Dirty Tale

Several years ago - while trying to shed a few extra unwanted pounds, I opted to go for a diet that had worked for me once before. The Cabbage Soup Diet. Which primarily consists of a homemade soup concocted with water and cabbage.
Saturday was fine. Sunday was fine. Monday was a work day and despite severe stomach pains, was also, basically fine.
Mid-day, I had my free period- and missing one of my best girlfriends that had moved away to LA on me, I decided to go out to my car in the massive parking lot to have a smoke and a chat. And to divert the attention I was focusing on my belly pangs.
Midway through my cigarette and chat, I felt my stomach do some flip-flops. I figured the gas was setting in. I did my best to maintain focus on the conversation. Suddenly, in a burst of rumbly outburst, and while discussing my girlfriends near tragic car accident- I suffered through my own sort of tragic car accident.
I shit my pants.
At first I didn't know it. At first I just assumed that whatever was happening down there would just require a quick exit and a visit to the ladies. After a tiny investigation, via a glance down at my barely khaki, almost white pants.... So not the case.
I interuppted my girlfriend with the news- and suddenly her tragic incident took the back seat to my suddenly urgent predicament.
There was a lot of repeat questions between her and I...
Me: I shit my pants?
She: You shit your pants?
Me: Did I really shit my pants just now?
She: Did you really just shit your pants?
Me: What am I going to do? I have to go back into work!
She: What ARE you going to do?
Me: Do I need to go or what?
She: You DO need to go... call me later and tell me what happens.
And so I did what any other person would do... I wrapped a sweatshirt around my waist and went into the the closest entrance and knocked casually on the first occupied classroom door I could find. A woman approached and apprehensively opened it a crack and I then realized what I was about to have to say to this woman I didn't know.
Me: Look, I am a teacher here... and I just shit my pants, and I have to go. You really need to help me out and tell someone I need a sub. Here is my phone number in case you can't get ahold of anyone. I am leaving the building.. um... NOW.
And off I ran. I couldn't afford to look back.
Feeling completely disgusted, I got back into the safe confines of my car and called my very best gay guy friend- who I knew would help me laugh and sympathize my way through my car ride home.
Upon hearing my story- he declared a state of emergency- after laughing hysterically, of course, and then also called off work so we could nurse me back to a normal emotional state together.
After throwing out the clothes, showering, and demanding I eat some fiber- things started to feel much better.

Within hours, after getting through the larger part of a twelve pack, we actually went out dancing. Never mind that it was a Monday. To me it was a pant's shitting day and I really needed to get some other notch in my belt in order to take the heaviness out of the fact that my most recent noteworthy event was crapping myself at work.

Somehow- because I work with a fat mouth- this story came out at my NEW teaching job. Just last week. Lots of teaching professionals laughing at me. At my story- about the day I pooed my pants. I quickly turned the tables and asked my colleagues if any such thing had ever happened to them. Shockingly- while guffawing uncontrollably at MY story- nary a soul raised their own hand to admit such a dirty tale.

And I call bullshit. I call a good old fashion shit-your-pants-bullshit- because it HAS. It of course has happened to SOMEONE else besides me.

Realistic Women

You know your life is getting pretty darn small when you almost wet yourself with excitement when you see the new US Weekly laying in your mail pile. Really. I almost wet myself and especially when I have forgotten that it's coming and it surprises me, like a wet lick from a puppy.
You can pretty much bet that the 24 hours following it's arrival will leave me unattentive to pretty much anything anyone has to say... that is unless you have a comment or insight into an article I am reading. My current favorite topic, aside from Lady Gaga's lazy eye, ( please tell me you know what I am talking about? ) is Tory Spelling's eating disorder, I mean, "stomach issues". Becuase we all know that when you drop down to 98 pounds and your upper thighs are thinnner than your knee caps and you get a bad case of the runs you are fine... just need a little imodium is all. Or some LUNCH. But whatever, I actually like her and wish her well.
Anyway, while poring over the photos of the who's who in Hollywood, I must admit that on certain days I find myself wistfully thinking how much I would like to be that rich/that thin/that well dressed/well groomed, etc. And then I take a cold shower, cram my fat butt into some cozy sweat pants, spackle my porous face with expensive make up and I am suddenly brought back to my reality.
But I really do catch myself sometimes, wishing wistfully and all. So it's with great pleasure when I come across some great news... like this German mag, Brigitte. Three cheers for realistic women.

