Thank You for Pooping - A Dog Walker's Tail

Wiggle butts. Fur babies. Doggos. Four-legged children. No matter what you call them, your pets are an essential part of the family. They deserve everything good in life: treats, belly rubs, kisses, toys, and exercise. 

As a full-time dog walker, I spend my days loving on so many amazing animals - from weeks old puppies whose cuteness can make you squeal, to seniors who just want to bask in the sun and give you kisses for being by their side. Their stories are as varied as their personalities. 

Some of their humans, though… 

I was recently at a client’s home, getting all the info for an upcoming house sitting, and she was showing me around. We got to the bathroom and she said “Don’t mind the little foot stool around the toilet, that’s just my squatty potty. I’ve had terrible intestinal issues my whole life and recently had impacted bowels for the third time. I’ve tried everything to make it easier to shit, and it turns out the squatty potty actually works. You just sit down and put your feet up, and everything comes out. If you want, I can leave it there for you to try.” 

This is exactly why I prefer to work with the furry ones who don’t talk. 

I come home each night exhausted and sore, my own cats sniffing me up and down as if I've cheated on them (they’re quick to forgive once I open a can of Fancy Feast). I go to bed with a heart bursting with love because I get to do it all again the next day. How lucky am I? 

Two Questions to Ask Yourself...

BEFORE you get in the left lane!

1. Is my vehicle physically able to go the speed limit?
2. Am I willing to go as fast as the person behind me? 

If your answer to either of these questions is 'No'...
THEN DO NOT GET IN THE LEFT LANE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I realize we're dealing with disturbing new levels of stupidity in this country right now, so here's a little cheat sheet to help you: 

Anniversary

One year ago today, I took back my life. 

When I left my corporate job I intended to take a few months off - to sleep, to travel, to read, to detox from all the stress built up over 16 years. 

As each month passed, I wasn't ready to accept that I would have to go get a job. I had grown accustomed to sleeping in and drinking coffee until 11am. "Getting a job" felt like a death sentence. 

Then, when I unexpectedly met an incredible man in the DR, I knew I wanted the freedom to see where the relationship would go. So I made a new goal - make it until the first of the year, and then work on finding a job. 

But the first of the year came and went, and I was more determined than ever to figure out how to be my own boss. Plus, the number of desk jobs you can do from the beaches of Punta Cana is surprisingly slim. 

So here I am one year later: self employed, learning new things every day, rarely setting my alarm, drinking coffee until whenever I want, and making plans to move to the DR. 

It really is amazing what can happen when you close your eyes and take the leap. 

Adventures in Paradise (Parte Uno)

Since August 2017, I've spent a total of 2 months in the Dominican Republic. To say it's been an adventure is a gross understatement. It's been more like a grand awakening! There are so many incredible things about this island, it will definitely take me a few posts to get through all of my observations and experiences. 

Lesson #1 - leave your uptight American-ness at the door. Life here moves at a very different pace and you need to surrender to it if you're going to enjoy anything. Put your concepts of time, health codes, driving, and bathing suits somewhere for safe keeping - you won't need them here. As a self-diagnosed control freak, I know how difficult it is to take a flying leap out of your comfort zone. But I promise, it will pay off more than you'll ever expect. 

Ok, lets talk about 'time' in the DR. Whatever is shown on a clock, watch, or cell phone is merely a suggestion. If someone says "it will be just a few minutes", that can range from 5 minutes to an hour or two. And believe me, you are powerless to change it. So just sit back, relax, and have a beer (I recommend Presidente, clearly a popular choice in the seaside town of Macao!). 

A great example of something that takes forever? Grocery shopping. (Hang on, I need to make myself a drink to get through this one) 

I don't like to grocery shop, let alone leisurely - I make a list, I go in and get what I need, and I get out. Everything about that sentence is the polar opposite in the DR. People meander in every direction; they stop in the middle of the aisle to talk to an old friend (or a complete stranger) for 20 minutes; they make up their list as they go, inevitably having to back track several times (and are guaranteed to run into several someones they know along the way); they are on the phone yelling at their kid, oblivious to anything else; the cashiers are in ZERO hurry; and most people are trying to explain to the kid bagging their stuff that he needs to fit it all into two bags because they're on their motocicleta. 

