Woman of a Certain Age

A certain birthday is creeping up on me. No…actually, it’s about to punch me in the face. It’s cocked and loaded and ready to shoot but I’m cool with it. Really, I am.

Last week I was killing time by perusing Ebay and Etsy for vintage clothes when I stumbled upon this:

Not me. Not. At. All.

I had that dress. I wore it in the early 90’s when I still wasn’t legally allowed to be in bars but went anyway. In fact, I rocked that dress back when Kurt Cobain was still breathing and astonishing the world with his rebuttal to 80’s hairbands. I wore the hell out of that tight little number and sang …can’t find a better man! at the top of my lungs while I drove into the city to hit CBGB’s. I smoked skinny little Capri cigarettes when I drank because those weren’t like smoking a real cigarrette…therefore, by technicality, I was not a smoker. I loved Eddie Vedder and imagined that, in a perfect world, we’d meet and get married and I’d be his cool wife who wore tight little black dresses and lovingly mopped the sweat from his forehead after particularly grueling sets.

I wore that dress with cowboy boots and black high heels and drank shots out of test tubes. I might have worn it while dancing on the bar at a place called Roxeanne’s with my best friends, Debbie and Corinne. I probably puked on it. Either way, my ass hadn’t fallen yet and my boobs were still perky. My hair was long and cut like Brenda Walsh’s and I exuded a major Don’t-Even-Bother-Talking-To-Me-Fella kind of vibe.

I was dork.

Last night, Dave and I were driving home from our date night when Guns n’ Roses came on the radio. There we were, two cool, aging hotties hurtling down I-95 with Paradise City and Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door blaring from the Saab’s speakers. Momentarily, we felt cool. The songs of our youth filled my ears and made me young again. I mean really young. I felt good and happy and…then the stupid DJ went and called those songs classics. CLASSICS, I say!

My dress is vintage and my music is classic. Bitch is gettin’ old…

Trouble

I have lots of trouble. At least that’s what I told myself this morning as I stood in Target looking at the workout DVDs. I’m not into Zumba. Don’t get all huffy and bent out of shape, I’m not passing judgement on the Zumba cult! Zumba looks like an enormous amount of fun if you’re… I don’t know, coordinated. I am not. Somewhere along the line my coordination vanished.

*POOF*

I took ballet as a kid, jazz, some gymnastics and I was even a cheerleader before I decided that drinking beer and smoking skinny cigarettes under the bleachers was more fun than doing splits in the middle of the gym at half-time. I suspect that  if I were to attend a Zumba class, I’d probably take out an entire row of women with my flailing, graceless gyrations. Why, just yesterday I walked smack into the open dishwasher door and went careening across the kitchen, washing the walls and floor in berry punch flavored Juicy Juice.

In the face of my spastic inability to dance, I like to run. But I don’t.

You see, last year I suffered the mother of all sinus infections and just stopped. In essence, I have done nothing other than sit on my atrophied posterior for the past year. Sure, I occasionally (rarely) ventured downstairs to use the treadmill, but mostly I just sat around writing, napping or reading books and it was lovely. I honestly don’t ever remember being so still. If I were a dog I’d most definitely be one of those shaky little terriers that never stops moving, snarling, playing and barking. Like Stella. Stella is the dog version of Kelli. Yet, over the past 12 months I’ve become the equivalent of a big old lazy Bassett Hound. No, that’s not right… I’m an aging, overweight Shar Pei. Yes, I’m thin but I’m developing weird jiggles and wrinkles in places that never jiggled or wrinkled before. For example, when I run up the stairs now, my ass continues moving for a half second after I’ve stopped. There’s also that thing where my outer thighs have begun pooching out with a layer of fat I’ve never seen before. It pains me to say it but, I have fat, flab and an ass that’s threatening to climb up my back and park somewhere that I never imagined my ass could go.

My Canine Soul Sister

I’ve noticed all of these new things over the past week or so. Like last week when I put on a pair of shorts that, two years ago looked perfectly lovely and cute. This year, I caught my reflection in the glass door on our porch and nearly fell over. Do those saddle bags belong to me? Then, just to punish myself, I put on my skimpiest bikini. Yup, I did.  The one I used to wear at Orient Beach in St. Martin where clothing is optional. By the way, have you ever noticed that the only people who actually choose to go nude are chubby seniors?

Anywho, I took that bikini off so quickly you’d have thought it was made of battery acid.

