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That Pioneering Spirit

"Oh goody. It's raining."

 If you enjoy wearing a pioneer woman costume and sleeping in a damp tent that you set up in the pouring rain while wearing your soggy pioneer bonnet and a soaked pioneer skirt that gets tangled around your legs as you try to pound a tent spike into solid rock while 3 third graders (also in pioneer garb) complain about the inclement weather under your feet…then you’d LOVE the field study I just returned from (see Wagon’s Ho blog entry) with my kid’s Living History charter school.

 We had a fabulous time.

Learned a lot.

Stood at the bottom of the famous Laurel Hill (shoulda been named Laurel Jagged Cliff) on the famous Oregon Trail (shoulda been named Let’s Commit Suicide by Wagon Train) and I thought, “Wow, I wonder if I ‘d have let my husband talk me into hurling our wagon/worldly supplies/children/oxen over the edge like the pioneers did back in the olden days?”  and “What the hell were they thinking?”  and “I wonder how far I am from Starbucks, right now.”

Apparently, one pioneer woman (her name escapes me at the moment), pregnant with her eighth child gave birth three days AFTER getting her family down the hill.  I’m such a loser weenie.  I rode to the historic site in a heated touring bus, ate the 6 thousand calorie meal we’d packed that morning for lunch, and felt sorry for myself because I was probably gaining back all the weight I’d recently lost (see the Gym post).

This trip shattered every illusion I had about being a pioneer in any sense of the word.  I am a wimp-o-neer.  A pio-weenie.

Luckily, the next field study (leaving this Monday with daughter number 2) is being held at the coast.  In a Yurt.  Gonna feel like the Hilton, compared to the tent. 

Carolyn

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Wagons Ho

I’m going on an Oregon Trail Living History field study with my two fifth graders. 

I hear naughtly little children taste just like chicken...

We are going to ‘experience’ the ‘joy’ of roughing it on the real Oregon Trail in real wagons and wear real costumes and stuff.   Gonna do it the way they used to.  No new fangled stuff like dental floss or deoderant.  We’re going to sleep in a tent.  Supposed to rain, maybe even snow.  Just like in the olden days.  I hear tell a ‘master camper’ (whatever that is) will be accompanying us.  His last name is–no-I-am-not-kidding–Donner.  Just like in the olden days.  If the kids in my tent give me any flack, (you know, middle school ‘tude), I think after lights-out, I’m gonna tell ’em the whole saga of the real Donner party.  Then, I might allude to the idea that our master camper might be…I don’t know…related some how.  

That oughta keep ’em in line.

I’ll report back on my adventures upon my return.

Carolyn

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Why is that? An Andy Rooney-esque Ramble

I love the way Andy Rooney from 60 Minutes says, “Why is that?”

Why is that?

I’ve been wondering that myself, lately.  For example, why is it, when I’m in line at the grocery store, the lady ahead of me always chooses at least one item with no pricing info available in the entire universe?  And, why, after holding up the line for and ungodly amount of time, does she wait until she hears the grand total before she reaches for her purse and begins to fumble for her checkbook?  Don’t ya just love it when they stand there and balance their checkbook, mumbling stuff like, “Let’s see… carry the two…no, wait, why is my checkbook not balancing?” 

Why is that?

Why is it, when the milk is sitting out on the counter and I ask all five of my children, “Who left the milk out?” they all say (in unison) “Not me.”  Weird.  The dog must have grown opposable thumbs and dragged the milk out of the fridge, poured himself a bowl of cereal and forgotten to put the milk back.  I wonder why the dog uses every last drop of ketchup and puts the bottle back in the fridge?  Why is that?

Why is it that the second I sit down on the potty, the phone rings?  Why is it that we have one dozen wireless phone in our house, but when the phone rings, we can never find one?  When I ask the kids, “Hey, who put the phone in the refrigerator?” they all say (in unison) “Not me!”

Why is that? 

Tick,tick,tick,tick,tick,

Carolyn

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Oh No!

One hot mama: The pre-breakfast routine.

 

Don’t you just love those bizarre celebrity death hoaxes?  Johnny Depp dies in freak skate board accident.  Miley Cyrus eaten by sharks.  Plastic surgery kills Kardashian sisters.  

 These goofy rumors got me to thinking that a lot of you out there are probably wondering what happened to Wendy.  The hotter of the two mamas.  No, contrary to the wild urban legends circulating Hollywood, she has not been kidnapped by terrorists.  Unless you count the PTA.  

