Mother Effing Pain

Last week I had electrolysis.

Let that sink in.

On my bikini line.

Let that sink in.

The woman doing the procedure described it as “pin pricking.”

I would describe it as “Mother Effing Pain.”

Let me describe the stages of electrolysis on your bikini line.

Stage 1 – I am completely humiliated because while I am laying down on the table my pants are down at my knees and a woman is “checking me out.”

Now, I am no Sasquatch but you know, a girl can get a little self conscious when someone is checking you out down there with a magnifying glass.

Stage 2 – The first needle incision – Sharp but completely bearable.

Stage 3 – About 10 minutes into the procedure your leg starts flailing uncontrollably. You say, “Sorry,” about 20 times although you are secretly hoping you actually kick the technician in the head and knock her out so you can stop this and claim, “I didn’t want to stop but I had to because she couldn’t go on.”

Stage 4 – About 25 minutes in the procedure you think, “I. Can’t. Take. One. More. Minute. Of. This.”

Stage 5 – About 35 minutes into the procedure you think, “I’m fine, I got this.” Then your leg kicks out again and you think maybe not.

Stage 6 – Finally, she’s done. 45 minutes of mother effing pain. You hand her money and you walk out thinking, “I can conquer the world now. I’ll take you down. I am hairless. I am streamlined. Here me roar!”


Tonight I officially became my parents.

Yes, I’ve seen bits and pieces of them come out before but tonight was the turning point.

I have become my parents.

They went to countless swim practices, swim meets, and bought us endless amounts of swim caps, swim shampoo, and suits.

And tonight, I was reminded that they bought tons of goggles.

Driving home from swim practice with Andrew I said, “I noticed you kept pushing on your goggles right before you would dive in”

“Yeah, those goggles get loose when I dive in.”

“You should wear your new pair.”

“Well, I can’t find those.”

“The blue pair?”


“You only wore those one time.”

“Maybe I left them at the pool last time.”

“Those goggles cost SEVENTEEN DOLLARS.”

——-  silence from the back seat ———-

“You wore those one time and already lost them. They cost SEVENTEEN DOLLARS.”

Note: My husband and I have been swimmers our whole lives. Our goggles cost $5.00 a pair.  Seems to me that our eyes adjusted just fine to the five dollar goggles. Guess who else is going to be forced to wear the five dollar goggles no matter how they feel on his eyes.

Once home I went into another room and let my husband oversee the tooth brushing.

A few minutes later my husband walks into the room I’m in and announces, “I’m going to the pool.”


“To go look in the locker room.”

“He lost those goggles days ago. They’re not going to be there.”

“He left his swim suit at the pool.”

—– silence from me ——

And now my parents are laughing.

Keeping Up With Her Boys

Caroline had a break through moment this weekend.

As we were driving to a pool with my parents, the boys were excited to remember that this pool had a diving board. They discussed going off the board and what kind of dives they would be attempting.

Walking into the pool with Caroline, I casually mentioned, “Do you think you are going to go off the diving board.”

A resounding, “Yes,” was the answer.

If her boys were going on the diving board, then so was she.

And that’s all she did for the next 3 hours.

That is, besides the 35 minutes she spent eating the largest ice cream cone known to man.

Many people asked and we’re surprised when I said, “She’s three.”

And, yes, I’m absolutely thinking she’ll be ready for the 3 meter springboard in Rio 2016.


Andrew had a friend spending the night so of course it involved a trip to the pool before bedtime.

Hey, this ain’t my first time at the rodeo people.

I know how to tucker those kiddos out.

No one is staying up late in this house, at least not on my watch.

So, as we were walking to the pool, Caroline kept saying, “Leo, you’re short, like me.”

She said it not just once, probably ten times.

I think she was just thrilled to have someone close in size.

And in fairness to Caroline, he was only about a head taller than her.

I finally had to tell her to stop talking about it since Leo could have been developing a complex with the way she was badgering him, “You’re tiny. You’re little like me.”

All was fine for awhile.

As I was handing the kids their homemade pizza and watermelon slices, Leo walked to our table and said, “This table is dirty. These chairs are dirty.”

I looked at him, looked at the table, looked at the chair…

And said, “Caroline, what were you saying about Leo being small?”

The Secret

I have found the secret to weight loss.

People will be amazed with my results and will be amazed that they too can get the same results.

I lost 8 pounds this week!

First off, let me explain that I have stuck to healthy eating. Every once in awhile I might get off track but for the most part I have insured that calories in equals less than calories out. Eating bread only once a day has certainly been a catalyst for my weight loss.