I went to the store with my boyfriend the other night and he popped open a beer and started dancing to the muzak, ambling down each aisle. Being unfamiliar with a lot of the brands here, I needed to know which milk he wanted so I could grab it and get out of the way, but he was too busy jamming out and I about lost my shit. But to him, it was the least important thing in the world. And it was a great reminder that I need to chill, and remember that nothing is as critical as enjoying life. 

Where Is YOUR Cheese?

Remember when you were a kid, and your parents always said "if you pick a job doing something you love, you'll never work a day in your life"? That was really good advice that's only taken me a few decades to follow. 

On July 21st, I gave up my desk job and haven't looked back. A lot of people thought I was crazy to walk away from a steady income, health insurance, and retirement savings. But I think most people are crazy to stay in a job that makes them miserable, regardless of any benefits it might offer. 

It's funny how the rat race sucks you in. As a doe-eyed young adult, you finally land a job that you're actually proud to tell people about - even though it probably doesn't pay all of your bills. But that's ok because you're going to put in your dues, find the right company, work your way up the ladder, and one day be CEO. Then you wake up 20 years, 6 companies, and 2 Jack Welch books later, wondering why the hell you're still rowing with the other slaves while someone else makes all the money. Sure, you've done ok for yourself, but it's not the warm fuzzy feeling you were hoping for at age 40 - and shit gets real. 

At what could realistically be the halfway point of your life, you begin to understand what your parents were talking about all those years ago. And you desperately wish you could turn back the clock and give it another shot, but you can't. So you have a couple drinks, watch some remarkably timed inspirational videos in your Facebook feed, and actually allow yourself to dream. 

So I'm taking the leap and choosing happiness. I still have no idea what I'm going to do, or where I'll end up. But I do know one thing for sure - I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. 

That Time I Shit Myself

When I was 18 I dated a 24 year old guy named Dave. In my youth, I thought this was extremely sophisticated because he was obviously a very wise, older man. With a giant mole on his forehead and a mullet that rivaled Billy Ray Cyrus'. 

One Sunday afternoon he asked me to join him and his dog, Roxy, for a walk in the forest preserve near his house. Consumed with the romantic possibilities, I said “Yes!” and put on a sexy casual outfit of flannel shorts and a white t-shirt (I was 18 - what did I know about being sexy?!). He picked me up in his super cool silver hatchback and off we went. 

We walked hand in hand through the preserve while Roxy chased squirrels and paused to dine on an occasional tuft of grass. It was a beautiful warm fall day, full of hope and possibilities for young lovers. We strolled for an hour or so, reciting Wordsworth, picking wildflowers, listening to birdsong. The autumnal sun cloaked the world in a magical blaze, illuminating his face (mole), streaming through his hair (mullet). We were a romance novel cover. (Ok, that may be a slight embellishment.)

When Roxy was finished playing, we made our way back to the car so she could have some water. Dave opened the hatchback and sat down while Roxy quenched her thirst. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the car, toward him. He held my face gently in his hands and as he kissed me, a million butterflies danced in my stomach. After an eternity of kissing, we sat in the hatchback, in the empty parking lot, gazing into each other’s eyes. The butterflies were still going crazy in my stomach and, although this gave me slight pause, I chose to ignore them.

And then my stomach decided it would have the last word. In less than a millisecond my insides were churning, making obnoxiously loud not-so-sexy sounds. Dave asked if I was ok and as I bolted up I told him I was a little nauseous and thought I might throw up (because that’s what every guy wants to hear after he’s been kissing you). Luckily there was a Port-a-Potty at the far end of the empty parking lot. I say ‘luckily’ because, in that moment, I knew I was headed somewhere south of throwing up. And then I made the mistake to end all mistakes: I ran for the Port-a-Potty. 

If you’ve ever shit your pants (or shorts, as the case may be) you know that running only makes it worse. Much worse. By the grace of God, I made it into the Port-a-Potty before anything got too far. Once I was inside, I was faced with the horror of having to clean up. As I was frantically grabbing for toilet paper and trying to stay as still as possible, someone knocked on the door. What the...?!?!?! Dave asked, “Are you ok?” I told him I was fine, just needed a few minutes. 

So I spent the next 10 minutes trying to clean up my shorts so that no one would EVER know what happened. Sadly, life has a wicked sense of humor. My shorts might as well have been ultra thirsty paper towels. There was no hope - I was walking out of there with shitty shorts. 