Yesterday I squeaked out a mile and half on the treadmill. I used to run 5.

This morning, at Target, I rolled the girls around filling the cart with diapers, laundry detergent and other equally unexciting items and thought about the load of trouble I’ve gotten myself into. I realized that after years of stringent excercise and healthy food consumption, I finally opened the door and invited the flab to come on in. It’s like a vampire, right? Once you invite it in, you’re doomed. Unless of course you’re a painfully bland teenager who recently moved to Forks. In that case, you’re good. Carry on.

As I rolled around Target pondering my big ass, er…trouble, something magically caught my eye. There, on the top shelf, awash in a beam of light from heaven was a DVD called No More Trouble Zones from Jillian Michaels. Last year I did P90X, but somewhere near the second week, I wanted to punch Tony Horton in the face. I can’t stomach Tony Horton’s incessant babble again. So Jillian Michaels, bring it on. Yell at me. Tell me I’m loser. Go right ahead and call me a lazy bitch because nothing, and I mean nothing, gives me more incentive than a fellow bitchy woman. If I could hire another chick to come to my house and run on a treadmill next to mine, all the while looking over at my time and speed, increasing her own to match, I’d be a fit and skinny in no time. That’s why I used to love the Oak Square YMCA. I’d pick a treadmill right smack in the middle of a bunch of girls and run like the wind. I nearly always won the race.

I smell a lawsuit!

Jillian claims her workout will “Eliminate Love Handles, Muffin Tops and Wobbly Arms for Good!” Let’s hope she threw a little something in there for saddle bags, wine guts and double chins because once I’m flabless again, I’m going to run like the wind!

I..like..big…Butts and like ’em round! Yeah, not really. But I do like when I see that you’ve vote for No. 7!!Vote for me @ Top Mommy Blogs - Mom Blog Directory

What I Didn’t Expect When I Was Expecting. *WARNING: do not read if you’re squeamish and/or an in-law*

I’m not naive…let’s just get that out of the way right out of the box, but there is some funky business going down over here at No. 7 and, for once, it’s not of my doing. Since making the move to WordPress, I’ve discovered this magical place called Site Stats. It’s a far more magical place than Sitemeter ever was because within Site Stats exists the most magical realm of all. Its name is “Search Engine Terms”. Getting the picture? I can see what people are searching for when their proverbial ship comes to ground here on the beautiful yet slightly schizophrenic island of Narragansett No. 7.

I can’t stop myself. I love logging on and while my stats are loading, my level of anticipation builds to a frightening level.

Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please let there be just one more bizarre or filthy sounding search term in that queue!

I have started sharing the previous day’s weirdest and/or most offensive search terms on the Narragansett No. 7 Facebook wall. I own it, so I can do whatever I want to and, well…I want to. On Saturday morning I shared Friday’s winning search term which was as follows: “mom washing my penis”.

Huh.

Well, I’m not entirely sure how that particular search landed Mr. McIssues at No. 7, but I want to thank him for the laugh.

As I pondered these strange and border-line repulsive searches conducted by people unknown to me, I recalled a time back before I was a mommy. Actually, I was technically very close to becoming a mommy for the first time. My stomach was freakishly large and I was enduring a heat wave in Boston which, for some odd reason, caused me to sit on the floor in front of a fan for an usually long period of time. I don’t know why. Maybe the hardwood floor felt cool, I don’t remember. Nonetheless, after lying around like a giant sow for what seemed like hours, I hoisted my grotesquely deformed self off the floor and began my pitiful end-of-pregnancy waddle toward the kitchen. Mid-waddle, it struck me that things weren’t quite right down below. Something was really out of place. I’d never had a baby before so you’ll understand that I was slightly alarmed when I realized that my entire crotch was swollen.

Yes, that’s right, I said my crotch was swollen.

Believe me…I had the same disgusted and horrified reaction except I actually grabbed a mirror and looked at it! After emitting a piercing scream, I ran-waddled to my laptop and began furiously searching Medline and OB/GYN sites for the cause of ‘giant swollen crotches in the 9th month of pregnancy.’