The End Is Near

What is it? What did they eat? Or drink? The kids are OUT of their MINDS. It's total chaos here at the school. With the "Prom" finally behind us, Seniors out for the year, and only graduation and finals in front of us, there are fewer and fewer things to "dangle" in front of the students to bribe them into behaving.
This year it's particularly stressful for me becuase I feel torn between tying up my regular end of the year loose ends and preparing sub plans for the Fall when I will be knee deep in diapers and late night feedings. And while the sub can always call me, every additional detail written down in the "binder" is one less phone call to answer when I will truly NOT care at all.
And it's unbelievable to me that somewhere in the weekend, squeezed between my very last, and thank-you-very-much, bountiful baby shower and a retirement dinner at an incredibly fattening and SO-HOT-I-WAS-SWEATING-WHILE-EATING Japanese steakhouse there was a wonderful Spa Day complete with the sisters, Mom and Grandma that was absolutley splendid. Well, splendid except for my facial girl, and while she was quite nice, she did use me as a sounding board to clairfy her marital problems. But that aside... the Spa Day itself was over the top great.
And even when my massuese and I were laughing at my huge body on the tiny table and how it was cumbersome to move and my boobs kept flopping out of the sheet ( sorry people, these things are new to me.... I haven't exactly figured out how to exert control over those babies yet.. ) it was mah-va-lous.
If only I could have bottled me up some of that Spa Day to sip in doses this week. Sigh. Only five more pregnant days of school.

Cracked Up

The week? Highs and lows, my friends, highs and lows. Crown fell off- which led to an emergency dental visit. Twice got to work and had forgotten something at home and had to turn around and come back and get it (pregnant brain, anyone?). Got lost taking the behavior disordered students to the Museum of Science and Industry. Behavior disordered students tried to UN PLUG HUGE displays and dismantle large computer systems while AT the Museum of Science and Industry. Had to turn in my FMLA request ( and for those of you who DON'T know me- this is, to me, a commitment... and you can guess how well I managed THAT...). Had our friends over for pizza and while I was looking forward to their visit I had ulterior motives of confirming and negotiating our child care needs for next Fall... ( mission accomplished, and I will not brag, at this moment, about our extremely fortunate set-up- but let's just say the price is beyond reasonable). This amid a night class, a switch to 4:45 am work outs, a Dr. appointment, swimming class, groceries, dinner, and laundry- and the kids not even HERE yet!
OF course, me being me, and me being PREGNANT me to boot- this led to a melt down of sorts last night. While listening to my phone messages at the tail end of our evening ( and a good hour or so post normal bed time ) my husband gently hugged me in the most loving of fashions. His hand slipped dangerously close to my behind and while I normally would giggle and squirm I instead roared at him at the top of my lungs the obvious..., " DON'T DO MY CRACK!", poltergeist style. After my eyes rescinded back into my head I looked at him and we began to giggle hysterically.
Actually, we were laughing so hard we had to sit down on the couch so as not to fall over. WHILE laughing so hard, my body emitted a disgusting and embarrassing series of uncontrollable farts. And of course, while my husband began to laugh harder, I suddenly, to his shock, became irate. Next poltergiest moment enter here, ( Poor, poor husband) " WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME?"... and then I exited stage left, ran to the bedroom and began to cry hysterically.
And while I knew this was in-SANE... I could not stop the eMOTion. Luckily for me the very patient husband was there to comfort me back to reality... Needless to say, the last 20 minutes of my week very much emulated the week in general.
I slept heavily and am already not sure that was really ME last night. However, considering my husband's walk on eggshells approach towards me upon waking confirmed that yes, it had to have been true.
Eight more weeks, people... EIGHT more weeks.

Farter Starter

My body is turning against me. Really. It hates me.

Somewhere between my first bra and the braces coming off, I figured out that farting in public was way taboo. By the time I was a full fledged teenager I was most lady-like in gassy situations and seldom recall a situation where I was emabarrassed by any kind of flatulence. In my twenties I somehow basically lost the ability altogether. By my 30th birthday, I lit an additional candle on my cake to commemorate a decade of fart-free-living. More or less.

In the three years my husband and I have co-habitated, I have essentially been fart-free. He's not heard a peep nor has he sniffed a smell. I have managed to convince him AND myself that I no longer fart at all. Now, mind you, we all know that is impossible, but I have worked hard at learning to conceal what some might consider a deadly weapon.

Suffice it to say, since I have become pregnant, that has all changed. And against my will, of course. Because I don't think an hour has gone by where I have NOT farted. Actually, if I could figure out a way to harness all of the gaseous energy I am creating I could seriously make bank. Seriously.

