It was an exciting morning for some. I had forgotten that the tree service guys were due at the house today and while I was getting dressed and completely naked from the waist up, I looked out my bedroom window to notice a man in a tree in my backyard hanging off a rope pruning branches. I looked at the guy in the tree with shock and dismay. He looked at me with a look of...just another day on the job. That's what my breasts got? Just another day?
This is unfortunately a pattern.
Not that I frequently expose myself to men, but I did have an unfortunate experience many years ago that sort of mimics this one.
I was about 25, living on Union Park in the South End of Boston, and was poor and had no business joining the expensive gym nearby, but I did so anyway. So I felt ambivalent whenever I went to the gym and even more uncomfortable when I ventured into the ladies locker room. My discomfort with that area had to do with the culture of the locker room, which called for everyone to mill around naked. The room was quite large -- there was a whirlpool in the middle and showers were located in the back -- and women wandered around nude from locker to shower (a long walk) and in and out of the whirlpool. While no one seemed to have an issue with nudity, I continually clung to my postage stamp size towel, which was so small, it barely concealed my nice, in-shape, 25-year-old self.
What was my problem with being naked in front of other women at a gym? Why was I such a prude?
One day, I walked into the locker room and was surprised to find myself alone there. I realized that now was a good time to work on this problem and practice being naked . I took off my clothes and carried my towel at my side on my way to the shower area. I didn't just walk, I strutted at a strong pace, with good posture and head held high. I felt confident, happy and issue-free.
Until I hit the shower area....
Where I found a man bending over a drain in the middle of the floor in the process of repairing some problem. He looked up at me, studied my nakedness for a moment and said,
"I'll be done here in a minute."
He was lacking in expression or emotion. Then, he went back to working on the drain.
I sprinted faster than Carl Lewis at the Olympics, to my clothes.
Once I got over my anxiety, I considered the most shocking aspect of the incident: That's all my naked body got? "I'll be done here in a minute?"
Life can be so cruel.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Sad Story of My Blue Balls
Somebody broke my balls.
And I'd really like to find the guilty party.
I mean my balls, literally. The large, bright blue, ceramic balls that used to reside in front of my house before a person or persons so savagely broke them.
I know who breaks my balls, figuratively. That would, of course, be Edward. Just the other day, he did or said something that prompted me to respond, "If you had shown me this side of yourself while we were dating, things would have turned out a whole lot differently for us." Due to the aging process, or something much more sinister, I can't remember why I said that, I only remember that what Edward did or said was very, very irritating.
So back to the literal balls. These bright, blue balls were large and like nothing I have seen before or since. They were unusual and made quite a statement. I loved those balls, but apparently not everyone in the neighborhood did.
One day, I was gardening and hidden behind the hedges that line the front of my house. People were talking in the street, and when they got to my house, I heard this exchange:
"Wow. Those are some blue balls."
"Oh my God. Can you believe they put those there?"
"The house is really very nice until you see those horrible blue balls."
Undaunted, I popped up from behind the hedges and yelled a cheery good morning (and something else under my breath). A man and a woman were either highly sunburned or blushing a deep red as they said good morning and then ran off.
Were my blue balls ugly? I thought for a while and concluded, No! My blue balls are beautiful.
A few weeks later, Edward and I were awakened from a deep sleep around 2 a.m. by the sound of breaking ceramic. We never saw who did it, but we found shards of our beloved balls all over the front of our house.
Who could have been so cruel?
Some have suggested it was a mercy killing, but I reject that notion completely.
And I'd really like to find the guilty party.
I mean my balls, literally. The large, bright blue, ceramic balls that used to reside in front of my house before a person or persons so savagely broke them.
I know who breaks my balls, figuratively. That would, of course, be Edward. Just the other day, he did or said something that prompted me to respond, "If you had shown me this side of yourself while we were dating, things would have turned out a whole lot differently for us." Due to the aging process, or something much more sinister, I can't remember why I said that, I only remember that what Edward did or said was very, very irritating.
