Monthly Archives: April 2014

Not Enough Duct Tape

Aside

There will be days when I’m feeling particularly deep and spiritual and will want to share it. This will not be one of them.

I bought the duct tape for a secret project I was going to tackle while my husband was out of town last week, but I never got around to it. This is actually a very good thing.

First, a little background. I have a one track mind. By this I mean that when I get an idea, I can’t think about anything else. The idea is the fox and I’m the bloodhound. That’s background fact #1. Background fact #2 is that lately, and by lately I mean starting in 1996, I’ve become obsessed with my weight. I lost almost 30 lbs last summer. During Christmas, I gained 10 of them back. By March I’d lost them again. Now here we are in June and those pesky 10 have picked up 2 more. I have never gotten the hang of eating properly. I like to say that it’s because until age 26, I didn’t have to. I don’t think God plays fair. He lets you eat fast food for the first half of your life without consequence, and then suddenly you land a man and that cute little size 4 red plaid dress you were wearing the first time your husband noticed you won’t go past your hips. What’s that about? And don’t get me started on gravity. But I digress. That’s another day.

Another background fact is that I’m an instant gratification kinda gal. I started cutting my own hair years ago when I couldn’t get in to see my fabulous Las Colinas stylist on the same day my bangs went rogue. I have no patience.

Which brings us to last week. I’d stood in front of the mirror a thousand times too many and imagined what it would look like if I could take a knife and whack off the parts I didn’t like. Enough was enough. If liposuction isn’t in my future, then there has to be a Plan B. And it has to happen now. So off to the hardware store I went.

I heard the rattle of the bag from the other room. “Mom, what are you gonna do with this?” I couldn’t tell them the truth, so it was time to make that decision. You know the one: do I lie to my children or tell them the truth and reveal that their mother is a crazy bloodhound? I went for the former. Mother of the Year would have to wait.

By the time I had gotten around to putting my plan into action, it was Sunday morning and my husband was home. But he was still asleep, so I thought I was good. I’m always the first one up on Sundays. I got my stool and put it in front of the bathroom mirror, got my scissors and my new shiny roll of duct tape, and off I went. I started at the afore-mentioned hip area. Three times around should do it. I started to put on my skirt when I heard him. You see, I hadn’t realized how much noise I was making. Not only is duct tape loud, but it makes an unmistakable sound. Especially to the ears of a handy man like mine. “What are you doing?” I ignored it. I was finished anyway. He’ll go back to sleep. I got my skirt on. From the front, perfection. I had done it. I had lobbed off my upper thighs without a knife. I stepped off the stool and got my shoes. I went out into the bedroom and he looked up.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I’m leaving. See you soon.” I whispered.