When I eventually came to terms with the situation, I made the torturous walk back to his car. To add insult to injury, the car had light blue cloth seat covers. As I climbed in I tried to position myself on my left hip so as not to make ass contact with the seat. For the 20 minute ride back to my house, I didn’t move and I didn’t say a word. All I could do was hope for a meteor to drop out of the sky and crush me to death. Even though the windows were all rolled down, I could still smell it, so I know he could, too. And so could Roxy. She kept sniffing the air and looking at me. It was, in all honesty, the longest 20 minutes of my life. 

We broke up soon after that. I choose to believe it’s because we were at different places in our lives. 

Trump Should've Been a Blow Job

That is all. 

Seller Beware

As I declutter my life, I've become quite the pro at selling things online. I started out using Varage Sale and was mildly successful, but once the interest in my things started to fade, I moved on to LetGo. I had renewed success, and still periodically sell items there, but my latest venture is on Facebook Marketplace. 

The great thing about all of these websites is that some really random people are looking for some really random things. For example, I recently made a chunk of change selling iris plants from my back yard which had to be dug up and divided anyway. I've sold everything from old free weights to flower pots to barely used bath and body stuff. 

I also have several pair of really cute shoes listed for sale. So when Tyson sent me a message on LetGo asking about a pair of Nine West heels, I thought "ok, it's probably a dude. but maybe not. whatever blows your skirt up, as long as you buy the shoes". His first request was to send a few photos of my feet in the shoes. Strange? A little. But when you're buying shoes site unseen, I can understand wanting to know what they really look like on a foot. So I sent a side profile. Apparently not satisfied, he asked for a front shot. Getting weirder, but I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Pic sent. He replied that I had really nice feet and big, beautiful toes (brb - urfing). I didn't respond, so he said that I thought he must be a total psycho and he promised he didn't have a foot fetish. I told him it wasn't my place to judge (yeah right!), just trying to sell the shoes. He asked if I could throw in some socks to sweeten the deal. In my naive brain, I thought he meant a new pair of socks, which was weird because you wouldn't wear socks with these shoes. I told him no and he asked if I was wearing any. I couldn't get to the 'Block' button fast enough. Icky. 

Then last night Justin sent me a message about the same shoes. But it wasn't Justin, it was his wife Tammy. She explained they use the same Facebook account, yadda yadda yadda, loves the shoes and was wondering if I could send additional pics. My Spidey senses were tingling because people don't share Facebook accounts, but again I wasn't concerned with a guy wanting the shoes - if he needed the guise of a wife, so be it. Learning my lesson from last time, I sent several different views of them and hoped 'she' wouldn't come back saying she liked my toes. Tammy took a different route and asked me to send another photo of one shoe dangling off my foot. She was even kind enough to send me a photo as an example. Not ok Tammy, NOT OK!! 

(Not sure this is worth the $20 I'm asking)

Haiku

Most summer nights

You'll find me flirting with laziness 

Lounging on my chaise

Sipping a tasty beverage

Admiring the beauty of the wind in the trees

And talking to the universe

Hey Chatty Cathy, Clip your String

Things I know, but shouldn't, about the cable guy that came to my house last week:

His girlfriend's name is Mary.

She's 49 years old.
She was raised Catholic but is now attending an Episcopal church.
Her parents are 77 and 78 years old and think she's living in sin.
She drinks Guinness Stout and now wonders if she's an alcoholic because she has 2 beers a day.
She's a great lady, nicest he's ever met. But she keeps him on a tight leash. 


He's a recovering alcoholic, 22 years sober.

He divorced his first wife after he was in the hospital with blood poisoning and she called him to see if he was going to be ok. (She got remarried a day after their divorce was finalized)
His second wife died several years ago.
He met Mary on Plenty of Fish, and was surprised because he was on PoF for other reasons. 
He is not religious and tries to convince Mary that she is not going to hell because she isn't a practicing Catholic any more.
He has 2 cats.
It took him 2 hours to fix the problem with my cable, but he was at my house for 3 hours. 


Because I was raised to be polite, I let him ramble on and pretended like I cared. But really, it's 3 hours of my life I'll never get back. 

Couldn't Make it Up if I Tried

At the gym yesterday a woman fell off a treadmill right in front of me. I was really proud of myself for not laughing because, DAMN, it was funny!

