My husband doesn’t NEED to see your boobs.

My husband doesn’t NEED to see your boobs. But I kinda want you to show them to him. Would it be ok if I looked too?  See you have REALLY really nice boobs. I have boobs too but mine have fed 3 kids and inflated and deflated due to nursing, menstruation, that year we ate almost exclusively fast food, and they are not in their prime. I’m not even sure mine were ever as perfectly round and perky as yours are.

Thank you for posting online for anyone to see, bikini pics and short shorts pics and for making a full album of images that my husband can access later in his imagination.( The really nice ones I will store away too for reasons I will clarify later)

Do you happen to have any hot male friends that I could search as well? My mental database of hot hunks that I use mostly to fill in and flesh out the heros and louts in my trashy romance novels is getting kinda outdated.(Fabio anyone?) I can imagine them up from scratch for sure but it is more fun knowing that hot guy is out there IRL somewhere. Even if meeting him would be a non-issue and he would never even consider a middle-aged housewife a “hot conquest”. It’s still fun to dream. (The really awesome lady pics I saved mentally are for the heroines of course.)

I want you to know that your exposure of the sexually appealing parts of your body and skin, and your aesthetic beauty are a roadblock in our marriage. We have pledged fidelity to one another! To never for the rest of our lives share a sexual encounter with anyone else. We promised and pledged this to each other and in front of others and even in a church so I assume that includes God.

The roadblock your exposure causes is like one of those that we both are forced to stop at, and rubberneck at the demolition or construction or disaster or monument or whatever neat thing is causing our path to be obstructed for a moment and then we take the detour together and continue to share and gossip about how “Now THAT was a pair of breasts that deserved a moment of appreciation!”

My husband is a human man( at least I’m pretty sure he is) He also is a middle aged individual! In perfect compliment to my overused and middle aged breasts he has some male pattern baldness,some back hair and a paunch to rival mine own. I assume he has a functioning libido. (if the way he chases me around the bedroom sometimes is any indication) It is a surprise and down right SHOCK to know that I still have a decent sexy drive myself!

I know. I KNOW.  NO ONE wants to think of middle aged out of shape parents engaging in sexytime romps! We as a society that values beauty and youth to the extreme point of creating sexual imagery that does not even exist in the real world are repulsed by the mental image of real people with realistic bodies engaging in the ever mythical ultimate pleasure that is sex. I mean EW!(right?)

So when we encounter images that are not airbrushed and not altered and still are AMAZED by them we stop to look and sometimes even to instill an image in our minds to recall later. I’d like to liken this to seeing a fantastic work of art or taking a picture of  a beautiful sunset .

When I lay in bed with my husband at night I sometimes wonder if he is thinking of that exquisitely tanned, young and high riding pair of breasts we saw, (or if he had found a set that I did not get to share) instead of mine. Because sometimes I am lying in bed thinking about how much Hugh Jackman or Ryan Gosling on a horse in the rain would probably smell like old leather and sex.  

In short I hope my husband  DOES have a mental bank of images mixed and matched together to use in his imagination as he sees fit! He did not pledge his dreams or fantasies to me. I did not pledge mine to him. We made a choice to travel down the road of life together. We support one another and share the most mundane and intricate moments of life together. We share our hearts and souls. We are committed to raising good individuals in our children and doing what we can to be good people.

The truth is good people have libidos too. The truth is good people can and DO have sex. The truth is good people can and DO masturbate. The truth is this is NOT an evil or aberrant behavior! It is human behavior, healthy human behavior.
I do not worry that the the young perky sets of breasts out there are going to steal away the love and commitment my husband gave to me. He remains confident that Chris Hemsworth is not going to steal me away and ruin my love for him.  When I wrap my arms around my husbands neck and he presses his lips to mine. I do not worry that he is thinking of another. I’m confident that in those shared moments of intimacy the breasts he is searching for with fevered hands are mine. 