 No, Wendy is simply busy.  Too busy to blog.   

 Why?  Because—like me—she cannot seem to bring herself to say ‘No’.   

 Why do we fear the word, No?  Hmm.  In my case?  I’m terrified I might miss out on the fun.  Couple that with my people pleasing tendencies and suddenly, I find myself in the process of making a Pioneer Costume.  For myself.  Yes.  Fitting that in before I pack my two fifth graders and me for a three day school Oregon Trail camping trip.  Couldn’t say no to their adorable doe-eyed faces, begging me to participate in all that chaperoning excitement. Neither could I say ‘No’ to the week long Marine Studies extravaganza with my middle school daughter’s class at the coast.  Thankfully I’ll have time to pack during the ten minutes I’ll be home between trips.    

     Bought the supplies I’ll need during the week I took off to get the kids back and forth to their fifty mile round-trip piano recitals.  Luckily, my husband was able to take time off work that week to get my son to his baseball games in other cities, since I don’t have a sewing machine in my car.  Yet.  As soon as they get one that plugs into the cigarette lighter, I will.   

     Fortunately, my computer has super good battery life, as my eldest daughter somehow talked me into serving as the Community Coordinator for her high school’s social network.  This way, I won’t be bored on those endless seconds I’ll have between building a Pirate set for Vacation Bible School and hosting the Spanish Club luncheon.  Thank heavens I was able to wriggle out of sewing 70 canvas field study bags—never admit you can sew—so that I can attend a college reunion, a baby shower, a writer’s meeting, enjoy TWO talent shows, THREE  plays starring my kids, and host out of town company.  

     All of this is, of course, on top of keeping a 7 person/2 dog household under some semblance of control.  I’m thinking about getting one of those digital voice recorders so that I can write novels while I’m grocery shopping, working out, paying bills, chauffering the kids, grooming the dogs, mowing the lawn and bathing.  

    Double-tasking?  For slacker weenies.  I’m coining the phrase Quad-tasking.  Why else would God have given us two hands and two feet?  

Carolyn

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Calendar Girls

The Locker Room: "Care for a healthy snack post workout?"

What’s up with women who like to clean out their purse/apply makeup/blow-dry/socialize in the locker room without a stitch of clothing on? Are you one of those? If so, please, explain yourself. Don’t get me wrong. A quick, naked dash from the locker to the shower, standing in your area, dressing, undressing, whatever. But naked chit-chat? Naked stretching? Naked application of nail polish? Don’t get it. 

Yesterday, after a traumatizing workout, I drag myself into the locker room only to be further traumatized by the nudist loitering in front of my locker. Awkward. She is bent over, doing something to her feet. Or her breasts. Don’t know which, since they were both in that…area. Couldn’t look. Too freaked out. She seemed to have no intention of dressing. No clothing anywhere in sight and a laissez faire attitude that screamed, “Hey, I grew up in the 60’s so deal with my carefree abandon”. I felt like a perv, trying to reach around her and retrieve my purse. 

How does one arrange one’s face when speaking to a nude stranger? How does one make small talk? “Hey, I love your… your…uh… your…” Where does one train one’s gaze? 

I’ve never been that uninhibited. Unless you count the times I was in labor with daughter number one and three. (Daughter two’s labor was kindly handled by another brave woman). When I was being stitched up by the doctor, everyone from the labor nurses to the computer maintenance guy seemed to pass through my room while my legs were strapped into stirrups and flung as far as east is from west. “Hey, what’d we have?” the custodian asked, leaning on his mop. “It’s a girl!” I crowed, not caring a fig about my nakedness, but then, remember, I was swacked out of my mind on drugs. 

What is the excuse for the locker room nudist? Are we too hot from all that exercise? Killed the ‘inhibition’ brain cells back at the commune? Fighting a vicious laundry soap allergy? Or is it just me? Am I simply a big party-pooper who has yet to find the joi de vivre in flaunting my flab? The ecstasy of blow-drying sans brassiere? The rapture of panty-less eye-shadow application? 

Yeah. Well. I can see I’m gonna have to loosen up. 

Carolyn

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THE GYM: Day One

Whoa, Dude. Exercise? Me?

Got to the club. Was assigned a Personal Trainer. He carried a little note card around, said he was gonna make notes for exercises that would help make my ‘Menopause Journey’ a ‘healthier’ prospect for me and get my daughter into an ‘active’ life-style. He’s a total hottie. I wink at the daughter. She winks back.

