Ho-lloween

Poles and holes.

The exact words my BIL uses to describe Halloween. And I have to say, after visiting several costume stores, he is right.

Halloween is an excuse for men to see holes and women to see poles. Are you picking up what I am putting down? If not, you should leave this site immediately and douse yourself in holy water. Holy water that has been blessed by the pope. Actually, if you stay, you should still probably douse yourself in holy water anyway, just to be safe. I hear it is like chicken soup for the soul. Oprah told me so.

A few weeks ago one of my girlfriends and I went to a Halloween shop, hoping to get inspired. We knew that we were going down to the Short North for the big Halloween partaaaay this year, but at that time, had no idea what our costumes would be. And I'll tell you that neither one of us were divinely inspired. We were shocked at the choices.

Slutty nurse
Slutty witch
Paris Hilton. No adjectives required.
Slutty zombie.
Slutty Freddie Kruger. Don't you know guys did chicks with long nails? I blame Alanis Morissette.
Slutty slut
Slutty Pippy Longstockings
Slutty sorcerer
Sexy kitten


And on and on and on. What would Pope John II think?

So with empty hands we walked out of the store. Neither of us was down with the slutty vibe. Even if we were, neither of us was down for spending $60 on a costume. Everyone knows that slut costumes, because of their lack of fabric, should be at least 30% off.

So what am I going to be for Halloween?

Simple.

Big Momma in a pink wig. That is all I have the energy for. Plus, I've always wanted pink hair, cut into a short bob. And my hole will not be showing. Just in case you were wondering.....

Happy Halloween people! Don't eat too much candy!!!

Fool in the rain

I am a total idiot for buying Halloween candy 5 days before the big day. It is half gone and the circumference of my ass has already doubled. Hopefully it will not experience exponential growth.

Dirty little secret

Well, here I am. Almost nine on Sunday night. Work is done. Check. Exercised today? Check. Jr.'s homework? Check. Now I just need to fall asleep.

Last night I struggled to stay awake for the OSU game. I made the sacrifice for my good friend Jim Tressel and his boys. Unfortunately my encouraging words weren't heard. It was a sad night in the Big Momma household. I even had on my Buckeye socks. Sometimes, you just can't do enough. Buckeye shirt? Check. Red bra? Check, check. Red undies? Check, check, check. I suited up but spent the game on the bench. Ok, really, the couch. But promise not to tell Tressell. It will be our little secret.

Back to tonight and trying to get some sleep. Not going to be an easy one. Too much going on upstairs. I wish there was an on/off switch. Actually, I probably don't because it would certainly spend more time in the off position. And then I would need to be fed thru a tube and someone would have to change my diaper. I don't think that anyone is up for the task.

What am I trying to say here? Lots. But it just can't seem to get it into the form of words or sentences. And forget about punctuation. That is a whole nother football game. And there is a lot going on right now. A lot that I can do nothing about. Other than hope it all works out for the best.

But here is a question for you married folk: If someone tells you a secret, do they assume that said secret will be shared with your spouse? I guess I always assume that to be so. Unless of course, you tell your sister that you think her husband cheats during tennis matches. She certainly wouldn't share that. Probably because she knows I am right. Just joshing Nill....NOT.

But what if said secret is a juicy one. A secret that secretly is good news. A secret that doesn't deserve to be a secret in the first place? A secret that is a blessing in disguise? Have you ever typed a word so much (ie, secret) that you question if you are spelling it right? That is where I am right now.

Questioning. I know the who, what, where and when, just not the WHY.

I wish I had all of the answers. Or at least a magic wand to make everything as right as it deserves to be.

To close, some lyrics:

Beyond my control - we all need control. I need control - we all need control.

I am the Modren Man - secret secret -

I've got a secret. Who hides behind a mask - secret secret -

I've got a secret So no one else can see - secret secret - I've got a secret

A prize to anyone who can give me the song and band. No cheating of course. There are no secrets here......

Hey friends, come on over, drink some wine, sit on my lap.....

OK, I must admit that I seriously love this show. Despite the more manly than ever Brooke Shields.

But do you know any women who would sit like this?

Who exactly are the marketing people trying to target here? I guarantee, not matter how you present it, NO men will ever watch this show.

Richard Simmons is my friend

Last night was our final tennis match of the summer season. The top 4 teams played. Unfortunately we had to play the #1 team. They are #1 due to some strategic serves, excellent ball placement and steroids.


After they kicked our butts, Mr. Roid came up to me. Now I have never once spoken to him and I truly don't even know his name. Here is how our conversation went:


Mr. Roid: "Big Momma, I just want to say keep up the good work."


(This is said as he grabbed and held both of my hands.)


BM: "Thanks?"


I had no idea what he was talking about. At first I thought that maybe he was complementing my tennis game....


Mr. Roid: "I just wanted to say keep up the weight loss. You look really good."


BM: "Thanks?"


Fade to black. Big Momma walks away, wondering what just happened.


I seriously felt like he knew about my secret past. That Richard Simmons had once rescued me by forklifting me out of my bed and delivered me on a flat bed truck to fat camp. He then forced me to wear really small athletic shorts and "deal my meals," while sweating to the oldies.


I will admit, while I have never been grossly overweight, I struggle with my weight, as most 35 year old women do. I will also admit that I joined Weight Watchers in September and am closing in on losing 10 pounds. For the last 10 years, I have participated in WW on and off. I mainly do it when feeling a little chubby and when I know my portion sizes have gotten out of control. My goal was to lose 10% of my body weight and I am nearly there.