The Athletic Director

     It was 1991 and my awkward, poorly dressed self was starting high school. Everyone is nervous when walk into that pressure cooker of academic and peer assessment.  Middle school had been difficult and optimism was my best friend that day.  Literally because I had no other friends.  Eventually I found my locker and clumsily attempted to put away my belongings and prepare for class.
     Damien had the locker next to mine.  His toadies circled him, laughing and making fun.  Someone asked how he was going to be able to stand having a locker next to mine for the next four years.  Lockers were assigned alphabetically and assignments were considered non-negotiable. Damien laughed, looked me in the eye and and said, "Don't worry I am going to kill her."
     My heart stopped. He wasn't even close to kidding.  The rest of the day falls in big chunks of memory determined mostly by his proximity.  It showed on my face when I got home.  Finally my parents pried the events from me.  I was truly scared.  My Dad decided to go down to the school and get things worked out.
A few days went by mostly uneventful.  There was the usual verbal attacks some inconsiderate behavior by the lockers but nothing too threatening.  Dad went to the office but nothing seemed to change.
     I was enjoying the journalism of a young Anderson Cooper on Channel One when I was summoned over the intercom to the office.  Unaware of what was happening I went downstairs just in time to observe a familiar figure exit the building.  I felt how his charisma affected everyone as I entered the office.  The school secretary a was aglow from the charming conversation they had most likely shared.  I was told to go to the principal's office, they were waiting for me.
    I sat down in a room dominated by wood, a large desk and a small, unexpected man behind it.  He was small with trim, steel gray hair and hard eyes.  This was not the principal.  Mr. Spring was the Athletic Director.  He was well acquainted with Damien and his father, the award-winning wrestling coach.  The following is my 22 year old memory of the conversation that took place in that room.

"Heather you told your parents that Damien threatened to kill you. That you believe him." Mr. Spring started.
"Yes."
Damien smirked and Mr. Spring gave him a hard look.
     Eyes now void of expression he said to me,  "Due to your sensitivity we are going to move Damien's locker.  It seems you need to avoid Damien.  This problem will not be discussed again and you will have no further problems with Damien.  Is that understood?"
I hesitated.
"Is that understood?" tone threatening now.
"Yes."
"Go back to class.  Heather don't cause anymore problems. It would be a shame if you became a problem for me."
     Walking into the main office, I felt sick.  The secretary asked if I was feeling alright. I nodded and left.  I couldn't cause anymore trouble after all.  I hurried back to homeroom disappointed that I had missed Anderson Cooper signing off.
     I went back to my locker after first period to find Damien was already gone.  Relief swept through me.  The new girl wondered where the cute guy went.  Things were looking brighter.
       At home my parents asked what happened.  Simply told them that Damien's locker was moved.  There was discussion as to why mine wasn't moved.  Why was he given a choice location? Did I think that less proximity would calm him a bit? On and on.  I wanted to get back to my optimism.
        It was the 23rd Psalm that soothed me. Walking through the valley of the shadow of death was a vague image then, that has crystallized as I reflect on this experience.  Damien seemed intent on my death.  There were two arson attempts on our home.  Our cat was tortured and eventually murdered.  Even as my ribs and hip bones jutted out of my clothes, insults relating obesity were shouted at me as I walked through the halls or down the street. It was an attempt to cause an eating disorder.  On more than one occasion I was stalked through our small town while a group of wrestlers yelled insults and threats at me. Once he had his driver's license I had to choose routes home where if he ran me down there would at least be a suspicion that it was on purpose.  Yes, police reports were filed.  When we requested a copy of the report, it couldn't be found.
     Through the next four years I spent a lot of time reading Scripture.  It refreshed me and guided my behavior.  My faith grew through the daily persecution.  Trials aren't always death and illness. Bullies are not always your peers.

