Outrageously Ordinary

When I was in high school I worked at a tshirt shop on the boardwalk in Virginia Beach. Most nights when I got off work, I would walk to the water and just sit in peace for a while. I would think about what life was and what it would be, what I would be like, and how great being on my own would be.

Fast forward 20 years – I’m sitting at an extraordinarily chaotic Chick-fil-A, with sticky children screaming and frazzled parents talking over the chaos, and I just laughed out loud at the memory because being a grown up sucks.

A large pizza never stood a chance near me when I was in my 20’s. Now two slices has me avoiding salt for two days so I don’t blow up like a puffer fish.

I got fun mail in my 20’s like the enormous JC Penny catalog or post cards from friends on spring break. I can’t remember the last time I got anything other than credit card offers for limits 20 times my salary, bills and the ever present 20% off Bed Bath and Beyond coupon.

The bills keep multiplying the older I get, and especially the older my children get. They are expensive little boogers, precious but expensive.

The yard work is no longer a chore you get an allowance for. The grass has to be cut, the kids are too little to mow, so that leaves you. The weeds that I never noticed when I was young now scream obscenities at me when I drive up to the house. The trimmed and lovely vision I have in my head seems impossible because the maintenance is out-muscling me.

And then there is the occasional gag-provoking job that makes you yell for your mother/father in your head.

The toy that accidentally falls into a toilet full of awfulness that must have died inside your child before coming out. And you get to fish it out.

The drain that gets clogged with some kind of science fiction hair ball that looks slimy enough to come alive and pop out of Sigourney Weaver’s chest.

And finally, when you are sick -I mean seriously sick or in real pain – I don’t care how old you are, a part of you reverts back to being little and wants a parent to be there when it’s time to take your medicine but it’s all the way over there and you don’t have a drink.

So if I could go back to that beach and sit with my high school self… I would pop her in the back of the head and tell her not to blink. Time flies the older you get.

There comes a time in a young woman’s life when she feels her best, looks her best, has the wind at her back and the world at her feet…

Today is not that day.

After a week of easy, breezy beach life, our once organized suitcases seemed to blow up over four floors, five bedrooms and a deck full of pool toys. Like a true procrastinator, I got up early yesterday to pack up before we headed for Raleigh.

I scaled those four floors, five bedrooms and the deck full of pool toys with vigor and verve, multiple times to load the car to the brim. The breeze we had enjoyed all week abandoned us in our hour of need so when the last seashell was lovingly shoved into place, I sat behind the wheel drenched in sweat with my fresh feeling nowhere to be found.

I dropped the kids off at their dad’s house and came home to face reality alone. One of my favorite things about beach week is that I don’t have any real responsibility, it is a break from being a grown up. I play with the kids, we all stay up late, we eat whatever we want, and other than my mild OCD tendencies, I don’t have to seriously clean anything.

I pulled up to the house to see the yard now looking like the African grasslands. I was surprised not to see some wild animals prowling through the knee-high blades. How much rain did we have while I was gone?! I opened the front door and was greeted by a sauna that sucked the breath from my lungs. There should be an app to turn the air on before you get back from vacation.

So I turn the air to frigid levels and start unloading the car. What had been fairly clean suitcases were now covered in sand and sea water salt from the umbrellas, toys and towels. I shook everything off and climbed more stairs to bring them inside. But on the final trip I missed a step and pulled a muscle in my back.

I’m young enough to be able to recover and finish my chores, but old enough to know I was going to pay for that later. I’m also lucky to have two sorority sisters in town so after I brought everything in and searched through countless bags to find all my toiletries, I jumped in the shower to get presentable for dinner.

Dinner was wonderful, we are the kind of friends who pick up right where we leave off no matter how long it’s been. I adore them both but we cut dinner short because of the storms coming. I left the restaurant saying prayers for us all.

I love storms but I felt like I was on the set of Twister. It’s a lot less cool when you have to bob and weave through the lightning strikes. What I didn’t realize is how tense I was behind the wheel and what that would do to an already broken back.

So all of that to say… here lies the body of Cami. She was once a young and energetic lady who could touch her toes or even reach for the remote control without grimacing. Romantic comedies and ib profen will be my friend today but please send good thoughts my way that the remote control doesn’t fall out of reach.

 

As beach week continues, I am amazed at the choice of beachwear on some of the sun-lovers I’m sharing the shore with.