And the worst part is not admitting that I have turned into a fart fest- but that I no longer have the social skills needed to handle these "touchy" situations in public.

Take for example the other day. A co-worker and I ran into each other in the stairwell. We talked for several minutes and then I felt it. I did my best to keep it "quiet" so as not to interrupt our conversation... but I knew within seconds that while you could not hear what I had done, that was certainly other "evidence". Luckily for me it's Spring in the high school, so she immediately confused my body's hatred for me as a Senior prank, "Eww, another stink bomb- I am outta here!". So, I managed to escape blame free on that one. However- the embarrassment has been haunting me.

Last night at dinner, I was chatting with my husband at the table. He said something funny and when I busted out in laughter I also busted out in sing-songy fart. I didn't know what to say- or DO. So I of course did what any 35 year old would do, I ran into the living room and hid from him.

And while I am most certainly "out of control", I don't want to create a "reputation" as a liar OR as a farter- so I am trying very hard to manage moments like these with grace and consideration.

I cannot believe I have almost three more months of this! Please someone, tell me that AFTER I deliver this baby that certain "things" will go back to SOME sort of normalcy? Either that I will have to get THIS :

tatooed as a tramp stamp on my back.

CHUGGA chugga CHUGGA chugga

So as of yesterday, I am officially NOT going on bed rest or having a C-section. ALSO, as of yesterday, I am officially scared shitless, four and a half ponds HEAVIER, and absorbing the fact that there are no drugs to take for my increasing restless legs.

At 28 weeks along, I have a 140 beat per minute and 2.some small number pound baby, and a perfectly normal cervix length. Um, gee thanks? I always thought my cervix was perfectly normal.

As we walked out of the Dr's. office, I felt a pang of excitement drenched in deer-in-headlights-fright. No turning back now. As I head into the last trimester, I keep hearing the words of my girlfriend who delivered her OWN son exactly one month ago, "Welcome to the worst three months of your life." Pause. "But it's worth it!". Really? I will try to remember that as I lay my very big fat ass on top of the shoebox sized air conditioning vent and pour ice water over my head and rub soothing ointment on my chaffed rubbed together thighs while laying in my hugungous maternity underwear and the Mr.'s tank top.

And while the maternity undergarments ARE huge- they are so ridiculously cozy- I don't know what was holding me back. Maybe it was the advice of yet another new friend/Mom. "Just prepare yourself upon opening the package for a Shallow Hal type of moment." And I did, and it was. The pained look that discreetly crossed my VSH's ( very supportive husband's ) eyes told me everything I needed to know. I am now a utility. A cargo ship- a box car- a shopping cart even.

I am relieved to hear that my life can and will be, for the foreseeable future, anyway- carrying on. The month of May is chock full with two night classes, two weekend getaways, and three showers. And what better month for a shower aside from May? It is the momnth of last hurrahs before I am imprisoned by the heat and my oversized belly and then of course by a child. I have every intention of making it good.

Life in General

Last year, when I was pregnant, and before the miscarriage, my cravings were met with an ambitious and chesire like grin. As a woman who was born with a constant weight battle, I finally got my free for all. That is until it was all said and done and I was big as a house and had to join weight watchers to lose it all. So THIS time, I have apporached pregnancy with much more caution. And when my friend Sonja gave me her Gabrielle Reese Pregnancy Work-out DVD, I accepted with unbridled delight.
Yesterday was the first time I got the chance to tune in. And because our DVD player is a piece of crap, and it skips, I ended up accidently holding positions for much longer than I should have. Not realizing that I would be holding it forever unless I manually fast-forwarded it. As a result, my arms are killing me. Today I will tuck the DVD remote in my sports bra for when I realize ten minutes have passed and my leg is shaking in pain.
While on the subject of pregnancy, I must say, I understand weird things happen. I have decided to have a blase approach and do my best to not give in to to whims of exhaustion, aches and pains and of course, feelings of vomitous disgustous. And even as my skin transforms into ailen like patches here and there, I am accepting. But seriously, when I awoke in pain last night due to a searing shot in my ear, I admit, I can longer conceal my gross out. The pimple on my EAR? has given me the creeps. I dont' GET pimples on my ear. I didn't even really think my ear had pores. I know it's just the beginning. But YUCK.
In other news, I am conflicted over the in-law Christmas Eve party. When I asked what I could bring I did not get a response. My husband then went to bat for me and demanded I be told what to bring. My husband then told me, "Bring whatever you want". Huh?
My family is organization station. I am not used to such a vast wonderland of food creation possibilties. While some would flourish in these conditions, I feel like it is a set up.
I nearly created a fight with my husband, demanding he tell me a dessert he would eat. His casual tone irritated me as I explained, " I want at least ONE PERSON to EAT WHAT I MAKE". OH! okay, he says, make apple cobbler then. And if things follow tradition as I suspect they may, he will be full from dinner and see me coming with the "dessert", and look like a deer in headlights with Twilight Zone squawks in the back ground. "NO!" he will think, "I am FULL, I don't WANT THAT! My wife will be so pissed if I don't eat it and tell her it's good. Fake smile fake smile, I would LOVE a piece honey! It looks delicious!" and I will smile and hand him his plate.
When it's time to leave I will look at my slaved over pathetic dessert and see the one chunk cut out of it. My MIL will try to usher me out the door with it, but I will refuse. "NO! YOU keep it, really!" and I will walk out to the car empty handed and be irritated that I didn't just "get an assignment that would have been eaten" when I initially asked. It is an effort in futility.
Overall, Christmas vacation is off to a good start. Today I am going on a girl's day to the movies and then out to a bar. I am slightly concerned about the bar, as one lady doesn't drink and me and the other girl are pregnant. I am not sure why we are even going there. However, it will be good to get out of the house with the girl's, even if we can only pretend to sip on cocktails.