Machine number one:
Personal Trainer: Let’s start out by warming up. Hop on the treadmill and give me 10, trotting.

Daughter: Trotting on machine next to mine. Zen-esque. Beaming at the hottie. Show off.

Me: I wonder if he meant 10 seconds? I’ve been trotting for well over a lifetime and the clock on the machine says I’m only up to one minute. Holy crap. I’m ready for a nap. Hope this is all he expects today. Is it normal to fall off the machine?

Machine number two:
Personal Trainer: Now that we’re warmed up, let’s try some resistance exercises.

Me: Good Grief! Should I tell him I just herniated my heart? Lacerated my liver? Exploded my spleen? Several people on other machines are staring at my beet red face with concern and murmuring amongst themselves.

Daughter: Drops into the chair, adds 10 lbs to her recommended weight and powers through the first set. I don’t like the smirk on her face.

Machine number three:
Personal Trainer: This is my favorite for Buns of Steele.

Me: Call 911. I’m sure I just heard something pop. I think it was my spine. I swear I can’t feel my legs. Woman on machine next to me asks if I need defibrillator paddles.

Daughter: Don’t know where she is, as she has already completed three sets. I hear her singing somewhere in the distance. She’s grounded.

Machine number four:
Personal Trainer: This one is guaranteed to give you a six-pack.

Me: Someone get me a six-pack. Stat. With a Ringer’s lactate chase. I’m hearing the Hallelujah chorus and am heading toward the light. I’ve decided I LIKE the way my thighs sag. And what’s wrong with wearing a bra sized 38-Long? Are we done yet?

Daughter: High-fiving the Pilates instructor. I hate her.

Machine number five:
Personal Trainer: Feel the burn.

Me: My head is spinning. I can’t focus. I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth. Have I given birth to my lower intestine? Should hemorrhoids fill your pants out that way? My shrieks of pain are drawing looks of annoyance from the other members. Up theirs. And the barbell they rode in on.

Daughter: Joined several peers for a quick game of racquet ball. She’s so outta the Will.

Machine number six:
Personal Trainer: This one’s for the Gipper!

Me: Shoot me. I don’t care. I stopped breathing 10 minutes ago anyway. Someone call the morgue. I think I’ve had a series of mini-strokes because I’m drooling now and have lost the ability to communicate in anything other than Klingon.

Daughter: She’s fifteen. Close enough. She’s driving us home. Now.

Looking forward to tomorrow.
Carolyn

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Swimsuit season already? Ack!

Spring is here.

I hate the tabloids. They like to take pictures of celebrities with fabulous figures and zoom in on their rear ends and critique bums that, in my opinion anyway, look great.

Far, far better than mine.

I always wonder, who writes this mean stuff? And, what does their bum look like under the telescopic lens?

Anywhoo, it’s that horrible time of year again. Everyone’s a critic. My oldest son–who by virtue of a lucky African gene pool was born tan–tells me I need a little color. The daughters agree that I could wear my bathing suit top backwards and it would still fit perfectly. The hubby is generous enough to say, “We’re both needing a little exercise.”

The scale confirmed their candid consensus. Bummer. (no pun). So, it’s off to the gym. Today is Day One. April 26th, 2010. As good a day as any to start, I guess. I’ve put off the New Years resolution as long as possible. In order to have some accountability, however, I’ll call today Ground Zero and admit that I need to head toward ground -25. I’ll report back here, every so often and let you all know how I’m doing. Dragging the teenage daughter with me, as she needs to head to ground -10 for optimum health.

We are both excited. Have the Gym Bag packed with water, towels, shampoo, sleazy-bum-mocking-tabliods, all the required accoutrements for a day at the spa. Gonna tackle a split routine. Legs today. Tomorrow, upper bod. I’m thinking we’ll both have our Jillian Michaels goin’ by July. All lean and tan and stunning. People are gonna look at us and say, “Hey, now THEY oughta be on the cover of the tabloid with their rock-hard bums!”

Jealousy? Yeah, it’ll be tough to live with people hating us because we’re beautiful. But we’re up for it.

I’ll report back tomorrow and let you all know how Day One at the gym goes.
Carolyn

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The Menopause Survival Kit: Don’t leave home without it!