So back to the literal balls. These bright, blue balls were large and like nothing I have seen before or since. They were unusual and made quite a statement. I loved those balls, but apparently not everyone in the neighborhood did.
One day, I was gardening and hidden behind the hedges that line the front of my house. People were talking in the street, and when they got to my house, I heard this exchange:
"Wow. Those are some blue balls."
"Oh my God. Can you believe they put those there?"
"The house is really very nice until you see those horrible blue balls."
Undaunted, I popped up from behind the hedges and yelled a cheery good morning (and something else under my breath). A man and a woman were either highly sunburned or blushing a deep red as they said good morning and then ran off.
Were my blue balls ugly? I thought for a while and concluded, No! My blue balls are beautiful.
A few weeks later, Edward and I were awakened from a deep sleep around 2 a.m. by the sound of breaking ceramic. We never saw who did it, but we found shards of our beloved balls all over the front of our house.
Who could have been so cruel?
Some have suggested it was a mercy killing, but I reject that notion completely.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Barnie Prepares for the Easter Parade
The sun was out, the temperature was above 40 and spring seemed to be beckoning to me this morning.
I felt wonderful given that over the past 48 hours, I had been dealing with a nasty stomach virus. Now that it had subsided, I felt like a new woman.
But I emerged from my sick bed with a question: Just who breathed sickness on me while I was away this past weekend? Did the little girl with curly red ringlets, wearing a flowered dress, who looked a little green around the gills, commit germ warfare at a family function I attended?
Channeling my best Mother Theresa/Ghandi/Oprah persona, I decided to abandon my quest for culpability.
Instead, I fired up the red Mercedes and drove over to Home Depot for grass seed, mulch and fertilizer.
This year, despite having three dogs who do unspeakable things to my lawn, the least of which is grazing on it, I am determined to improve its appearance from large patches of dirt and some green grass with lots of green weeds to an expanse of green (any way I can get it).
I decided that I needed to consult a professional, and I was referred to a Home Depot employee who appeared to be up there in years (experienced!) wearing thick aqua eye liner on her eyelids that looked, frankly, bizarre. Despite the fact that we were outdoors and there was a breeze, she wore a paper mask that covered her mouth and nose. I thought, "why am I buying garden supplies when this woman knows a plague is about to kill us?" but then I thought, "who would stop to put on eyeliner when a plague is imminent?"
So rather than dash on out of there to find a safe house in the Galapagos, I told Aqua Eyes of my lawn troubles. Somehow we communicated through the mask, and I bought several items, excluding pesticides, as I'm trying to cut down on carcinogens.
I returned home with my supplies, and did my lawn thing, which sadly seemed laughable as the seed and fertilizer went everywhere. I expect that there will be grass in the flower beds but nothing on the lawn. To try and counteract that possibility, I started spreading mulch around the beds, and what did I discover? It's so awful, I almost can't put it in writing: A rabbit warren. Yes, dear readers, a rabbit warren.
Every year, at least one insane rabbit builds a warren in my yard where there are three, count them, three dogs, who though domesticated and often act like babies, still have a solid prey drive. I feel it is my duty to watch over the baby rabbits, who are totally helpless in the warren and then hop around relatively slowly when they first emerge from it. I am morally bound to assist the rabbits until it dawns on them (and it does pretty quickly) that they better get their rabbit butts out of this dog infested property.
So last night, when my oldest dog,Tony, had to go out at 4 in the morning, I told Edward that he needed to accompany him to make certain that Tony did not disturb the rabbit warren.
Let me sum up Edward's reaction by simply saying that he is not a rabbit lover.
I'm in this alone, folks.
I felt wonderful given that over the past 48 hours, I had been dealing with a nasty stomach virus. Now that it had subsided, I felt like a new woman.