Guffman Is So Not Coming.

Growing up in a small town in the seventies, before the internet, was to me, isolating. I dreamed of Michael Jackson's limo breaking down on the edge of our town. I envisioned him "going for a ride" through our town and noticing me. Pulling over to ask me questions about this quiet place. And then... drum roll, really looking at me. And deciding I was so beautiful that I would need to join him for the rest of his tour. Which of course would lead to my appearance in some videos, then tv shows, and ultimately, the movies. Fame. Wealth. The works.
In reality, I have never liked the stage. I have opted to be somewhat of a loner. I am as vain as I can stand and I could barely accept the attention I received at my wedding, which was all of thirty people. So this dream career as a movie star is really outside my comfort zone. Except for the wealth part. And really, I don't want to be RICH rich, just rich enough to not be in any debt.
Fame is different. Because, really, there are thousands of ways you can BE famous. I think being a famous writer would result in some kind of neurosis. All those NPR interviews. Thick stressing of silly words, "I DO, I DO, feel so DEEPLY of the CHARACTER'S connection to cake BATTER, as the metaphor for LIFE is so SO conslusive!". No thanks.
Fame for sports would be okay, I suppose. But then you would always be... dirty. It's a respectable kind of fame. It takes hard work and dedication. But then what would be the point if you only ever wore yoga pants or tennis skirts? To me, part of the "trade-off" to fame is the wardrobe and the red carpet and the jewels and all that sparkly pink stuff. So famous athlete would never do.
Fame for TV or Movies is just too lonely. Those Hollywood types, even the ones that are just in the "inspiring to be" stage, seem to be so driven and self-motivated, that they can hardly stand to be truly supportive of each other without stepping into a private bathroom and bitching out thier manager for not letting THEM know about the once availabe-but-now-filled role the "friend" got. And then let's not even get INTO the 'ole career is on the decline business. The celebrity has-been reality shows. Because if you are like me when one of those shows is on you sit around and say to yourself, who IS that? And WHY are they doing this awful show?
I don't even let myself consider famous singer or dancer. Those talents are as far away from me as Jupiter. I sing like a tone-deaf man and I dance, well.... I dance like a small town white girl who forgot her rhythm "back at the barn". If you think Elaine is bad, you should see me after four beers and some Euro-tech comes pounding in. Clear the floor ladies and gentlemen, or you MAY get hurt. And oh yeah, my lack of talent has NEVER stopped me from busting down a groove. When people stare I give them my personal catch phrase, " Dancing is a celebration of life, not a competition". And then I give them one of my signature hip-twirl moves, arms above my head, and knees knocked and cocked at an angle only a pretzel maker could have envisioned.
The bottom line is, I don't really think I am cut out for fame. Fortune, maybe, but fame, no way.