Hi ho! The Seven Cures for Menopause Kit


I have the world’s BEST neighbor. Recently, she gifted me with the coolest present I’ve ever gotten. The Menopause Survival Kit. It came in a blue gift bag that said: YOU ROCK! (which is true, I do!) Inside, though, was the good part. First, there was a note of instruction: Dear Carolyn, I hope you enjoy this Menopause Survival Kit. Many women just like you have utilized kits like this to help them through this stage of life. Within this bag you will find Seven Items. Please begin with Item One.
ITEM ONE: A huge bag of Lindor chocolates.
The note read: Because everyone needs chocolate from time to time, especially to soothe the hormones…I mean nerves.
C: I promptly used this item until it was done. Amazingly, IT WORKED! My kids and hubby tried to steal some of my ‘medication’ but I valiantly fought them off.
ITEM TWO: Duct (Silver Duck) Tape
Note: Well, just in case you need to tape something(one) up. It can be for the arms or mouth or to treat a ding in a table.
I love this and will probably have to use it over MY mouth.
ITEM THREE: Hole Punch Ticket
Note: This ticket permits you to kick or punch one free hole in the wall of your choice. I haven’t asked Matt’s permission yet, but I doubt he’ll mind as he’s handy (refer to Saw II post) plus, this ticket could save a life!
C: Yes, and the life it saves may be his. I have tucked this ticket away in a safe place.
ITEM FOUR: Freezer Cool Pack
Note: You know what this is for!
C: Yes, it’s in the freezer, chilling now.
ITEM FIVE: Ice Breaker Mints
If the cold pack doesn’t work.
C: Um hmm, plus, they’re a little classier in public.
ITEM SIX: Blue Bandana
Note: This is the “Don’t Mess With Mama” bandana. All you have to do is put this on, around your head, neck or wrist to communicate “Don’t mess with mama” This will help you when you feel and episode coming on, so everyone will know.
C: I’m wearing it now.
ITEM SEVEN: Movie Pass
Note: This is a Movie Pass which may be redeemed at a time of your choosing, and I will whisk you away to a cinema where we can watch a movie.
C: I have tucked this away with the Hole Punching ticket, just in case I need a quick get-away and hiding place.

I encourage you to create your own kits for the special women in your life. Bag: $2 Ingredients: $20 or so. Sanity provided? Priceless.
Carolyn

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Victoria’s REAL Secret

Hey, baby. What's your sign?

Sleep Apnea, part 2: Medical Fashion! YAY!
Probably the best part of Sleep Apnea is the really cool machine you get to take home and use every single night for the rest of your life! But before you can be trusted with the Nimbus 2000, you have to take a class with members of your non-breathing peer group. At first, it’s much like an AA meeting in that you don’t want anyone to know you’re there. Everyone takes a seat, looking as if they are facing their sentencing for crimes committed while asleep. If you’re lucky, you get the Good-Humor Man as your instructor to loosen things up. And, I gotta tell you, once everyone puts on ‘the mask’ it’s a veritable festival of fun. One guy in my class (a four-year veteran of Sleep Apnea) said it takes all the ‘mystery’ out of love-making. Apparently, when the wife sees him sans mask, she knows what time it is. Yeah, it takes the old mystery out of a lot of stuff. Another guy in my class was gonna order a mask for his wife so they could play Darth Vader. Everyone’s a comedian. I think my big beef is the lack of bling. A lady who sat across from me was wondering if we could maybe bedazzle the straps or get a model in leopard print or dayglo pink. I’d like to see the thing double as a blow dryer for those of us who like to double task. Anyway, if you have read this blog for any length of time, you know I’m big into get rich quick schemes, and I think I’m onto something with the Sexy Cpap machine (continuous positive airway pressure). Gonna get on the horn with Victoria. I think there’s a market here.
Carolyn

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I am your mother, Luke.

Ever wake up in the middle of the night, certain that something in your body has… stopped? You might have Sleep Apnea. The first time this happened to me, I was pregnant with my oldest daughter. That day I’d just felt her move for the first time. That night, I thought we’d died. I woke up clawing and gasping and my ever-helpful husband roused just enough to tell me to shut up. “But, I’m having a HEART ATTACK!” “Then play a spade or a club,” he muttered and rolled over. This has gone on (and off) for years. Me, waking up dead. Wondering, what causes this strangeness?

I am not an animal!