But I emerged from my sick bed with a question: Just who breathed sickness on me while I was away this past weekend? Did the little girl with curly red ringlets, wearing a flowered dress, who looked a little green around the gills, commit germ warfare at a family function I attended?
Channeling my best Mother Theresa/Ghandi/Oprah persona, I decided to abandon my quest for culpability.
Instead, I fired up the red Mercedes and drove over to Home Depot for grass seed, mulch and fertilizer.
This year, despite having three dogs who do unspeakable things to my lawn, the least of which is grazing on it, I am determined to improve its appearance from large patches of dirt and some green grass with lots of green weeds to an expanse of green (any way I can get it).
I decided that I needed to consult a professional, and I was referred to a Home Depot employee who appeared to be up there in years (experienced!) wearing thick aqua eye liner on her eyelids that looked, frankly, bizarre. Despite the fact that we were outdoors and there was a breeze, she wore a paper mask that covered her mouth and nose. I thought, "why am I buying garden supplies when this woman knows a plague is about to kill us?" but then I thought, "who would stop to put on eyeliner when a plague is imminent?"
So rather than dash on out of there to find a safe house in the Galapagos, I told Aqua Eyes of my lawn troubles. Somehow we communicated through the mask, and I bought several items, excluding pesticides, as I'm trying to cut down on carcinogens.
I returned home with my supplies, and did my lawn thing, which sadly seemed laughable as the seed and fertilizer went everywhere. I expect that there will be grass in the flower beds but nothing on the lawn. To try and counteract that possibility, I started spreading mulch around the beds, and what did I discover? It's so awful, I almost can't put it in writing: A rabbit warren. Yes, dear readers, a rabbit warren.
Every year, at least one insane rabbit builds a warren in my yard where there are three, count them, three dogs, who though domesticated and often act like babies, still have a solid prey drive. I feel it is my duty to watch over the baby rabbits, who are totally helpless in the warren and then hop around relatively slowly when they first emerge from it. I am morally bound to assist the rabbits until it dawns on them (and it does pretty quickly) that they better get their rabbit butts out of this dog infested property.
So last night, when my oldest dog,Tony, had to go out at 4 in the morning, I told Edward that he needed to accompany him to make certain that Tony did not disturb the rabbit warren.
Let me sum up Edward's reaction by simply saying that he is not a rabbit lover.
I'm in this alone, folks.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
On the Road With Barnie and Edward
Edward and I spent approximately 11 hours in the car together over a 48-hour period this weekend without committing a violent act on each other. We are very proud of our behavior.
Don't get me wrong. There was yelling, and some verbal abuse. There were comments like:
"Don't you think you should apologize? I apologized before when I said something mean and nasty. Now it's your turn."
"No, I won't give you the water, because you just ate tuna fish and if you drink from the bottle, the water will taste like tuna fish."
"That was my banana."
This really was one of our best car rides.
Despite the lack of violence and mayhem in the car, I emerged at our destination in Harrisburg, PA with a raging case of heartburn. After checking in at the downtown Hilton, I walked over to the nearby CVS to buy a bottle of Mylanta. Halfway down aisle 14, the lights were turned off, and there was an announcement over the Public Address System (rather unneccessary since I was the only one in the store) that the CVS was closed.
Really? At 5:30 on a Friday afternoon, when I have heartburn?
So, I screamed. Now I'm not kidding here folks. My parents used to call me Screech Mouth, among other loving nicknames, and it was accurately descriptive. "I need Mylanta! Now!" The lights flipped right back on and even though somebody who worked there apparently had to catch a bus, I now heard over the Public Address System, "Take your time, Maam."
That wasn't even one of my ear piercing, high pitched screams.