Lunch meat

I find myself in a very odd place. I am suddenly in the meat of the sandwich generation. Those of us taking care of our aging/ailing parents and our own kids.
I was until recently merely a bit of lettuce or a slice of tomato.
Things like that can change suddenly.
My father is having heart surgery. He is staying in the cardiac ward of a major hospital to prevent another and perhaps debilitating or even deadly heart attack.
Mean while my kids are still in school. Well not THIS week.  This week was the "polar vortex" but they are school aged.
My eldest is a sophomore in high school. I look at her and I remember.
 I remember when I was a sophomore. That year my dad's mom went into the hospital. That year she passed away. After major heart surgery years before, following a major heart attack. I remember the hard chairs and hushed tones of the hospital. I remember the metal staples in her chest. I remember the sounds she made as she struggled against the pain of a truly broken heart. I remember the surprise in learning that a heart can grow collateral arteries and veins to feed parts of itself that had blood flow restricted. I remember the years in the wheelchair and mental decline that followed.
I was not close to my grandmother but I remember. I remember the struggle my dad had with his mother's failing health. I remember the strain on my parents' own marriage.
I am suddenly very grateful for the last 20 years. For the jumps in technology that allowed my dad to have open heart surgery that did not crack his chest completely open. That was guided by computers and monitors. That was sealed shut with a medical grade glue that left only a thin white line down the center of his chest and did not let him see himself stapled together.
I am grateful even as I hear him make the same unique moaning sounds someone with crushing chest pain makes. 20 years ago there came a point at which technology failed. My grandmother's blockage could not be removed by balloon because it was to hard. There was no way to place a stent and nothing more to be done.
Yesterday, they took a diamond coated wire and euphemistically "rota rooted" a hard blockage into cholesterol dust. Placed a stent in my dad's chest and sent him home to rest. He has another procedure scheduled for a week from now but he is already up, walking, and talking and cracking jokes with nothing but a small 2 inch incision healing on his inner thigh.
I sat and heard the Dr.s tell me that my dad's heart has indeed grown collateral arteries to help feed itself. I heard them say as if a direct echo. "The blockage is too hard for a balloon to remove." I listened to my father make those half moaning and half gasping sounds.
I want my dad around a bit longer than he had his mom. I'm selfish that way.
I want my daughters who ARE close to their grandfather to have him around a bit longer.
I would like to remember more things that include my dad.
So I am grateful to remain the meat in this particular sandwich.  Even if it means I am lunch meat.
Maybe I will be lemon pepper chicken. That stuff is awesome.

Overreaction

     You are overreacting.  That was the accusation.

     Oh, I should start in the beginning. The Genesis or the root of the cause?  Cause.  Great! I don't know the Pre-Abrahamic genealogies.  The source is my aunt's story.  

     She was walking home with her little sister, my mom, in tow.  It was a lovely day filled with sunshine and laughter.  As they walked a few boys played across the lot.  One threw a rock. then another, one more and disaster.  The rock was aimed for a telephone pole a hundred feet from the sisters. It bounced off the pole and struck the older sister in the eye.  There was a lot of blood, screaming and months of pain.  Eventually a glass eye.

     My whole life I heard this story, well an abbreviated version. "We don't throw stones. My sister, your Aunt Louise has a glass eye because of a boy throwing rocks."  Pause.  "No, he wasn't throwing rocks at her.  It bounced off a telephone pole."  I didn't know my Aunt Louise since she lived, with her nine children, in Colorado. That did not matter.  I valued both my eyes.

     My Dad had moved to Indiana in advance to find a job.  He lived with his brother's family for about three months.  His brother and sister-in-law had two boys born two years apart, Damian and John.  Starting again in a new community, at a new church and a new school with family close by was supposed to make the adjustment easier.  Family was the magnet that drew my family to the Indiana.
      A cousin in the same grade was supposed to means I would have at least one friend.  A friendly face in a crowd of strangers.  Though Damian was little more than a stranger.  Hundreds of miles separated our families. We would attend the same school and the same church.        
     There was an end of summer church party at one of the farms.  We would get to meet some of our classmates and maybe make friends.  Mom wouldn't go since she didn't know anyone...  Dad insisted that my brother and I attend.  It was going to be fun.  Hayrides in the woods, flashlight tag, s'mores, and lot of kids our age.  Well, at least our cousins would be there.

     It was a great party.  There were not many girls my age, but  a ton of boys running wild.  David was at least occupied.  Dad was talking with the men.  I stood at the end of the table fiddling with something. 