After about a dozen years (don’t take a house to fall on me) I called the doctor and they scheduled me for a sleep test. If you’ve never had one, ooo, what a treat. They glue wires all over your body and then tell you they are going to go in the next room and stare at you, while you sleep.
Oddly, I slept like a baby. Or so I thought. According to the test results, I’m fond of not breathing for loooong stretches at a time. And, perhaps this is why I drag through the day, blaming old age, bad diet, a penchant for staying up all night long, global warming, Bernice Hudeen from the 3rd grade, whatever.
Anyway, it’s official. Sleep Apnea. I’ll be back with an overview of the cure. If I live that long.
Carolyn

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Nuthin’ says lovin’ like something from the oven

We like him better this way

 

Wendy: 

Today is the day the Pillsbury winner is slated to be announced on Oprah.  The Million Dollar Bakeoff Winner.  Wonder who that lucky person might be.  I wonder if they took time away from their precious children to perfect their recipe?  I wonder if their marriage suffered because their husbands thought they were stupid to be chasing a pipe dream?   I wonder if the winner has five little tykes, every single one of which needs braces? 

Well, we do know one thing for sure. 

It’s not us. 

That’s okay.  There is always next year. 

Carolyn

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We’re not bitter…much.

Wendy…I hate to be the one to break the horrible, nay, nay hideous news, but… we were NOT selected as finalists in this year’s $#%@!! Pillsbury Bake-off 100 Finalists.  Yes, I know, last year, we spent nearly all of our savings on Pillsbury products, slaved hours in the test kitchen (okay, my kitchen), force-fed everyone we know Pillsbury products, and yes, even sacrificed our hips and thighs.  For what? 

Oprah to announce Million $ Winner!

To say I’m bummed is like saying the Grand Canyon is just a ditch.  I’m wrecked.  And the kicker in my Pillsbury depression?  The winner will be announced on… Oprah.  Yes.  Our Oprah.  The one you and I have always fantasized about being interviewed by and whose book club we aspire to being chosen for.  I am banging my head against the monitor as I write this.

Our entire year of labor is flashing before my eyes…

Remember how we put off entering our recipes until the deadline day?  Remember how your computer was broken and I drove 450 frikkin’ miles to your house and forgot to bring mine?  Remember how we got up early and borrowed your neighbor’s library card?  Remember how, when we got to the library, all the computers had people using them?  Remember how we cussed?  Remember how, when we finally got on a computer, we accidentally submitted some of the wrong measurments…and then the computer shut off, because we’d used your alloted half hour and your neighbors alloted half hour and we were locked out?  Remember how we cussed some more?  Remember how smug we were when we knew we still had one more half hour because we had your husband’s card… and then found out that the stupid contest closed at noon EASTERN TIME??  HUH?  REMEMBER?

Yeah.  Good times.

We should do it again.

I’m including the announcement below:

Although the cooking finals will be held here in Orlando, the winner of  the 44th Pillsbury Bake-Off Contestwill be announced April 14, 2010, on “The Oprah Winfrey Show.” The 100 finalists will assemble and compete at the Waldorf-Astoria Orlando and Hilton Orlando Bonnet Creek hotel, preparing their original recipes in 100 mini kitchens stocked with all of their ingredients.  The four category winners (Breakfast & Brunches, Entertaining Appetizers, Dinner Made Easy and Sweet Treats) will be announced in the evening April 12 at the Hilton Bonnet Creek.  Then, in a first for the contest,  four finalists will be flown to Chicago  to appear on “The Oprah Winfrey Show.”  On Wednesday, April 14, 2010, Winfrey will reveal the $1 million grand prize winner on her show. Visit http://www.bakeoff.com for more information, as well as past recipes.

I’m gonna go plunge a fork into my eye now.

Carolyn

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Saw II… Husband -vs- Power Tool. Oh yes, there will be blood.

I have not seen this movie.  There is something about the cover of this DVD that just makes my skin crawl.  It used to be in the display facing the front door of our local Hollywood Video store.  Gross.  I would always skip past that section.

This? Nuthin. You should see my hubby’s fingers

Anyway, this last Saturday, my hubby, Matt, was puttering in the garage.  He’s a regular Tim-The-Toolman-Taylor.  Every now and again, he’ll smash his thumb with a hammer and curse a blue streak, but that’s about it.

Little did I know, his luck was about to run out.  Notice how I’m clueing you in on the terror to come?  In the writing business, we call that “foreshadowing”.  Cool, huh?  (Insert scary horror film music here).   So, anyway, I was inside, pretending to write, but really napping (shhh), when our daughter comes screaming into our bedroom, “DAD’S HURT HIMSELF! COME QUICK!” 
 