Something Has Come Up

As a teacher of high school emotionally disabled students, you run across a lot of... odd stuff. And I wouldn't dare to make or poke fun at them to the world because I would seem crass and uncaring. But I do to thier faces. Because it often times helps us all cope with... the weird stuff.
For example, one of my students has Pica. Which means he will eat just about anything. Like tacks, or staples or his plastic binder. Loan him a pen? Forget about it. Give him paper? It's gone. He gives a whole new meaning to the saying "I ate my homework". Oh wait... that's dog.
But I love this kid, and we joke about his eating of "stuff" and we laugh together, because what else are you suppsed to do? And when we played a trick on the other students and had him jump up and down and had the teaching aide shake a box of paper clips so it seemed like all the metal was jangling in his tummy, it went down in history as one of our favorite moments in all of time. Because he can't control the Pica and so he must learn to laugh about it. Or else he will become a murderer just because he can't quit sucking on his Algebra book.
At any rate, one thing about most high school boys that is universal is the onset of puberty. And all of the "things" that "grow" from it.
And in my classroom I have had my fair share of what some guys refer to as the NRB ( No Reason Boner ) and believe me when I say I do my best to turn a blind eye.
But at the moment I have a student that tends to be... "going through puberty without control" and it's making me feel a little on the hinky side. Becuase I can tell a kid he needs to shower when he really stinks. I can tell a girl that her shirt reveals too much boob fat and needs to cover herself. I can even tell the pica eater to "stay away from my paper clips"... but I dont' dare confront the boy with the... risen appendage... with anything.
So this boy keeps "getting himself into this situation" and then standing in the middle of the room by the half-wall room divider. Hiding "certain parts" of his body. Which is inappropriate- as in CLASS IS STARTING. And I am GIVING A LESSON. But I just can't say it. Because I don't really know what it's like. And frankly, I don't want to know anything more about it.
I asked my husband about it and he informed that this is sorta normal at certain ages. And the wearing of baggy pants might help. And that I should leave him alone.
But when your classroom is all about structure and then the Boner Boy is over against the half-wall rubbing it out, what is the female teacher to do... when already the boy is ostracized for a myriad of other eccentricities. Because honestly, at this point in the game, if you made it into my classroom? You are most likely already on the "outside", if you will. So the "group" confrontation would be beyond humiliation. And there sure as hell ain't going to be no "private confrontation" between me and a boy and his... grody thingy.
So I am hoping this phase passes by sooner rather than later.

I Need an Intervention*

Will someone PLEASE come over here NOW and place a padlocked chain on the refrigerator? Or at least black ball me from all of the local eateries? Please? 'Cause there is some kind of eatin' frenzy goin' on over here and I am afraid I am in the eye of that there storm!
It all started last night with the "big night out"... DAMN those mini crab cakes! They got my sugar and fat free palate all stirred up with emotion. And then today when I woke up and weighed myself I saw that the scale was reading one of the lowest numbers I have, I mean HAD, seen in a long time.
And excitedly, to stay on course, I followed one of the Weight Watcher commandments and ate a sandwich before going to the bridal shower at Maggiano's today- so I would feel satiated and not overeat. Ha ha... satiated my ass! Apparently this person has never been to a bridal shower at Maggiano's.
The bread came. I skipped the butter. Score one for lean me!
The chopped salad came, along with the spinach one, and fried calamari and the bruschetta. I loaded on the salad and bruschetta- and blew off the fried stuff. Scores are tied.
THEN came the lasagna, the cream sauce pasta, some... what was the healthy thing I blew off again? Oh yeah- somewhere among the pasta there lingered some fish. But I feasted heavily on the pasta-particularly the lasagna. Hmmm, let's check the score now... oh yeah...? How about I am down. WAY down.
So by the time the cheesecake came and landed squarely in front of my plate, I knew it was a complete blow out. Bite after delicious bite it went down. Gulp. I couldn't even see straight it was so good. I was like a crack addict, knocking the other well-dressed ladies aside and spilling waters to get dibs on some seconds.
As I lumbered to my car I thought may pants my explode right off of me. Leaving decayed shreds of black cotton schrapnel on windshields everywhere. This walk, while precarious, and thankfully incident free, would be what is henceforth refererred to as my exercise for the day.
Then there were the goody bags. And believe it or not, the smell emanating from the bag tantalized me so much that I actually opened it, because by now I am a complete sugar whore. And I managed to devour an entire coconut brownie on the car ride home.... even though my poor tummy was screaming for my sweat pants, a break, and a couch.
And in the truest of Lori fashion, I decided to say screw it... and ordered up some deep dish sausage pizza for dinner. Oh - and a side salad. To keep it lean and healthy. If that isn't the joke of the frickin day. I mean what kind of facade is that? A SIDE salad?
Did I hear someone mutter the words "addictive personality"? Just be thankful that your fingers were nowhere NEAR my mouth today.

*To spare myself any further humiliation, there will not be any pictures in this post.