Say that 5 times fast.

There are all types of bodies out there, all of them beautifully and wonderfully made, and have earned their dents and scars to tell a unique story…

With that said, some of them need to cover their uniqueness.  I’m not saying only the tiny, toned and tanned should rock the bikinis.  But ladies, if I can see your c-section scar, your bikini doesn’t fit.

If a good 40-50% of your breasts are coming out of the side or bottom of your top, your bikini doesn’t fit.

Men, if your speedo gaps at the top or sides, it’s time to trade the tourniquet for trunks.

Wear whatever you like in the privacy of your own home, but when all of your nooks and crannies are showing, it’s time to throw the mumu on and keep the beach rating a G.  And if a mumu doesn’t appeal, you can always keep cool while buried in the sand…

My children buried me yesterday (in a strapless swimsuit).  My daughter, the artist, drew the bikini and added the strategically placed shells.  It’s the most comfortable bikini I’ve ever owned!

 

With the exception of Christmas, beach week is my merriest week of the year. I am never as fun or relaxed as I am at the ocean.  But I am also hyper aware of my diagnosis.

I am pigmentally challenged.

We all have that friend that just cannot seem to capture any rays of vitamin D. The friend that burns like a piece of bacon in a cast iron skillet after an hour on the sand. The friend that actually falls for the gimmicks and purchases 100 spf. The friend that goes from lobster red to incandescently white within a few days.

I am that friend.

With that enticing image in mind… I was sitting at the pool with my water babies today, watching them try to drown each other for the latest water toy of choice. With them content and in no need of their all-time favorite water toy (me), I stood on the deck to take in the ocean view and breathe in the salty air.

I was counting my blessings and thinking about the people I love the most, when I was distracted by the white light coming towards me on the beach – the palest person I’ve ever seen.  I mean, porcelain white.  No pink in her cheeks, no varicose veins in her legs, no color. I must have been a beacon for her as well because we just kind of marvelled at each other.

She waved to me, I waved to her and we were immediately connected in this comradery of understanding.  We are the sunblock company’s dream and the dermatologist’s nightmare. Yet we brave the bikinis and stares, and function like normal people.

Kermit had it wrong. It’s easy to be green, it’s being pasty that’s the problem.

Why is it that I can spend an hour getting ready, and I don’t run into a soul I know and don’t turn a head while out.

I’ll have a good hair day, styled just so with no cow licks showing or frizz that only Buckwheat or Don King would be proud of.

Good face day, no unsightly volcanoes erupting or flags flying from my nose.

The kids are at the lake so I am ordering Chinese at my favorite place. The lady says “You need more food.” I take that to mean I look thin and say thank you. She says “No, no. This will only feed one person.” Ego busted, I tell her that’s fine, it’s just me eating it. She says, “Tsk. Tsk. I put in extra fortune cookie. You need ruck.” Thanks lady.

The best stylist I have ever had moved to Colorado recently, without my permission or input. We barely had to speak before the cut, she just knew what would look good and I trusted her to make me look more glam than I really am. She was my therapist, style guru, hair stylist and cheerleader all in one. I’m left bitter with abandonment issues, but we wish her well.

While in Chapel Hill a few days ago, I decided to take the plunge and get a cut at this swanky place that was recommended. “It’s just hair”, I said. “What’s the worst that can happen?” I said.

Women – word to the wise, don’t ever go into a salon to meet someone new with that mentality. Nothing good will come of it.

I was greeted by someone with an Edward Scissorhands tattoo covering most of her arm. I found out after the cut had started that it was that movie that sparked her interest in cutting hair.

Oh Lord.

We had a long chat about what I wanted done, my likes and dislikes, my style, how little time I spend getting ready in the morning, I even brought a picture to reference. Everything but a mixed tape.

The first slice of hair fell to the ground and although the length of it took me aback, I chose to roll with it. She spun me away from the mirror while cutting and talking, and cutting some more.

It wasn’t until my mother walked up beside me and gasped that I realized how bad it was. She turned me towards the mirror and handed me a little one to see the back. All I can say is that my hair has been assaulted and I just sat quietly and still for the attack.

I look like Pat Sajak from the back and Egon Spengler (Harold Ramis) from the Ghostbusters in the front. It’s the opposite of a mullet and definitely the opposite of awesome.

