Monday, April 26, 2010

Adventures in swimsuiting...

...or "How Not To Spend Your 41st Birthday".

Turning 41 is sort of like stubbing your toe. It is not tragic, like say, turning 40, but does make you want to yell out, "GAH! Son of a.....ugh....mother f....." You know, like when you kick the corner of your dresser in the night when you get up to pee in the dark. Hurts, but not life-altering.

So, what to do on your forty-first birthday?

First off, I annoyingly insisted to everyone that I was changing my name to "Tracy QuatroUno" for the day, and they must refer to me as such.

Now what? Hmmm.....mani, pedi, maybe a massage...? Oh, I KNOW!

Get a mammogram and then go try on swimsuits. Yesssssssssssss! *fistpump*

Or at least that is what I did. I mean, you can do something dull and boring like go to dinner, have drinks with friends, or go out clubbing. *Yawn.*

The mammy was a follow up appointment on my right girl so it was only a one-sided boob squish. Still, not all that fun.

The real fun followed when I had the BRILLIANT idea to go try on bathing suits. Oh, frolic and joy.

Let me say that the bikini days are probably over. Yeah, that. Just leave out the "probably". So I moved on to trying on one-piece ensembles. Sort of eeeeasing myself into the old lady one piece Hawaiian-print swimdress look.

The first one I tried was a cute little purple number:

And hell to the no, I am not posting a picture of myself in above-referenced suit. Suffice it to say, I looked somewhat like this:

After trying on a few (and throwing each one to the floor in disgust in toddler-tantrum fashion 'cause I can be really mature that way), I finally decided on a tankini. Yes, I am aware that horizontal stripes are pretty much a no-no, but this was a suit I didn't hate/want to shred/pour lighter fluid on/dance around fire, chanting, "I win, I win, I win!"

Maybe I ought to just join one of those religions where they only wear "modest" swimsuits.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Club Bebe

Apparently, there's a party goin' on up in hurr.

A new sign appeared on the boys' door this morning...

What do you mean you can't read it? Come on now, it is clear as mud. Let me help here.

This is apparently the entrance to "Club Deth" and if you are smart, you will heed the "Do Not Enter" warning, complete with several skulls and crossbones. Watch out, too, 'cause this joint is "gardid". Probably by a couple of sawed off "gards".

To which, I said, "Um, Hunter, say what?"

And he tells me, "Mom, it is not really a club of deth. That is just to scare off people we don't want in our room."


"...and if someone wants to come in, they have to sign in on the paper. If we don't want them in there, we will just cross them off."

You will note that both Hunter's and Chase's names are at the top. Well, being owners and "gards" and all...

And my name is labeled "VIP" at the top left corner. (PS, Mom, really, you should have just spelled my name with an "e" in it ferpete'ssake. My 5 year old even thinks that is how it is spelled.)

So far, sadly, Dad has not made the cut.

I think they just let me in for the laundry and nightly turn down service. You don't want to piss off the help, after all.