The next day, having been cured of my heartburn, we went to a lovely family function where I interacted with some of my favorite relatives. One of them is my 27-year-old cousin, Pete. Pete is handsome, smart, a world traveler and a marathon runner. Despite having all these talents, he is humble. On the buffet line, I mentioned my run for the penguins (See Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and how my training was progressing. I asked him the time per mile he averaged over a 26-mile run. Being so self-effacing, he was cagey, but I learned that his time per mile is somewhere in the 8-minute mark. When I expressed shock and awe (not to be confused with shop and awe, which is much more dramatic) at his ability to run so long and so fast and my inability to approach such a feat, he pointed out that he is much, much younger than I am.
OK, so with all of Pete's talents, that comment tells me that he is lacking in common sense, just like his cousin Edward with whom he shares a gene pool.
Which reminds me of a time when Edward and I were driving some place and Edward had brought several turkey sandwiches to eat along the way. As you may have guessed, despite being a thin person, Edward attempts to cope with long car rides by eating his way through them. For some reason, that could only make sense to him, he decided to bring a large plastic container of yellow mustard with him, instead of putting the mustard on the sandwiches when he made them.
We had been driving for maybe 10 minutes, it was about 9 a.m., and it was time to eat the first sandwich. I was at the wheel. I heard a lot of unwrapping and lots of noise from the mustard bottle. Then I heard Edward mutter, "Uh oh."
I looked down. On the right arm of my white jacket was a long line of yellow mustard.
I can't go on any further for fear that what I say could incriminate myself.
Don't get me wrong. There was yelling, and some verbal abuse. There were comments like:
"Don't you think you should apologize? I apologized before when I said something mean and nasty. Now it's your turn."
"No, I won't give you the water, because you just ate tuna fish and if you drink from the bottle, the water will taste like tuna fish."
"That was my banana."
This really was one of our best car rides.
Despite the lack of violence and mayhem in the car, I emerged at our destination in Harrisburg, PA with a raging case of heartburn. After checking in at the downtown Hilton, I walked over to the nearby CVS to buy a bottle of Mylanta. Halfway down aisle 14, the lights were turned off, and there was an announcement over the Public Address System (rather unneccessary since I was the only one in the store) that the CVS was closed.
Really? At 5:30 on a Friday afternoon, when I have heartburn?
So, I screamed. Now I'm not kidding here folks. My parents used to call me Screech Mouth, among other loving nicknames, and it was accurately descriptive. "I need Mylanta! Now!" The lights flipped right back on and even though somebody who worked there apparently had to catch a bus, I now heard over the Public Address System, "Take your time, Maam."
That wasn't even one of my ear piercing, high pitched screams.
The next day, having been cured of my heartburn, we went to a lovely family function where I interacted with some of my favorite relatives. One of them is my 27-year-old cousin, Pete. Pete is handsome, smart, a world traveler and a marathon runner. Despite having all these talents, he is humble. On the buffet line, I mentioned my run for the penguins (See Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and how my training was progressing. I asked him the time per mile he averaged over a 26-mile run. Being so self-effacing, he was cagey, but I learned that his time per mile is somewhere in the 8-minute mark. When I expressed shock and awe (not to be confused with shop and awe, which is much more dramatic) at his ability to run so long and so fast and my inability to approach such a feat, he pointed out that he is much, much younger than I am.
OK, so with all of Pete's talents, that comment tells me that he is lacking in common sense, just like his cousin Edward with whom he shares a gene pool.
Which reminds me of a time when Edward and I were driving some place and Edward had brought several turkey sandwiches to eat along the way. As you may have guessed, despite being a thin person, Edward attempts to cope with long car rides by eating his way through them. For some reason, that could only make sense to him, he decided to bring a large plastic container of yellow mustard with him, instead of putting the mustard on the sandwiches when he made them.
We had been driving for maybe 10 minutes, it was about 9 a.m., and it was time to eat the first sandwich. I was at the wheel. I heard a lot of unwrapping and lots of noise from the mustard bottle. Then I heard Edward mutter, "Uh oh."
I looked down. On the right arm of my white jacket was a long line of yellow mustard.
I can't go on any further for fear that what I say could incriminate myself.
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