At this point, for reasons unknown except that God actually does love me, I casually ran my hands across the back of my skirt.  I can’t really describe what I felt except to say it was some sort of new development. Like a growth. A big roll where there had never, ever been one before. I went back into the bathroom and got back on the stool.  I turned  to check the rear view when I saw it. There was this….shelf. I hadn’t realized it, but all that stuff I was binding had to go somewhere, and it went up, in a terribly unattractive place. My rear. Not a problem. I dropped my skirt (which fell off effortlessly, what with me having just lost 3 inches and all) and grabbed the tape again. I started at the problem area and went around a few times when I heard it again. “What are you doing?” I checked the clock and kept going. Sound check was fast approaching and I did not have time to answer these ridiculous questions at 7:40 in the morning. Can’t a woman get ready for church without interruptions? I put my skirt back on. This time I didn’t have to turn around. The shelf had moved to my waist. And only on one side. I looked like a hunchback who couldn’t even get that right. I inched my way around on the stool to check the back to see what was going on. This was not good. While the mid-rear shelf was gone, other things had gone south. I grabbed the tape and started again. This was getting complicated. The lower I had to go, the harder it was going to be to walk. I don’t have time for this! Glancing at the clock again I was in full panic mode. I was wrapping faster than an elf on Christmas Eve, tossing the tape from one hand to the other. I’d developed quite a rhythm. After more than a few times around at this super pace, I had the lower problem solved. Awesome. I’ll have to take really small steps but I can do this. I’ll just make sure no one’s behind me when we’re walking up the steps to get on stage. No big deal. I continued upward to address the issue on the side. ‘I wonder if it will hurt to take this off? Not now, Tamara. Beauty is pain. And at least you’re not working up a sweat putting on your Spanx.’ This was a wonderful thought.  I wasn’t going to need another shower after putting on an undergarment. Fueled by this enthusiasm I went faster. His voice was getting louder now but I couldn’t be bothered with explanations. I kept going. And going. My entire mid and lower sections were bound.  Good thing my shirt was black. But what was up with my knees? All that stuff had been smushed down to my legs! But my skirt was long enough. I just won’t be able to cross my legs. I can still make this work. OK time to assess. Let’s see what we’ve got. I tossed the roll on the counter and went for the skirt. That’s when I realized the flaw in my plan. I had managed to bind all my unwanted parts quite successfully, but I hadn’t factored in actually being able to get down from the stool. Or breathing. I couldn’t do either. Dang it, if I could just get the skirt on – it will hang so cute, I just know it! (Remember the one track mind thing?) But there was no way. I was literally stuck, 12 inches off the ground, in front of my mirror, looking at this ridiculous image of myself covered in grey. And then it happened. “TAMARA! What are you DOING?!” He wasn’t going to be ignored anymore. And the terrible cursed fact was, I needed him.

As I was calling for him I started to try to get it off. This is when I discovered that duct tape is not only loud, but terribly sticky. In fact, terribly doesn’t cut it. And neither do scissors when it’s attached to your underwear.

“HELP!” I yelled. “I can’t get out!” He came through the bathroom door. He didn’t stop to ask. He didn’t even look surprised. Because he wasn’t. He had known all along what I was doing. The man lived with me. It didn’t take a genius.

He sat down on the edge of the bathtub and started to cut me out of my duct tape tomb. I was clawing at the front. “Strings??!! It’s — there’s all these — it turns into strings?? I can’t — it didn’t work!!” He was just nodding and smiling. “I know babe. I know.”

Miraculously and sweetly, he freed me. He even spared the Victoria’s Secret underwear from a single clip. And me & my hips made it to sound check on time.

I noticed a little piece of tape on the stage that morning and had to chuckle. OK, I didn’t chuckle. I threw up in my mouth a little, and then I tried not to cry.

But today, with about 96 hours between me and my statue, I think I’ve actually learned something. I know it won’t work. I no longer have to be obsessed and preoccupied. There is no instant gratification when it comes to hippage. Starving myself last summer did absolutely no good because I couldn’t keep it up. Having 28 less pounds of me was wonderful while it lasted, but the obsessive way I got there was not maintainable. And when I was finished, there was still a McDonald’s on every corner and a Snickers at every Target checkout. I still say God doesn’t play fair, but that belief hasn’t gotten me very far in this particular area. So now I can move on to reasonable things like eating salad for dinner and spending more quality time with Eva The Elliptical and Tony the P90X man. Go figure.

There’s No Crying in Softball

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The year is 1994. It’s summer, and I’m a newlywed. I’m also a size 4. That last part has no bearing on the story whatsoever. I just want it duly noted.

 

This was back in the day of good ole’ Sunday night services, followed by something social. In this case, softball.  This was usually a guys-only thing. Until one night, a friend of mine had this great idea. “Let’s get up a girls’ game next week!”

 

The next week we stood on the field and waited to be chosen. It was 6th grade kick-ball all over again.

 

On the car ride over, my new hubby thought it prudent to share his thoughts on the matter. “This is not a good idea. You don’t need to do this. Somebody is gonna get hurt.” I was perplexed. What am I, 5? It’s softball. Granted I’d never played and was not athletically inclined, but the youthfulness of my 26 year old brain was wondering what in the world could possibly go wrong in a silly game. So not a big deal.