The object struck me at the out edge of the of my right eye. It hurt! I was actually knocked out. When I came to, I found a D cell battery on the ground next to me. I was surrounded by inquisitive faces of other children.  "What happened? Something hit me."

     A smirk was on his dimly lit face, "It was him! He threw the battery at you."  Damian pointed to the son of a my soon to be Science teacher, one year younger than us.  I was up like a shot and chasing that boy.  I hadn't had a reason to run like that in years.  I caught him quickly, threw him to the ground, sat on his chest and punched him in the face. A fuse blew, only I don't curse.  Two grown men had to pull me off of him.  

     Once they got our fathers the story came out.  My cousin, Damian, coerced "Daniel" to throw the battery.  Daniel wanted to be friends with the older boy and lacked confidence. Daniel was a little league pitcher and had remarkable accuracy. In my mind Damien was next, but his father convinced everybody I was overreacting.  "Yeah, yeah, everybody knows your sister-in-law lost an eye.  That was years ago!" he told my dad.

      I will let that statement ruminate.  HIS son manipulated a younger boy to hurt another person in such a way that he KNEW could cause permanent damage.  Someone needed to react.

Oranges

     They were on their Senior class trip.  The whole class crammed into a school bus.  It was loud and raucous but everyone was kind.  No cliques or bullies just friend that had spent the last 18 years learning and growing in the same river town.  A couple of All-Americans were passing out oranges.  The petite girl one in the plain dress reached for one. The dark-haired man-boy with flashing brown eyes stopped his friend's hand. "Not her.  She isn't like that."  They exchanged looks and the orange was withdrawn.
    Leila sat there confused.  No one had drawn a distinction like that before today.  Sure that boy's father owned the grocery store, but that had never mattered before.  Why had he kept something as lovely and easy to come by as a piece of fruit from her.  Always a considerate classmate... Maybe that other boy or... No logical answers but meanness came to her mind.  The grocer's son and the pharmacist son had ganged up against her.  They had more money and better... everything.  That must be it! The line drawn by the iron rails through town must finally be dividing her classmates.
     Jenny sat next to her with a puff of her frothy skirt. She laughed loudly ending with a snort. Leila was surprised.  Jenny had half an orange in her hand.  The citrus hung in the air as the entire bus indulged in the juicy sweetness shared so freely.
     Patricia leans forward to whisper in Leila's ear, "They put vodka in the oranges!"
     It clicked.  She wasn't that kind of girl.  He was protecting her.  The pharmacist and the grocer had teamed up! One supplied the fruit. The other brought liquor and a syringe.  If any thing they were going to bring the classmates closer together!  That camaraderie was real. The classmates actually did care about one another.  Leila, from the other side of the tracks, didn't "party".  The son of a well to do business owner protected her like a little sister.
     Sometimes we are told no for our own well being.