In addition to the healthy eating, I have exercised 5 days a week. Sometimes each work out is only 30 minutes but it’s still something.

So there you have it. Healthy eating and exercise to lose 8 pounds in a week.

Well, I guess I should tell you one more thing that might be a tad pertinent…

….I switched scales.

But I’m sure that has nothing to do with it. I KNOW I lost 8 pounds…I’m just not ever going back to the old scale again to check.


Alright, I should tell you I did go back to the original scale. Although I really wanted to believe the second scale at the new gym, I knew it wasn’t right.  Here’s my weight loss progress: week one (-1.9 lbs.), week two (+0.4 lbs.), week three (-2.2), week four (-1.8)   = total weight loss so far 5.5 lbs.

6 Weeks

It has been 6 weeks since my miscarriage and I’m angry.

Just plain angry.

I don’t know what stage of grief that falls under. In fact, I purposely have not looked at the stages of grief. I don’t want to think I’m on stage three when a bad day makes me realize I’m really still at a one. I know I will teeter back and forth between the stages, whatever they may be, but I don’t want to know about them officially just yet.

Here are the stages I have gone through:

Stage 1: Sadness. To the core.

Stage 2: A Need to Hide: I could not see or talk to anyone the first two weeks. I knew I would break down and it was not something I was comfortable doing in front of so many.

Stage 2: Retail therapy: I told Derek I didn’t want to hear anything about our Discover bill this month. Just pay it and we’ll worry about the next bill in due time. I’m sure he’d say THE LOFT, Target, Macy’s, and Dillard’s have benefited immensely from my grief.

Stage 3: Annoyance: Annoyed that Derek gets to carry on with life as usual and I am stuck waiting. Waiting to exercise, waiting to have a direction again, waiting to feel normal.

Stage 4: Jealousy: Looking at pregnant woman wishing it were me. This one always makes me feel like such a jerk since I’ve already been blessed three times.

Stage 5: Anger: I’m angry I had to quit my part time job I loved. I’m angry I can only exercise 2 times a week right now because of some complications. I’m angry I got my period. I’m angry I can’t fit into my summer clothes because it’s 85 degrees. I’m angry the daycare can’t seem to clean my daughter’s nose once during the day. Just name it and I can give you my side of it and how to be angry about it.

Stage 6, 7, 8, 9, 10… I don’t know what phase I will go through next but I do feel confident I am moving in the right direction. Writing has truly been cathartic for me. It lets me share at my own pace.

I will be fine. Better than fine. Just not sure when.


I must be more attractive than I thought.

Or maybe it’s my glowing personality.

Either way, I’m bewildered by my locker room experience today.

Let me back up and tell you the story. Then you can be the judge.

After swim practice today I showered in the locker room. The other female swimmers  were showering as well, chatting up their various plans for the week.

Once I finished showering I dried off by twisting a towel around my head and used a separate towel to wrap around my body. The second towel covered me from my chest to mid thigh. I stepped out of the shower stall and walked to the mirrors where I began laying out my things – lotion, brush, clothes.

I noticed my teammate Lynnae come walking around the corner from the showers. She had a towel wrapped around her and was carrying her caddy of shampoo products.

I smiled at her and went back to laying out my things.

As Lynnae walked past me she squeezed my right bum cheek, smiled at me in the mirror, and kept walking.


What the hell just happened here? I thought.

Aren’t teammates suppose to pat each others’ bums, not squeeze them? At least that’s what I think I’ve always seen basketball players on tv do?

Swimmers, they never even pat. Basketball & baseball players, yes.

I reiterate, swimmers NEVER!

Was I just violated?

Did I just get to second base with my 57 year old teammate?



Swimming on Empty?

Here’s another story from my swim practice the other day:

I swam all practice next to a 20 something guy who I’ve seen for the past couple of months. After practice we were talking with the coach about some health issues and the supplements both men take.

Our coach said he takes 1200mg. of fish oil a day. Sounded like a lot to me until the young guy said, “Oh, I take 5000mg a day.” I said “Wow, now that seems like a lot.”

Frankly I don’t know what constitutes a large consumption of fish oil but when our 65 year old coach is taking a quarter of the dosage this young guy is I don’t think I’m too far off base.

The young guy said, “Yes, well I take 3 fish oil in the morning, 3 fiber in the morning, and then at night I again take 3 fish oil pills and 3 fiber pills.”

6 fiber pills a day.

Just take a moment and think about that.

One of the first thoughts that came to my mind is that he must work at home. alone. on a laptop. with a long cord. with only his cats. and his toilet paper.