Since I couldn't make her feel better by sharing my epic gym fail, I'm sharing it with the world: 


I was in the weight room and sat down at a leg machine like this one. 

I was about half way through my first set and thought I felt something rip. I couldn't hear it because I had my earbuds in with the music cranked up, so I wasn't entirely sure what had happened. Naturally, I kept going with the rest of the set. Senses heightened, I started to feel a slightly cool sensation on my nether regions and thought "well this can't be good". 

I did two more sets to make it seem like everything was fine (and as a stalling tactic so I could figure out what I was going to do). Finally, the moment of truth was upon me. I stood up quickly and, with sweet ninja-like moves, got to a nearby machine which happened to be right in front of a mirror. But it's not as easy as you think to inconspicuously look at your ass in a room full of people. 

Unable to assess the situation within a non-creepy 10 seconds, I had to sit down and do a couple sets on this weird arm machine that I didn't know how to use. Fantastic. The best part? I was directly facing a man doing this: 

Whatever was going on at crotch level, he had a million dollar view. Awesome.


The time came when I couldn't stall any longer. I had to stand up. With a nod to Mr. Don't Look at My Junk, I stood up like nothing was wrong, grabbed my water bottle and keys, and walked out of the weight room. 

I instantly knew what had happened - I had ripped my pants from the crotch all the way up the ass. They had no lining, and I was wearing a thong. The cool breeze felt like a blizzard. 

The cherry on top? I had to walk all the way through the packed Cardio Room and then down the length of the basketball court, where former Bronco Champ Bailey was watching his kid play in a summer league. 

I canceled my membership a few days later, because there's no coming back from that. 

Bonjour la France!

Quick shout out to my fans in France!

You've officially grabbed Shut Up and Poo's top spot for Number of Readers in a foreign country. 

Merci

2016: An Unbelievable Year

It didn't take long for big news to rock the world in 2016. 

On January 10th, David Bowie died.  Sadly, we lost many other legendary icons throughout the year - Prince, Merle Haggard, Glenn Frey, Frank Sinatra Jr., John Berry, Leonard Cohen, Gene Wilder, Alan Rickman, Muhammad Ali. To name just a few. 

Fortunately, February reminded us that miracles still happen as the Denver Broncos won Super Bowl 50 and The Sheriff rode off into the sunset. We've still got amazing talent on the field this season, but I think I speak for most Broncos fans when I say that we miss Peyton. 

In June, while the United Kingdom stunned the world and voted to leave the EU, Hillary Rodham Clinton (The Notorious H.R.C.) made history by winning the Democratic Party nomination for President of the United States. I'm no Gloria Steinem, but damn am I proud to be a woman and see that, in my lifetime, the glass ceiling will be broken. 

In August, Michael Phelps became the world's most decorated Olympian. I may or may not have shed a tear or two, amazed and awed at his talent - and the talent of all the athletes. Hell, I think I'm the bee's knees if I get up early and ride my bike for 30 minutes. 

In November, the Chicago Cubs won the World Series. Let me say that again - THE CHICAGO CUBS WON THE WORLD SERIES! Holy shit. I was jumping around like an idiot, crying, clapping, and shouting with joy. Completely nonplussed, my cats looked at me like I had lost my damn mind. But I didn't care - the Cubs just won the World Series after 108 years. Nothing else mattered...

...until the giant zit that was the Election came to a huge (white) head and erupted. A month later, and I still refuse to believe it happened. More than anything, I wish Republicans would stop saying that we need to give He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named a chance. By that logic, shouldn't we give AIG, Goldman Sachs, and Lehman Brothers another chance? They proved they can't run a business, they lied like assholes, and they completely hosed the American taxpayers. But hey...let's give them a chance to see what they can do this time around! Fuck that. 

And the cherry on top?  I am turning 40 in nine days. I wouldn't say I'm excited so much... more like I'm dreading it. A lot. 

I'm trying to stay positive about all the things I have accomplished and not focus on the things I haven't, but...I think I'd have better success climbing Mt. Everest with my arms tied behind my back.

And so I will raise a bottle of champagne on New Year's Eve, and salute the unbelievably magnificent bitch that was 2016. 