Evidently I wasn’t the first woman on the face of the Internet to suffer the malady because I immediately found a discussion board about the very subject. I know…what are the chances? Yet, it was on that very informative (and slightly off-putting) discussion board that I found a link for “Cheeseburger Crotch”. By that time I had determined I wouldn’t suffer death by swollen vaghooha and my swelling was likely due to the fact that I’d sat my big, fat pregnant ass on a hardwood floor while my baby’s head pressed on some nerve or something…yadda yadda and totally boring. BUT… Cheeseburger Crotch intrigued me. It might have even made me giggle just a little bit, so I clicked the link. Today, as I wrote about what is probably my most intimate and mortifying moment ever, I found myself Googling “Cheeseburger Crotch” again. Nearly seven years have passed since my brush with The Burger, and it appears that Cheeseburger Crotch is much more widely discussed in these enlightened times. WebMD has even dedicated an article discussing embarrassing pregnancy symptoms, one of which, as you can probably guess, being Cheeseburger Crotch.

Well, back there in 2004, I laughed really hard – at myself and my crotch. Then I did what any woman with freakishly swollen vagina would do. I called my sister.

Hello?

Hey…so, I have Cheeseburger Crotch.

WHAT?!

Yeah, Cheeseburger Crotch.

Ummm…(followed by some nervous laughter)

I got up and couldn’t walk right because my crotch got in the way.

WHAT?!

Seriously. My crotch swelled so much I couldn’t walk, so I walked to the bathroom and looked at it because I thought maybe the baby’s head was coming out or something, but it was just REALLY swollen. So I did a web search and it turns out that I have Cheeseburger Crotch. [pause as I popped a salt & vinegar chip into my mouth] But don’t worry…it’s going away now.

uh…

I’ve gotta tell ya’…Cheeseburger Crotch is exactly the right description for what was going on down there.

I don’t really know what my sister said because she was laughing so hard. Until this very moment…right now…as I type…I have never discussed my run in with The Burger with anyone other than my sister simply because of all people on the face of this earth, she was the only one I knew who would laugh as hard I did.

 Yeah…I went there. Click the flashing box if you like fries with your burger.

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Big and Chunky

How shall I say this… My winter coat has become quite large and I’m not talking about my outerwear. I’m referring to the layer of blubber that has accumulated and spread like a fungus over the past few months. What the hell happened? I am officially on my way to turning into a flabbed up and jiggly housewife. I’d like to say that I’m rocking that J Lo booty, but the truth of the matter is that I’m walking a dangerously thin line between a J Lo booty and what is sure to become a big fat ass unless I address the issue immediately.

It’s my own fault really. I haven’t gone running once since winter began. Clearly the ol’ metabolism is winding down, not to mention how much I’ve been enjoying those long winter evenings full of wine and cheese. There’s no way I can pass up the cheese when I’m waddling through Whole Foods. I stand before that case full of fine French cheeses and salivate. I stand there and dream of buying a herd of sheep or cows and crafting my own line of artisan cheeses. I fantasize about going to France to learn cheese making from an old French cheese making master… then Kate yells, “GO, GO MAMMA!” and my fantasy comes to to a screeching halt. The closest I can get to fulfilling my weird cheese fantasy is to buy a hunk of cheese and pair it with the appropriate delicious wine. Thus, I have created a vicious cycle wherein I continue to feed my growing ass. Kim Kardashian would be proud of me.

While we’re here…Is there such a thing as a wine gut? Gwen noticed that my wine-gut wasn’t as flat as it used to be 6 months ago. It’s gone all soft and squishy. She likes it now. I know this because she told me so just the other day while we snuggled. She kindly said, “Your belly is getting so squishy… It’s so nice and comfy now, Mommy. Not like before when it was all hard and pointy.” I’m so glad my wine-gut serves some purpose.

The other day when I was vigorously mixing pancake batter, I arrived at the horrible realization that my ass was moving in unison with my stirring. Well, that’s new! Fear is beginning to slowly creep in. It’s nearly time to confront the blubber build-up and subject myself to a full-length mirror inspection in broad daylight. It’s almost time to drag out the bikini, put it on and gasp in horror at the chunky beast that stands reflected before me. It won’t be pretty, but it has to be done. Consider it an intervention of sorts.

My sneakers are patiently waiting for me in the closet along with my vast wardrobe of running clothes. Last week I put it all on and then laid on the couch to read a magazine and provide Gwen with a squishy spot to rest her little head. Something tells me that its time to step away from the cheese and log some miles on the running shoes. I’ll grab my iPod and play the songs that I purposely loaded to fuel my hatred toward my big butt, namely “Baby Got Back”, “Fat Bottom Girls” and the explicit version of Will I Am’s “Big and Chunky”…because I like filthy lyrics.

I’ve had a shitty week. Throw me a vote, huh?