NO pictures

Admit it. You know we have all done a "little something" in our pants that we shouldn't... number 1, number 2, whatever. It's probably happened to you. And I say that because it's true and also because it makes me feel better that I crapped myself at work once.
I would like to blame it on my mother... but we all know that it's obnoxious when we continually blame our parents for things.... ( but seriously, it's gotta sorta be her fault somehow-because who does that.. at work? ).
So... when I was in college- my entire family was feeling thick... so to slim down we opted to go on a Mom-proposed one week cabbage soup diet. I will spare you the specifics of that because I have not yet gotten consent from all the participating parties. At any rate... it works.
Years later- when late night burriots seemed to have earned their stay on my butt, I decided to yank it out of it's dusty place and try it again. Day one was fine. Eat soup. Eat soup. And then eat the damn soup.
Day two? Annoying to wake and slurp but down the soup went.
I was teaching at a really shady and notoriously dumpy high school. I actually didn't think twice about running out to the lot during my break to have a cigarette in my car and call my long lost pal in LA. As I inhaled and sank low in my seat, soaking in all of her latest drama... my tummy rumbled a bit. I wanted to interrupt her but she was so ex-boyfriend and job hating deep I just couldn't. My tummy rumbled a bit more. Another drag and then suddenly something clammy came over me. Something HORRIBLE had just happened. I screamed... NATALIE I JUST SHIT MY PANTS.... "What?" she said, "What? I can't hear you... ( giggle) it sounded like you just said I SHIT my pants ( guffaw!)." NATALIE... I DID... I DID JUST SHIT MY PANTS. I AM AT WORK IN THE PARKING LOT... SMOKING AND I JUST SHIT MY PANTS. I GOTTA GO!

I found a sweatshirt in the back seat. I wrapped it around my waist. I hesitantly walked into the building and found the first female teacher I could find. I peered into her room and although she was teaching I softly rapped on the door. I waited. I rapped again. This time, the students started telling her, "There is a teacher at the door! There is a teacher at the door!".

I looked into her unforgiving eyes and belted out ( to a woman I didn't know- the school had 6000 kids in it... ) "Ummm... I just shit my pants and can't go back to my class. You are going to need to find somebody and tell them I had to leave. Sorry and thanks!" And ran like the wind back to my car. Her speechlessness would have pleased me at another time... but this was not the time to enjoy it.

I don't think I ever talked to that teacher lady again. But I wonder what she told her family at dinner that night.

The best part of the whole ordeal was calling my very gay friend while driving home- because that's what you do when you crap pant at work... is call your best gay guy friend... and told him... I am driving down the highway with shat pants right now! ... And him saying... "I will be over STAT!"... and he left work and came over. We spent the rest of the evening dumping the pants, the leftover "soup" and him pretending like we were having fun while he leered at me with disgust and excitement and sporadically saying...," I just can't believe you TOLD people...".

Hunting to Hair dye

I am not too fussy as long as I have food, decent sleep, and something to drink. Oh, and of course the perfect outfit. Not even bathrooms are important to me, as I will happily pee in the woods. I don't mind getting dressed up, I know all about forks and spoons. ( Seriously, when I was eight I thought I was adopted, or going to be put up, so I studied all socioeconomic cultures- to be prepared- thank you Miss Manners!! ).


So, when my husband offered to take me, this past weekend, clay pigeon shooting with the 'ole twelve gauge, I shrugged my shoulders... :


I did pretty good. So good in fact that he deemed me worthy enough to take pheasant hunting in a month. And wildly enough- I am EX-cited! And I am looking forward to it. Because pulling that trigger and hitting those targets made me more satisfied than Elly Mae Clampet wrestling a pig on a hot summer day.

It's that kind of thing that when you are done and sipping your beer you think to yourself... this is one of the most well-deserved, appropriate placed beers of my whole life... sigh...


Today after school, when I went to have my monster thick hair highlighted, I was going to bring it up to my stylist. But there were an unually high number of women around us. And it didn't sound right. So I kept it to myself and instead told her about the style of dress I want for an upcoming wedding. And I can tell already it's going to be a shopping disaster. Becuase I have already picked out what I want and the only dresses I see like that are Herve Leger and WAY way WAY out of my league. And require a little less ass than I currently possess. But it's in the Sear's Tower and it's fancy and I will see lots of old friends and know that looking my best is SUPER duper CRUCIAL. To maximize on the "good times".

Either way, I am excited for both. I think my Christmas list will read: Camo pants from Cabelas, a 12 gauge shot gun, gift card to Kohler Water Spa and two tickets to the Steppenwolf Theater.