Jury Doodie

Last week I had the pleasure of spending an entire day at the County Justice Center to fulfill my civic duty as a potential juror. I should have known the day was doomed when I had to wait in line for 20 minutes just to get through security. Once that debacle was finally over, I waited in another line to get into the Holding Pen. It was too early in the morning, and I hadn't had enough coffee, to realize the beginning of a trend.

I found a seat, filled out my 1 page questionnaire, and tried to figure out where the coffee was. The recording the night before said there would be coffee. I didn't see any sign of a bean, powdered creamer, or stirring stick anywhere. So you require me to be here at 7:45 AM, forego an entire day of income, sit in an uncomfortably full room of strangers, without even an awful cup of Sanka to choke down? Unbelievable.

I finally had a little time to read my book and catch up on emails. Productivity. Ok, I can live with this. And then I was interrupted by the Jury Commissioner introducing some really old guy who was/wasn't/played one on TV/may have been a Judge. He droned on for 20 minutes about something really important, I'm sure. And since half of the room was now asleep, they thought it would be a good idea to turn off the lights and show us a video about Jury Duty (in case we were confused about why we were there).

Once every single person in the room had their official juror number and badge, they asked us to line up numerically. Then the Commissioner's assistant confirmed the importance of Natural Selection when he went through the list and asked about 80% of the people to move because they were in the wrong spot.

But wait, there's more. They marched all 86 of us out of the Holding Pen, down the hall, to...the elevators. Each elevator held about 10 people, and I was lucky #82. The best part is they had to rearrange us again when we all got to the 4th floor. There was genius at work here, I'm sure of it.

FINALLY in the courtroom and the Judge started talking about the Constitution, our obligations as jurors, the players, the accusations in the case, yadda, yadda, yadda. There was no Lennie Briscoe. No Jack McCoy. No Abbie Carmichael. No dramatic music. This was nothing like Law & Order. What the hell?

It was 10:15 AM. For two hours he asked everyone some general questions, noting their answers and their pleas to be excused.

At 12:15 PM, he dismissed everyone for lunch. We all went back to the cafeteria on the 1st floor and stood in line. Again.

At 1:30 PM we went back to the courtroom and the very first thing the Judge did was excuse about 20 people. Seriously?! You couldn't have done that BEFORE lunch? You didn't need to consult with the attorneys about these people - it was evident to everyone in the room that they shouldn't be selected. Either this was a plot to get more people to spend money in the cafeteria - or - the State that's raking in money is too cheap to provide coffee to the Judges, too.

Now the real fun began. And by fun, I mean torture. It was time for the attorneys to begin their lines of very specific questioning. They were focused on the 25 people in the Jury Box and, because I was potential Juror #82, I had to sit there and listen to each of these people talk about themselves and why they weren't fit to serve on this jury. It was a domestic violence case and I was absolutely amazed that there were several women who said they had personally experienced domestic violence but promised they could be impartial. I'm sorry, are you human?! I knew the instant I learned the charges and saw the defendant that I couldn't be impartial. Maybe I'm just an asshole.

For two more hours, this went on. And on. And on. They would excuse some of the people they had questioned and replace them with people from where I was sitting in the gallery. And then they'd question those new people. For someone whose tolerance of stupid people is exceptionally low, this was one of the worst places to be stuck. I thought I was going to lose my shit.

At 4:25 PM, they finally settled on the Lucky 13. It took 64 potential jurors for them to select the final panel. Don't listen to people who tell you not to worry, that you'll be out by 9:30 AM - it's a lie.

And remember to bring your own coffee to Jury Duty. Seriously.

Phones in a Bathroom

Hang up your motherfucking phone BEFORE you go into the motherfucking bathroom!

To Camp or Not to Camp...

My sisters and I have begun an annual summer tradition we call 'Sister's Weekend'. They come to Colorado and we do something fun and different for a few days.

The first year we went to the JazzAspen Music Festival, where it rained sideways and we drank our soggy sorrows away while watching an amazing performance by Grace Potter.

The second year we went to Steamboat Springs to tube on the Yampa and soak in the hot springs. We laughed. We drank. We made fun of each other.

This year, we went to the Telluride Bluegrass Music Festival, and the brothers-in-law (BroILs) came along.

And we camped.

For those that don't know me - I don't camp. Staying in a 3 star hotel is 'roughing it'. So this was completely outside of my comfort zone. But I was game to give it a shot. How bad could it be?