So why did I take such offense to his comment? I will sum in up right here. It is really obnoxious to say to someone, even after losing a few pounds, "Boy, you look really good." It implies that you looked really bad before. I thankfully do not suffer from a poor body image. I did WW to primarily work on my health. It FORCES me to eat better, knowing that each and every week, I get weighed by a stranger. The fact that I have to pay $12 each week helps too.

So in order to move on, I would like to rewind and respond with any of the following:

Mr. Roid: "I just wanted to say keep up the weight loss. You look really good."

BM: "Thanks, chemo will do that to you."

BM: "Thanks, the side effects of binging and purging are AMAZING."

BM: "Thanks, go fuck yourself."

BM: "Thanks, go fuck yourself you roid infested, shrunken ball loser. I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off. In your wife's mouth."

Thank you, I'm officially over it.

Fun Monday: Doodle edition

It has been a few weeks since I've participated in Fun Mondays, simply because Monday is no longer fun for me. Thank you career! But here I am, trying to carve some time in my schedule for a task that I very much enjoy.

This week our host is 9 Acres and here is her challenge:

Your job is to doodle this week. Start with the number 9, for Nine Acres, of course. Draw the number 9 in red and then use a different color for the rest of your doodling. That way we can all see where the original 9 was in your doodle. It is up to you how you incorporate the 9 into the doodle. It can look like something we know, or it can just be shapes. It can be colorful, or can be one color, besides the red 9. When you are finished with your doodle, take a picture of it or scan it and post it on Monday.

I don't very often doodle because I am in front of customers all day. I think though that some of my more, shall we say uninterested customers, probably wouldn't even notice if I started doodling in front of them. Some of them might also not notice if I striped down and did the polka in front of them while singing the Star Spangled Banner. Professors tend to be a boring and sometime side-tracked bunch. Now if I striped naked and danced while reciting the elements of the periodic table, I might get their attention. And a large book order.

So, given that I don't doodle often, when I do doodle, it is always the same doodles. You can view my doodles by clicking here. I will caution you that watching me doodle is a slow and boring process. Not at all like my nude Star Spangled Banner number. But lucky for you, there is a button which you can push to speed up my doodling. I would recommend speeding it up unless you are fresh out of Tylenol PM.

Once my doodling task was complete, I was to visit this site so that they could be interpreted.

Here are my findings:

My doodles prove what I have known for years: that I am a psycho who needs daily therapy sessions. And piles of Xanax and Lithium, just like Britney Spears. More specifically they reveal the following:

I am aggressively ambitious, yet romantic, with a strong desire to blossom and be fruitful in life. Kinda sounds like a description of a fine wine. Apparently I am a hermaphrodite because I not only doodle the most popular female doodles, but I also draw boxes which are manly doodles.

The mystery comes into play with my ‘house’ doodles. Now I don’t draw them because I want to draw a house, I draw them because it is a game I learned in 6th grade. You must draw the house, without lifting your pen from the paper. As you can see from my live doodle feed, I am very good at this. I am not good at fractions, because I was a bit too preoccupied with the house challenge. But please don't tell my 6th grade teacher. My sister and I were her favorite students....I would hate for our images to be tarnished.

So there you have it. A bit of insight into all that is Crazy Big Momma. Now go make your Monday fun and visit the rest of the participants!

The hardest part

Tom Petty famously sang "The waiting is the hardest part." For some reason today, I couldn't get this lyric out of my head. It is probably because, even though I love this song, I couldn't disagree more. Parenting is the hardest part. Let me be more specific: Parenting a teenager is the hardest part. And trust me that it is THE hardest when a girl in 4 inch pink heels comes to your door, picks up your son and drives off with him.

Without even a second glance in your direction. Not just from her, but from him.

Especially when, prior to driving off, you can see the sparks in their eyes as they look one another over. Him as handsome as ever in a black suit, tailored to fit his broad shoulders and lean frame. Her as gorgeous as ever, reminding you of a young Julia Roberts, in a dress without straps and the aforementioned heels. Pink heels. Did I remember to tell you that they were 4, FOUR inch heels. How scandalous!

At least it was for me.

I am starting to realize that my efforts to keep him MINE are pointless. And probably a bit selfish. An infinity of my homemade bread loaves, cookies and chicken papriksh do not matter. There is nothing I can do to keep him as mine and mine alone. He will always be a part of me, but not mine exclusively. And for this mere fact, I am sad. At 16, he is like a rubber band. Pulling one minute toward his friends, girlfriend etc., at the same time getting farther from me. Another minute rebounding to his father and myself because we are good and safe and still comforting to him. The strings of his rubber band seem to oscillate faster and faster with every waking moment. I am just afraid that his rubber band will succumb to the pressure and break, flinging him far, far, far away from me. But, no matter how far he is flung, I will immediately set out on my way to collect him and bring him back.

Fling. Flang. Flung.

Fe. Fi. Fo. Fum.

I certainly am the biggest dum dum.

A sucker. A complete sucker. But I just can't help myself.

Prior to any teen oriented activity which takes place outside of my home, I always go over the rules with Jr. No drugs, no drinking, no smoking and most importantly no sex. Always be a gentleman. And he knows what I mean by this, because we painfully, at least for him, had the conversation about this a few months ago. You must remember that I am shameless in my topics of discussion with him. Nothing is off limits. I feel that by reviewing the do nots, they will not happen. Whatever gets me thru the day, right?

I have a ritual that I do as he walks out of the house, as I am pathetically watching from the front door. I say under my breath "Don't have sex. Don't have sex. Please, don't have sex."

I guess I am hoping that if Jr. hears my Tom Petty song, he will agree with Tom. The waiting is the hardest part. Because he is waiting, just like I've asked him to do.