 

I’m not sure in what order I was chosen, but I know it had to be close to last, if not dead last. The captain, or whatever her title was, said it was because I didn’t have a glove. “Sorry, guys, if you don’t have a glove, I’m not gonna pick you!” Awesome. Off to a good start.

 

My time at bat had come, and lo and behold, I actually hit the ball. I was ecstatic. I took off for first base with glee and confidence. I could see my best friend Cristi in that space out ahead of me – right field? Anyway, I knew I hadn’t hit it that far and somebody was bound to be throwing the ball at any second. So I sped up. The breeze in my hair is feeling great. This is actually fun! I am an athlete! It was somewhere around this onset of euphoria that I realized I had a problem. Something in my lower extremities is not right. I think…..am I?….yep…Houston, we have a problem. My legs were moving too fast. Much faster than I knew was possible, and seemingly faster than the rest of me. And I can’t catch up to them. I just knew I looked like one of those cartoon characters with a head, a body, and nothing but a swirling cloud of air below. It had to be Mach 2. And while this felt great at first, things had started to get out of hand.  This would need to come to an end, and for the life of me I could not figure out how to make that happen. Maybe I should tell somebody. Can they not see I’m in trouble here? I’m so fast it can’t be normal. Maybe I should just scream out that I can’t stop. I mean, they’re girls. We talk about stuff. Maybe they can help. It was around 3 nanoseconds later that God must’ve thought it would be funny to solve this problem of excessive speed with a little swiftness of His own. I’m still not sure exactly what happened. I just know it was over in a flash. Bam. Everything hit the deck at once. I was on the ground, spread eagle, face firmly planted in red dust. I looked up as people started to rush over. I spotted Cristi, doubled over in her spot. The laughing pose. (More like the I’m actually crying and about to pee my pants pose). Amid the murmers I hear the voice of my hair stylist. “Wh…??…was she….was she diving? To first base?” For half a second I think I might have a brilliant cover story, and once I spit this dirt out of my mouth, I’ll tell them that’s exactly what I was doing. But the brutal reality was revealed to me as I looked dead ahead. I’m like 30 feet away from the base. I have no idea how this is possible because I was booking.  We’re talking warp speed. My legs were on fire. There has to be smoke. And yet, here I am, barely half way. Maybe not even half way. I start wondering how in the world I’m going to explain this.

 

Trying to ignore the sting of pain, I stand up with some assistance (although not from the captain, who apparently saw this coming, me being without the proper equipment and all). I start to dust myself off, which seems pointless since I don’t carry a ShopVac, but what’re you gonna do. As I reach to brush off my legs – and this is difficult because there’s dirt in my eyelashes and in case you ever have this problem incessant speed blinking will not help – I notice a whole ‘nother kinda red. Not really gushing blood, but still a lot. Everywhere. On every limb. Big, huge strawberries on every joint. My pristine white shirt is toast. And still, Cristi is unable to stand from her hysteria.

 

Once I’m upright, somebody thinks it’ll be a good idea to get me to my husband. I guess so they don’t have to deal with me and can get back to their game. Somehow it had completely escaped my attention that my friends were seriously competitive and I might need a glove if I want to keep hanging out with them.

 

I’m escorted to the field he’s playing on. He turns around just as we approach.

 

“I told you somebody was gonna get hurt.”

 

That was helpful.

 

I kind of mill around, dazed, for a few minutes and our pastor actually helps me get cleaned up. He was a man who’d been married for more than 3 minutes and had the good sense to leave what he was doing and come to my aid. That’s all I’m sayin’.

 

As I’m stiffly making my way back to the bleachers to watch the girls’ smack down, I run into my sister, who, up to this point, has been chasing her 18 month old daughter around the park. I’m still thinking to myself, “How am I going to explain this?  How do you say you were operating at such an impressive rate of motion that you couldn’t stop and God just smote you down?”