The answer is: Not Bad. As long as you didn't have to go to the bathroom.

I've been in a Porta Potty before and lived to tell the tale (though I almost died in one after I shit my pants - that's a funny story, remind me to tell you later).

But I will NEVER be the same after what I experienced at the camp ground. Oh. My. Urf.

Even the BroILs were grossed out a few times. I realize people have to shit, but why do I have to go in to a dark box that's been baking in the wicked hot sun all day after a complete stranger has just unleashed the demons of hell?!?! Absolutely not ok.

And the worst part is that, during the day, it's light enough in the Stank Box to see things one should never have to see. Never, ever, ever, ever, EVER!

In the future, if there is ever a need to camp again, I will be 'glamping' in an upscale RV.

At least the music was great and the scenery was beautiful.

p.s. Dude Wipes

We the People...

Are screwed. 

Donald Drumpf, Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio, Hillary Clinton, Bernie Sanders.  

Come November, one of these 5 will be the new leader of the Free World. Sweet baby Jesus...

What gets me is there are still people who think that whatever their candidate is campaigning for/about actually matters. I've said it before and I'll say it again - their agenda doesn't matter. Once they get to the White House, they become a pawn in Congress' centuries-long chess game. They just happen to have the title of Executive Pawn. Oh, you fancy. 

Yes, the President has the Veto - an extremely powerful tool, among others. But unless Congress is proposing mass genocide, a new President will not rock the boat too much because they're already laying the groundwork for re-election in 2020. 

Except for Donald Drumpf. That oxygen thief will do anything - he truly doesn't give a fuck. 

We the People are SCREWED. 

When Mitt Romney was running in 2012, I semi-jokingly said that if he won, I was moving to Mexico. Now that Drumpf is the Republican front-runner, I hear that Canada is offering to help any Americans who want to move North. If the Canadian dollar can make a come back by November, I might actually consider it. 

The moral of the story is this - EVERYONE in Washington is bought. Sure, we can choose to believe that our votes matter. We can choose to believe that it matters whether we're Republican, Democrat, Independent, Conservative, Liberal, yadda, yadda, yadda. At the end of the day, it's The Money that decides our fate. 

And that is why this skeptical, realistic American will likely opt to go with the opposite of the old white dudes who have brought us to this point. Because I'm not sure it can get any worse. 

 

Lube - It's Quickly Climbing the Charts

'Moist' is definitely still my least favorite word. Ever. 

As it turns out, 'lube' has quickly surpassed 'sleeve' for the Number Two spot. 

The Miseducation of My Mom

In the eyes of a child, Mothers are innocent, omniscient, and angelic(ish). When the child becomes an adult, those views change slightly as their relationship with her evolves into one of friendship. As with every friendship, there are bound to be uncomfortable conversations from time to time. And by 'uncomfortable' I mean 'horrifyingly embarrassing'...


When I was in college, my parents lived in Europe for several years. When my Dad wasn't working, they would travel to explore every nook and cranny they could find. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity and they weren't going to waste it! Because of the 7 hour time difference, they would usually call us every two weeks to say hi and see how we were (though we all knew they also wanted to make sure the house was still standing and that no one was in jail). Since they were traveling, they would often call from their cell phone - a GSM. Every time they called, she told us where they were and that they were calling from the GSM (this was the 90s when cell phones were still a novelty). But she didn't say the letters G.S.M. She said 'Jizzm'. As in Jizz. With an M. Thankfully, one of my sisters eventually had the balls (pardon the pun) to tell her what jizz is.

Soon after that, they gave us a trip to Egypt for Christmas. Sound decadent? It was. We started in Cairo and toured the Sphinx and the Pyramids of Giza (even went inside the Second Great Pyramid), and then boarded a boat for a few days' cruise along the Nile. Our guide told us one of the greatest dangers for the villagers, who would come to the river bank for any number of daily tasks, was crocodiles. When we were talking about that later, my mom said "Can you imagine having to beat off crocodiles all the time?" After we regained our composure, we explained to her what "beating off" meant.