Danger Zone

I am in pain. Not surprising. But my "accidents" seem to come in waves. It all started yesterday morning.
Every single day when I walk into my period 4 classroom, the guy who has class in there before me seems to get a very big kick out of "surprising" me. Every. single. day. As in, I-drop-my-shit-and-scream. And I know it's coming, but I can't seem to "not get" surprised. And so late last week, I warned the six foot two fifty guy to "stop doing that", it's going to give me a heart attack. But yesterday... then beautiful yesterday... he did it again. And, much to his chagrin, and then to mine... I heard my mouth say in garbled slow motion, " I said STOP doing that" and my leg coaxing me to "do it"... KICK HIM. And so with every ounce of energy, muscle, fat and bone, I swung with all my might. And then we had a connection. Hard plastic Target shoe to shin. And the crack, as my teaching aide said, " sounded like a home run!". Moments after, not even a second, we were both bent over in pain. And I must admit, it was pure joy on my end. Despite the throbbing feeling in my shit kicking ankle. And as the story drifted through the school halls, it was always met with a "bethca he won't do that again".
But now my ankle hurts.
And then last night, my husband had a single co-worker over for dinner, because he's a nice guy and he's been craving a home-cooked meal. So... I had the glorious floor to work magics in the kitchen and to really be appreciated for my efforts. Game on. Baked pork chops, corn on the cobb, home fries, salad, and chocolate chip cookies. A meal meant to impress the everyman. But if you are a cook, you will soon know that there was quite a lot of "oven stuff" going on over here. So much, in fact, that I seemed to have forgotten myself! even as I reached in to pull out the lucious, crispy fries. And then the quick scorch quickly brought me back to my senses. I looked down at my arm and noticed a good sized sizzle had cooked the bacon right off my arm. It's disgusting... and painful.
Don't even start in on me with my toe. It's still.... gruesome. And no amount of polish is "corrective" enough for my tastes, because as I laid the 527th thick coat on there, my toe began to look like those polyeurathane paper weights with a scorpion stuck inside. Only it's not an insect, it's my freakin TOE nail.
And then there was the boxing. Which I admit was fun. And while boxing when I told my husband about the ankle injury, he suggested that next time we work on some "proper kicks". And as I punched that bag- hands coated in thick, hot, pink, plastic gloves, I felt good, mighty... strong! Until today. It sort of reminded me of the day Jen needed nude colored arthirtic arm supports to sip her beer properly. I felt as if picking up the chalk to write on the board was suddenly... difficult.
So... even though I got new shoes in the mail yesterday ( thanks Piperlime... for being as good as Zappos! ) I could not wear them as the heel height was taxing. I could not wear long sleeves due to the burn. I could not wear sandals because of the toe. I could not write because of the boxing arms. I was not agile due to the on-going back issues.
If ever there was a call for Zuma pants, moon boots, and a muscle tee... this, my friends, would be IT.

Another Little Piece of My Ass

Not every day deserves an "A". But when I heard my co-workers were throwing me the obligatory lunch since we-missed-your birthday-in-August-and-we-still-like-you kind of a deal, I played along.

And when I pranced out of the condo this morning I looked in the dining room's floor to ceiling mirrors ( perfect for 80's dance party) and gave a self-assured, " Uh... Adorable". And believe me when I say I RARELY compliment myself. Really. But it was a demin skirt and a complicated pink top and "nude" buckle-ey type shoes and I thought... okay... Fashion- "DO". Becuase I tried and it was like my birthday, only professionally... at work. And to me it worked. Oh yeah baby, it "worked" alright.

So who would be surpised when things when disasterously wrong?

As I walked across 25th Ave. to get from the parking lot to the school, rainy as it was, arms loaded as they were, coffee hot as I like it, I didn't expect the BUS to side swipe the CAR RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME and to CARRY ON as in HIT AND RUN. So when I paused in horror in the middle of the busy road and was shockingly screaming, " The bus hit the car...The bus hit the car,.... did you SEE the bus hit the car?... and my co-worker said, "Uh, get out of the road!"and then a little later, "I hate to be "that person" but do you really want to stand out here in the rain and wait for the cops?" and I said, "But the bus HIT the car!!" and she said... "I'm going inside Rain Man. Let me know what happens." And I said, " You are SUCH a BITCH!" but eventually followed her in. But by now I was drenched.

And I called the po-po from the safe confines of my room.