I don’t remember getting out of bed.  I think I levitated to my feet, hit the floor once and was downstairs before I’d opened my eyes.  I’d just completed a course in CPR/First Aid and thought I was all Greg House.  Nope.  Couldn’t remember a dang thing.  Two chest compressions and 30 breaths?  uh… that can’t be right…  Stumbled out to the driveway and found my husband staring dazedly at his hand.  Blood everywhere.  The tip of his finger still in the garage I guess.
 
I shout at the kids to get my purse and my shoes.  My daughter, still screaming, throws her father’s giant clown slippers at me.  Other daughters gather towels and begin to boil water.  The sons are bawling.  The husband wanders back into the garage to…uh, who knows.  Look for his finger?  I’m in the car gunning the engine, yelling at him to get in or get left behind.  Once I’m strapped in, I’m either Starsky or Hutch, whichever one took the corners on two wheels.  My husband asks, “Hey, are you all right?”   Okay, shouldn’t that be my line?  I should have paid more attention to the “comforting the victim” portion of my CPR training.  Shouting “Shut up and let ME do the driving!” is hardly compassionate.
 
You know, I had no idea that while I’d been sleeping, my hair and make up had become so…attractive.  Couple this with the clown slippers?  Yeah.  I go screaming into the ER, “MY HUSBAND HAS CUT HIS FINGER OFF!”  They had the nerve to look bored.  Apparently, they see oh-so-attractive middle-aged clown people like myself dragging some bone-head like my husband in every single day.  In fact, you out there, reading this?  Odds are, you’re missing a digit.  I am shocked at how many people have come to me with missing finger stories.  I go to church with one lady who has THREE people in her immediate family, who are missing one or more fingers.  Hello?  Like maybe they ought to think about being, oh, I don’t know…CAREFUL?
 
Anyway, I’m not impressed with this movie poster any more.  Really, it’s nothing but a bad manicure.  I’ve seen worse.  Oh, yeah.  A lot worse.
Carolyn

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Toohotmama’s “Cool-Chick” Award

     IDA ROCKS!

Ida Hayes-Green Graduates High School at 99!

 

Ida Hayes-Green finally got her high school diploma, one month before her 99th birthday,  just last week.    

She’s been very busy with all the attention, but when that dies down, Toohotmama’s intend to contact her for an interview.  Enquiring minds want to know what colleges she’s targeting.     

Dudette!  What’s your major?  And we’ve got some serious advice about dorm life.  Stay away from the all you can eat ice-cream machine.  They’re not kidding about the whole ‘Freshman 10’.  And unless you’re into drunken, one night stands, avoid the Frat parties.  On the subject of Dead-week… Okay.  We won’t go there.  

Waiting until Finals to cram might work, especially for those of us with short-term memory loss, so what the heck.  Give it a try.  Beyond that, enjoy.  These next four years will fly by and before you know it?  You’re 103.  Congratulations, Ida Hayes-Green!  You’re our hero and one Hot Mama!    

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Bad Hair

Wendy and Carolyn Do Hawaii

 

Carolyn and Wendy Do Hawaii
 
The 35 Symptoms of Menopause: A continuing education.  Today, we explore Symptom #26:

Hair loss or thinning head or pubic hair.  Increase in facial or whole body hair.

So many of our friends complain about this symptom.  The hair falls off the head and seems to just explode out of everywhere else. 
 
So, girls.  How do we get rid of unwanted hair without the hideous pain of waxing / electrolysis and those horrible red bumps that come after shaving?  Well, after a LOT of debate–and experimentation–we’ve come to the conclusion that there is no solution.  Why are we fighting the inevitable, ladies? 
 
Let go of your inhibitions.  If you’ve got it, flaunt it.  Embrace your inner gorilla!  Oh, we’re not saying it will be easy.  The first time we hit the beach sporting our new hirsute look, we were a little bashful.  But as you can see by the video our husband’s shot, (above) after a couple Mai Tai’s we got into the rhythm. 
 
Carolyn and Wendy

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Lip Service

Spring is coming and it’s time to get in shape!  Toohotmamas is proud to present our new exercise video:

ANGELINA LIPS GUARANTEED!