Another one happened at a most unexpected time. One of the party favors at my sister's bridal shower was a small bottle of champagne with a bow tied around it. The bow was made from a crinoline-type material which got slightly crushed in transit. As we were setting up the tables, my mom was taking each bottle of champagne and re-working the smashed bows. When I asked what she was doing she very proudly said, "I'm just fluffing up the bows so they look nice. I guess you could say I'm the 'Head Fluffer'!" In a split-second that seemed to last a lifetime, I quickly assessed who else had heard what she said and if they were likely to know and/or be offended. I looked at her pointedly and asked quietly if she knew what a Fluffer was. By the look on her face, she had no idea. Thankfully, the only other person who had heard was my youngest cousin. When I asked her if she knew what it was, she laughed and said "Yes". At this point I wasn't sure which was more horrifying - that my barely-old-enough-to-drink cousin actually knew what it was, or that I had to explain it to my mom. There was no turning back so I said, "Mom, a Fluffer is someone on the set of a porn movie who keeps the actors 'ready'." Cue mortification. 

I'm exceedingly grateful the next one happened in the privacy of my parent's basement, where she and I were making boutonnieres for another wedding. I was responsible for wrapping the stems together in floral tape and then she would put the pin in the back. It would have been a very effective two-person assembly line had she not said, "We'll just double team them and get it done fast." She instantly knew the look on my face and asked what she had said wrong. As I deliberated about how to explain it to her, she told me I HAD to tell her so she wouldn't unknowingly/accidentally/embarrassingly use it in public. Realizing I had to do it quick like a band-aid, I shook my head and said, "It's when two guys have sex with one woman at the same time." There was a slight pause as I prayed for instantaneous death. We both turned bright red and started laughing hysterically, and I immediately went upstairs to get another drink. 

And finally, one rainy afternoon in Mexico we were playing cards and my sister asked her something. Mom replied, "T'aint a problem!" My sisters and I instantly started howling with laughter, which made my dad laugh uncontrollably, too. Since I was a few drinks in and sensed that neither of my sisters was going to cough it up, I explained it's the part of a man between the balls and the asshole. I laughed so hard I went in to the Ugly Cry. 

While my mom is still all the things she was to me as a child, it's been funny as hell to reverse roles and teach her a thing or two. Looking forward to the next one Mom! 

*** I have to give props to my dad who, having fathered three girls, has maintained his sense of humor and learned to laugh with us ***

Leave Your Livestock Alone

I love September. The cool morning breezes feel lighter and carry a faint scent that unstoppable change is on the way. 

It's also the time of year when everyone is heading back to school with backpacks full of crisp new notebooks, sharpened pencils, and Trapper Keepers (I wish!). And I am reminded that my 20th High School Reunion is just a few weeks away. 

Though I've never really been bothered by getting older, this realization hit me a bit more succinctly. Where did 20 years just go?!?! And then my Dad told me he recently had his 50th reunion. And I felt better, if only a little. 

While news of the reunion spread over social media, several friends from all over the country started discussing the possibility of attending. After deliberately not attending our 10 year reunion, my curiosity was piqued enough that I actually considered going this time. 

Until I imagined how the very first exchange would go: 

Me: Hey Chris (guy I was majorly obsessed with Senior year). How are you? Can you believe it's been 20 years?! Tell me what's happened to you over the last two decades.

Chris: Wow, where to start... After graduation, I went to Princeton for my undergrad and then to Harvard Medical School. As a Pediatrician, I joined Doctors Without Borders and traveled the world to help sick kids. While I was in Nigeria, I met an amazing woman who had just joined DWB and several years later we got married. We now have 3 amazing children - Michael, Robert, and little Emma. Michael is a musical prodigy and has performed in concert with Yo-Yo Ma, Itzhak Perlman, and John Legend. Robert is the world's youngest Presidential expert and has been on The Tonight Show, The Ellen DeGeneres Show, and is scheduled to sit down with Oprah next month. And little Emma was in a Baby Gap commercial! How about you? 

Me: (slight pause while I rejoin my lower jaw with the upper) I'm not married. I don't have kids - I have cats. I don't have a fancy job title or my dream job. I'm not at my ideal weight and would rather go out for dinner and drinks than go to the gym. So I'm going to finish this drink in my hand and go see if the bartender has anything available in a Big Gulp size. 

And that is why I will not be going to my 20th Reunion. To quote Minnie Driver from Grosse Pointe Blank, "Everybody's coming back to take stock of their lives. You know what I say? Leave your livestock alone."