most of their kids were there.  Missing was my youngest nephew, who's 3.  Not sure where  he was though. Curious as I'm typing. Anyway, as kids do, they were butting into adult conversations.  The sending of the kids upstairs ensued.  If only it were that simple.

They left.  Seconds later, Ladybug, the elder of the cousins, was "crying," because her "leg was hurting."  No need to explain the quotations.  She's 8. I'll say that.  Annnnd, with THAT said you should already know the crying surely exceeded the supposed injury.  Her mom, eyes rolling, head shaking, snail's pace moving, went to her rescue. She was around the corner for a few minutes and the crying, still persistent, wasn't sufficiently subsiding. Shit was actually getting *louder.  I popped up, slightly entertained.  Rounding the corner and entering the foyer, I see my niece damn near stretched out across the floor and my bestie kneeling down "consoling her."

I asked Ladybug if she was okay and if she thought we needed to call Kaiser. Honayyyy, when I tell you she straightened up, she straightened the fuck up!!!!  Her beautiful bright eyes couldn't have **shone more.  She shook her head "no."  I left the room and guess what.  Her crying revved.  Having way more experience in parenting (because I got knocked up in college) and being increasingly entertained, I came back in the room, but not empty handed.  Ohhhhh no.  I'm a jokester - always have been.  Always will be.  I had their cordless, house phone in hand in plain sight.  Here's how that convo went:

Me:  Should we call Kaiser?

Ladybug:  (frightened) No, mommy.  No, aunt Tiffanie.  We don't need to call Kaiser.

Me:  Are you sure?  You look like you're in a lot of pain, Sweetie.  I'm calling.  (the neon color of the phone pad light up)

Ladybug:  NO! NO! I'm okay.  We don't need to call Kaiser!!!!!!!

Me:  Hmmmm, I'm calling.

My bestie:  Aunt Tiffanie, I don't think we need to call.  She said she's okay.

Ladybug: I don't need Kaiser, Aunt Tiffanie.

Me:  You're sure?!  I'm calling.  (faint beeps of the cordless and I fake call)

Ladybug:  I'm better!  I'm better!

I slowly walked away and back into the room where our other bestie was ON THE FLOOR DYING LAUGHING.  She was like "You ain't right.  You AIN'T right."

Shoot, in my opinion.  I was justified and pretty sure that Ladybug would think twice about faking an illness or injury...at least with me in sight.

            





*more annoying
**after visiting this page, I decided on "shone."

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Estas Cosas

These things I hate:
treadmills
dimes
dry kisses
feet
one-pieces
posers
pills
headaches
hoopties
meanies
vomiting
water
cancer
poop
noisy bangles
boys with big booties
"Lawd Mama Done Burnt Up The Chicken" stage plays
waiting
vacuuming


These things I love:
wind from wagging tails
cheap wine
being thin
muscadine grapes
laughing
dancing
whistling
wet kisses
Scrabble
The Catcher In The Rye
grammar
apologies
What's Happening
pink
popping tags
going green
fake nails
karaoke
Don Cheadle
clothes from the 70's
Weird Science
bangles
butterflies
high heels
long torsos
snapping my fingers in a circle 3 times
"babies"
UMCP

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Flip It

You have your closet freaks, your secret snackers, your bump poppers, and your nose pickers.  I'm in a different league.  I don't think my fetish is kinky, but rather crazy.  I have this thing and I've been doing it for a long time now and I'm not going to stop.  It involves a stall and a seat - nothing fancy needed, just a bathroom and toilet seat.

For years, and I really don't know how many, I go to the bathroom and have a field day.  While everyone else is pretty much all about business, whether it's #1 or #2 or completing a Words With Friends game, they are on a mission.  As am I.  My mission involves making my visit as comfortable as possible. My intentions are never to stay in there for the long haul.  No.  Because this only takes place in a bathroom, other than mine.  I approach it just as anyone else. I may or may not lace the seat, before plopping down.  The difference is, once I'm on the seat, I immediately go for the tissue.  If it looks like this

it will inevitably look like this.

I don't care who it is or where I am.  I'm going to make your undie an overy.

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Otis Monkeying Around

I swear I admit that I'm "that chick" with the annoying and adorable dog.  I just love Otis Dexter Bailey (aka ODB) Coleman.  I do.  The connection I have with him is deep and real.  See, he wasn't my dog from my married life.  No.  I had another dog.  I've blogged about her before in my, now defunct blog.  I got Chelsea Marie Coleman after a few years of begging my ex-husband to let me get a dog.  Be clear that he got me her, but she was NOT what I wanted.  I've always craved a dog, well, like Otis.  Instead, he got me Chelsea, the Queen of England's dog, a Pembroke Welsch Corgi.  I was so happy, I really didn't give two fucks.  That was until I discovered that she was one the TOP SHEDDING BREEDS of dogs!!!!  I couldn't keep up with her.  Her hair was everywhere.  And though she was smart as fuck and perfect, the hair drove me bananas.  I taught her how to speak (yes, I'd say speak and she'd howl!!!!!) and roll over and sit and stay and come and all of that good shit.  She was the absolute perfect dog, but again, she was NOT what I wanted.  So, when my marriage came to the most dramatic and cliche demise, I let her go.  My kids, who were also a product of my marriage, were indispensable, but somehow she, Chelsea, was.  Shortly after being bought out of my half of the house and moving into the most expensive rental in PG County, I got rid of her.  I put together a great little ad and sent her picture around to my fellow dog lover co-workers.  Within 24 hours, I had a hit.  My co-worker, who had 2 other dogs, fell in love with Chelsea's bio and pics.  The next thing you know, we were doing house visits and Chelsea was on her way to her new family.  Simultaneously, I was online looking for cute, purse sized dogs and I found a Schnoodle breeder in Silver Spring, Maryland and gagged.  I saw Otis online and fell in love.  I went to visit him and fell all the way in love.  To date, I haven't stopped.

Otis was my divorce dog.  He was my new beginning.  He was my carry-on.  He was my ride or die.  And though he's waaaaaaay too clingy now, I get why.  I'd just left my husband and changed my kids' futures.  When I'd come home after work and crawl into the bed, without fixing dinner or settling in, Otis would be by my side.  He'd be by my side peering up at me with that damn eyes.  He heeled me and so I happily admit that I'm that chick, because without my Pooter, I wouldn't be. That's it.  I wouldn't be.

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