I am not a vain person, most of the time I think I’m funny looking, but this has forced me to hit every fashion site I can find for tips on growing hair faster and thicker. Horse shampoo, mayonnaise rinses, biotin, it’s all happening.

Meanwhile, I made an appointment to get a wax before our beach trip. They called to say they double booked and want to reschedule while I’m at the beach. So at this point I have too much hair on my legs, not enough hair on my head and no quick options to fix either.

A sun hat and good razor are on my shopping list today.

While sporty spice is away at basketball camp, I get the pleasure of spending all day with the wee one. It’s been fun giving him my full attention and listening to the (very) many thoughts a 6 year old has on life, love, politics, etc. The sense of humor and well-timed sarcasm in this kid just warms a mother’s heart.

With that said, I’d like to send a big thanks to ABC and their new game show Match Game. The commercial includes a bit about edible underwear and I’ve now spent 2 hours with a giggling 6 year old who thinks the concept is hysterical and wants to know what flavor I would pick.

I finally caved and chose watermelon. What’s better than watermelon in the summer? The little guy narrowed it down to cotton candy. Oy.

It has been raining for hours. My children are demanding food. In order to feed them, I need to hit the grocery store. But it’s raining so, no. You mothers understand that the idea of taking two children to the store in the rain for a full commissary run is about as likely as Sports Illustrated asking me to pose for the cover in my string bikini… chances are slim. So our culinary creativity blossoms. Tweedle-dee ate peanuts and dipped his finger in the Nutella jar. Tweedle-doh ate a ham sandwich, sans bread, and a full box of blueberries. You can imagine how excited they are for dinner.

Let me begin by saying my mother is a saint and I dedicate this post to her in the hopes that she will get a chuckle out of it.

I awoke to whining at 5am. I am not a morning person, nor am I an early riser, so after a few choice phrases barked at these oh-so-precious puppies, I left them (quiet) in their kennels to think about what they had done. That lasted approximately 20 seconds before the whining began again with the added bonus of some howling. My mother, the saint, let me sleep and handled the situation.

When I woke up, I learned that the “situation” now included dog vomit and the misunderstanding that the sunroom was actually the dog’s toilet. We agreed to jump ship and go out for breakfast – after everything she had seen and cleaned this morning, she wanted out of the house.

So the Saint, the children and I went out to eat and spent the morning running around town and having a whale of a time – almost forgetting about the morning’s minutia. Mistake #1: never let your guard down.

We got home to find more vomit, and puppies who seemed to want to dance in it. We got them outside to hose them down and get the fragrant gunk from their fur, but who can stand still while being sprayed with a hose, right? They got more muddy than clean, so while I cleaned the kennel, the Saint gave the dogs a bath.

Even a Saint can only take so much, so with a loving hug and a wish of luck, she drove away covered in dog vomit, dog bath water, fur and God only knows what else. Mistake #2: never let your reinforcements leave until the battle is over.

So I’m left with two content and angelic children (they really are the best!), one bulimic dog whose vaccinations have upset his belly and another dog who is tip-toeing into the sanctity of womanhood. Yep, Miss Dottie is bloated, cranky, tired and upset with life in general. She will also soon be sporting a diaper because as far as I know, Always hasn’t come to the rescue on this problem.

Grace, my tender-heart, asks if she can hold Duke. She holds him while humming and whispering sweet nothings into his still wet ears. I take note of how precious the picture is just seconds before little Duke loses his lunch all over the carpet.

What I didn’t see was a smaller puddle come up on the tile right next to carpet. So I bend down to clean the carpet and step, bare-footed, in the puddle of hideousness. Mistake #3: always dress for the occasion. The right shoes are a must, or any shoes in my case.

As if knowing there was a breakdown in my future, Travis called to see if the kids wanted to hang for a bit. He got to the house, kids are excited, everyone is all smiles.

Listen for the Jaws theme in the background now …

Everyone leaves, I head back inside to see both dogs in the kitchen. Duke is hacking up a puddle of something, Dottie is licking another puddle of something, and I slip in yet ANOTHER puddle of something – still barefoot. Mistake #4: learn from your mistakes, only an idiot repeats them.

Cleaning and cursing, I get everyone to their kennels and sit down to steal a minute from this vile soaked day. So at this point, I am extremely confident that I have crossed the threshold of hell, and like Dottie, I’m upset with life in general.

Oy vey.