 

She looks at me, and with all the grace and wisdom only a sister can possess, says….wait for it….

“Were your feet just moving way too fast?”

 

A-ha! So it’s a family trait, this speed of light thing?! Can you imagine if both of us had been playing?

 

My husband did eventually come to my aid that night. When we got home he ran a warm bath for me and applied giant band-aids to my elbows and knees, all the while still saying, “I told you so.” OK I’m still not five, and I don’t get what me being so fast has to do with your weird predictions, but, whatever. There was most definitely crying in softball that summer. (And for about 3 days after, but only every time I had to move.) And Cristi still cries at the mention of the words “feet” and “fast.”

The Teenager’s Phone

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I could just type throw it out the window and be done.  Because that’s what I really want to do. But instead I’ll explain exactly why I feel the way I feel. And this is it.  Right here.

This little 4.5″ x 2″ device that I pay for was intended for just a couple of things.  First and foremost, to keep my child connected to me.  And second, because the natural order of things is the natural order of things, to allow her to keep in touch with friends. It’s that second one that somebody somewhere down the line got confused about.

I’ve said to my daughters that this device which they have been privileged to use is not so that they may be at their friends’ beck and call. That’s an old phrase that means you respond immediately, no matter what. I think they’re starting to get it.  Their friends, however, not so much.  So let me be clear.  MY DAUGHTER’S PHONE IS NOT SO THAT YOU MAY HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH HER WHENEVER YOU WANT IT! If you have her phone number, I probably like you.  Some of you I even love. If I don’t know you, you’re not supposed to have her number at all, so right off the bat you can see where I’m a little miffed, and you will be deleted immediately. But I digress.  Let’s talk phone etiquette.  If you send her a text and she doesn’t answer right away, you people with the word “teen” in your age get nasty.  Let’s take care of this one.  If you’re waiting for a response and haven’t received it, ask yourself a couple of questions.  ‘Have I done something wrong?’ If the answer is yes or even worse, you don’t know, I can promise you she’ll let you know at some point that day.  She’s a great little communicator. So just chill. If the answer is no, move on to this one: ‘What time is it?’ Now this one’s tricky because here’s how it works.  It doesn’t matter what time it is. Sometimes I tell my daughter to put her phone away at 12:00 p.m.  Sometimes I tell her to put it away at 3:00 in the afternoon and not to pick it up again or even look at it until 7:00 p.m..  Sometimes I tell her not to touch it until we’re completely finished with school, which means you early risers are outta luck. And it will, most definitely, always be 9:00 p.m. when she’s told to put it away.  So what to you do? You say to yourself, ‘She doesn’t hate me. She just has a life.’ And just so you’re not confused by the fact that your friend is home schooled and you think she has nothing to do, let me assure you that this is a rich and full life much like yours.  It includes, but is not limited to, school work.  Piano to practice.   Three dogs to feed.  A dishwasher to unload.  A room to clean.  A bathroom to clean.  Clothes to wash. A sister to interact with, face to face.  Random trips to Kroger or Target during which I say put that thing in your pocket so you’ll quit running into the toilet paper aisle.  Classes to attend. Acting lines to rehearse. And last but most importantly, she has a mother.  A mother who wants to look at something besides the top of her head while she’s looking down at her phone responding to the 45 emoji’s you sent. And I won’t even mention her father because….well, remember that throw it out the window thing I started with? Yea. That’s where he’s at.

Ok.  So now that we’ve established the thousand and one reasons why she can’t – and more importantly – why I will not allow her to be at your beck and call, we shouldn’t even need to discuss the other thing y’all do when someone doesn’t answer you.  That passive aggressive resend.  Over and over and over.  Or worse, the one word or letter at a time thing.  You get me? Great.

So let’s give this whole communication privilege another go, shall we? And remember I do love you all. But I love her infinitely more. So much more that I actually like spending time with her. And I know you do too, but…I’m the Mom. Which means I win.

ttyl.