Don’t waste money on videos that don’t address those pesky lip lines.
For the low price of only $19.99 you’ll receive our Pucker Pretty Video that focuses on 16 dominant muscle groups associated with building stronger, more youthful looking lips.  You’ll groove to our high energy, low impact lip routines that’ll get your heart pumping and your lips moving!  Don’t just endlessly flap your lips when you can be taking your oral fitness to new levels!  Learn to chew faster and with more precision.  Experience heightened sensation while whistling.  And best of all apply your lipstick with confidence.  As always, consult your physician before beginning any lip exercise program.
Void, where prohibited by law.
 

Angelina Lips: guaranteed!

 

L.I.Productions.  A subsidiary of Toohotmama’s Worldwide.

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A Baker’s Dozen

The 35 Symptoms of Menopause: Symptom #13 DISTURBING MEMORY LAPSES

When Wendy and I agreed to begin this blog business, it seemed to me that we were both going to take turns blogging.  However, since it’s been awhile–and our fan base is dwindling from 2 all the way down to zero–I’m beginning to wonder if Wendy might not be suffering from symptom #13 this week.

Since I’d been planning to eventually tackle this subject, I figured I might as well jump in and “Just Do It” as they say.

There are three components to dwindling… thing.  (What did I do with those notes?)

Number One:  The whole RABBIT TRAIL SYNDROME  Starting out with one task in mind and then running off in another direction altogether.  For example:  I sit down to write the great American novel.  But then, somebody, say, my cousin, has this hysterical video on Facebook, that makes it look like he and his wife can do this fabulous figure skating routine.  This is especially funny, as his bio claims he’s 300 pounds.  The fact that he’s holding a beer in his hand only serves to underscore the idea that he’s not all that athletic.  Although, I know his sister’s kids played soccer.  The reason I know this, is because her son played soccer with Jaclyn Smith’s  son.  Remember her from Charlie’s Angels?  My dad loved her.

Carolyn

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Filed under Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood

All Dolled Up, Part Duex Deux

Ahhh, Wendy.  My Wendy. Every woman needs a BFF to tell you how much she hates you when she thinks you look good.  This is so satisfying.  Especially when all I can see are the parts of me that are falling apart, and for whatever reason–cataracts?–she can’t.

Anyway, yesterday I was desperate to get out of the house to be with friends.  I convinced myself, and my 6-year-old son, that we were done with the stomach flu and it was time have a playdate!!  Four adult writers–and two little kids– out to hear Kristen Hannah speak at Powells Books!!  After that, lunch at McGraffs!!  No more vomit!! Yay!  Time to get dolled up!  Roughly translated, shower.

I remember this one time, when I was a kid, my entire family had the stomach flu.  My mother, sick of being housebound, managed to convince my dad that it was time to go out to dinner.  We were “well”, dammit, Jim!  (my dad’s name is Doug, but whatever).  Anyway, we get to the Chinese restaurant and my sister has to throw up.  So, my mom, clearly in denial, says, “Carolyn, please take your sister to the bathroom,” and proceeds to order us all these hurking combination plates.  Being that I was still suffering, I was probably not at my most patient.  Especially considering I was 10 and she was 8.  Okay, so in the bathroom there is one stall available.  And, I was crowded in there with her.  And the more she throws up, the less ‘good’ I feel, until we are both on our knees, fighting over who gets to puke into the public toilet.  Since that day, Hoisen sauce still makes me think of toilets.

All this to say, I now have complete sympathy for my mom.  Yesterday, my sweet son was submitted to multiple humiliations because of my premature need to get out of the house.  I knew we had a bit of a problem when his French fries arrived and he didn’t fall into them face first and devour them in his usual style.  “These make me want to BARF!” he announced.  I laughed, thinking, oh, look how he’s showing off for Wendy’s daughter, also age 6.  So, of course, I have to eat his fries.  Then, he had to go to the bathroom.  NOW.  Wendy’s daughter came with us and found it both fascinating and hilarious that my son had to use the Ladies Room.  When I finally got him into a stall, he…stalled.  Couldn’t get his shoe off.  Not getting the shoe off, means not getting the pants off, which means not being able to climb up onto the toilet…in time.  Oops.

I was tempted to flush his underwear down the toilet, but hey, that would clog the plumbing and besides, that’s what those sanitary paper protectors are for, are they not?   And so, I return to the table, an aromatic package sticking out of the top of my purse, polluting its contents, spreading the love, so to speak.  

Thank God I’d taken the time to get all dolled up.

Carolyn

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