And then, a few hours later when I was walking my special ed class out of the library, my adorable "skirt" got caught in the turnstyle. Yep. The turnstyle.. . Flash city. Whale tail. THERE WERE no less than FIVE 16-18 year old boys behind me- and if they didn't puke they masturbated and nomatter what they told thier friends. And if you read my blog regularly, you will know that my ass is ALL over You- tube by now( 38 new cameras ) . Did I TELL you about the new cameras? I got so paranoid about sexual harassement I "popped" by the dean's office to "let them know"....

So when I carefully sat my fat and over-exposed ass in the joint Special Education/English faculty "office" to get my birthday pizza ( my LUNCH is at 10:45- SERIOUSLY!! ), I was slightly jaded. Thankfully, I still, for SOME reason ( perhaps beucase I hadn't seen a mirror in HOURS), was able to walk tall.

And within minutes THREE people came in from the English department ( SO not my crowd) and took pizza without asking out of the boxes and one girl was particularly disturbing as she BENT OVER AND SNIFFED the BOXES....and I thought...WTF is the DOing to the pizza? And she asked ( after spotting the Happy Birthday Lori" sign)"Who is Lori?" Chomp chomp. And I hollered, "That would be ME!" Only normally I would have retorted, "And I never said you could have my pizza!" (and then fake laughed JUST KIDDING! ) but the ass-exposure just completely had me off my game.

And when I came home and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror I could not believe I had ever thought I looked adorable. It was nowhere near that. And when I did a reenactment of the ass flash I did NOT like what I saw. I am so not taking my students to the library anymore.

Is That a Bulge in Your Back or Are You Just Happy to See Me ?

When I are hear the word bulging I think of fat butt in tight pants. Or a huge man in a little car. Or at the very least a muffin top.
When I hear the word herniated I automatically zoom into thinking of shaved balls. Because once in elementary school a dude had a herni-A and I "heard through the grape vine" that when he woke up in recovery his pubic hair was gone. And lack of care/concern/proximity to such things even 25 years later, has left me in the dark and thinking the same thing.
And lastly, when I hear disc I think of a frisbee.
Yesterday, I waited for over an hour reading May's issue of Star. In a stiff chair in a "back specialist's" office. I figured the chairs would at least be... I don't know... ergonomic or something due to the clientele and all. I told myself that even though I MIGHT piss off some friend's for missing thier very special thrity-something dinner party birthday, and even though my back was now KILLING me, and even though it was the first day of school and my head was pounding, that it would all be worth it.
I figured he, the doctor, that is, would tell me in hushed tones that it was not the cancer I feared ( which was completely irrational on my part ) and that it was a minor muscle spasm. For the last six or so years. And that a weekly massage ( again, irrational and at least here slightly hopeful ) would fix me up in no time!
And so when he announced with a smile it was a bulging hernianted disc, I had to retract my normal word association and really think. Because my initial thought was a fat-pubic-haired-circle thing. In my back? That just didn't make any sense to me.
And strangely enough, the textbook definition is not so off from that- minus the pubic hair part.
The good news is... no exercise! The bad news is... no exercise!
I like to have an excuse now and again to avoid the gym. But this could be for the rest of my life! My mom said yoga.
I just want to keep myself as well-oiled as possible so I don't have to use a wheel chair by the time I am 40.
Although I have some some rather spiffy canes out there.

And This Little Piggy Said NOTHING

I like my feet. They are not bunion-y or mis-shapen. They are not foot model material. But, when you compare them with the rest of my body they are ranking up there as one of my finer attributes.
The thing I like about my feet is that they are bony. Consistently. Like my wrists. I cannot count on other areas of my body to boast skinniness like my feet can. And they take me places. So the fact that they are skinny and that they work really says a lot.
But something happened.
When I was cleaning my classroom, my five foot four aide and I decided to go ahead and move a desk that is larger than a refrigerator and weighs more than, well, me.
Because we were in a hurry and the desk was actually too heavy for us to move, she heaved the desk with her butt resulting in the desk slamming against my big toe. And the toe nail cracked. Across the middle of it.
And I am terrified to do anything about it. So it's just sitting there, painted with an extra 7 dollar French.
It's disgusting. I stare at it all of the time. I wonder what is going to happen to it. And no matter what I am doing I feel my thoughts somehow go wondering back to it.
Eating a sandwich... mmmm, this is good. My toe isn't though, it's cracked.
Laying in bed.... mmm, this feels great. I hope my toe crack doesn't snag on something and come tearing off. My toe is gross.
Watching TV. mmmm, I love Big Brother. Keesha has big ears. I bet her toe isn't cracked though.
I stare at it and wait for it to talk or fall off or at least hurt. But nada.
So now all I can do is pray that it stays intact long enough to make it to closed-toe shoe season.