Resignation and Resolution

The story of dental transformation begins here.
     At least the results were good... Right? No.  The crown was a 2 millimeters longer than my other tooth.  It was also several shades (like 10) darker than the remainder of my tooth.  Yes, it WAS like bi-color corn.  Oh, but not to worry the dead tooth would age and decay to match the crown.
      Having never had my teeth cleaned before it shouldn't have surprised that major reconstruction would not convince anyone that proper dental care is necessary.  I didn't see a dentist again until I was 15.  I made the appointment, and paid for it.  The appointment and bill were for a cleaning but the dentist only did an assessment. I didn't know the difference having never had my teeth cleaned and there were no YouTube to show me what to expect.
     News from that dental visit, it is not possible (as in responsible or billable to insurance)for a permanent crown to be placed until the patient was at least 18 years of age and the teeth are fully grown. When at 19, I needed my wisdom teeth removed I asked about the crown. No, my teeth weren't fully grown yet.
     Fast forward to age 23. The injured tooth is now darker and a millimeter shorter than my healthy front tooth.   I am getting married and after years of having my smile be a source of conversation, ridicule and frustration I finally have insurance and a job.  Off to the dentist I go.  First real dental cleaning. Good news: No cavities. Bad news: I need a second root canal done by a specialist, possibly more work but definitely a specialist.  There may be a major infection that could kill me suddenly.  Surgery was too risky.  Rounds of antibiotics... That was the course of action recommended by the newly minted dentist.  It would take months and thousands of dollars beyond my insurance.  Every penny I had was going towards the wedding, my tooth would have to wait.  It was barely noticeable in photographs, I justified.
    Marriage changes you in unexpected ways.  Dental independence and responsibility, which I retained for a full 11 months, was a thing of the past.  I didn't go back to panic inducing neophyte dentist. Instead I had babies.  Four of them in less than 6 years.  You can't have major dental work done while pregnant.  Having four children and no dental insurance means no dentist. My gold tooth, as strangers referred to it, didn't hurt so it was left alone.
     Finally twenty-four years after the accident, great dental insurance and my husband found a dentist that he liked.  The tooth is now closer to the color of field corn, more brown than yellow.  We took four children to get their teeth cleaned and had X-rays. Everyone except for me.  I was pregnant again, with twins.  Examination led the dentist to believe I needed several thousands dollars in restoration, before x-rays.  Would I need a second root canal on that tooth? Was there an infection? Couldn't tell.  I miscarried the twins and it was another year before we visited yet another dentist.
     Twenty-five years passed, I was excited, instead of anxious about the dentist appointment.  We had prepared financially with a medical expense account to cover the reconstruction and we really liked this dentist.  I had a cleaning with x-rays.  Found two cavities. One was visible in the my smile and one in a molar somewhere.  Not bad for being 35!
     Now about that restoration... Do I have an infection heading into my sinus cavities (source of many nightmare)?  Will I need a second root canal?  A specialist?  Would the natural tooth be healthy enough or would an implant and several months be needed to complete treatment?
     I waited anxiously for the x-rays to show the answers to all these questions and many more.  The remainder of the tooth healed surprisingly well.  There was no infection and no sign of bone loss due to infection.  A good candidate for a crown!  The process could be completed in the office. Scheduled at me convenience.


   
   

   

Restoration

    After the bike accident there were a lot of dental visits.  First to assess the damage and cap the fragment of my tooth.  The tooth died due to significant trauma. Then a root canal, but not immediately, first there were stories of dental nightmares and weeks of unanswerable questions accompanied by constant pain. Anxiety and frustration filled every moment.
     I had to be at the dentists office at 6:30 a.m.  He was a kind man and the procedure was not extremely painful.  It took three hours.  After which I was given a choice: go home or to school.  Umm, yes, let this middle schooler decide.  My face is numb, I watched as a part of my body was removed.  Now completely understanding that part of my body had been killed. Felt a hole drilled into me, watched and smelled the rotten, decaying flesh can be dug out of me.  I chose to go home.
     At 1 p.m. the dentist office called to check on me.  Mom came into my room where I was resting, "Why didn't you go to school?"
     "Dad, gave me a choice."
     "Well the office called and they seemed surprised you were at home.  They said there was no reason for you to be home.''
      "Mom,  I just needed to rest, some peace."
     "Well, it won't be happening again."
Warning:  This conversation took place 25 years ago. The actual words may have been altered by the passage of time but the content and tone remain unchanged.  I do have one question though. Why did the dentist's office call my house to check on me if I should have been at school?

Whipped Honeyed Lime Coconut Sugar Scrub

     Friday, on a whim, I bought some Shea butter and coconut oil at the health food store.   I had been reading about making body butter, lotion, and salt/sugar scrubs on Pinterest.  So decadent, easy, and oh so good for you. The Snowpocolypse 2014 bearing down on us I needed easy fast projects to ward off cabin fever.
     Starting with 1/4 cup Shea butter and 1/4 cup coconut oil in a medium bowl using the whisk attachment for my hand mixer I whipped the mixture to a creamy and luscious consistency. I love the smell of coconut and lime.  I had 5 limes hanging in the fridge but lost my zester... Aww a serrated knife.  Wow,  this is taking forever!  One more rummage peek in the utensil drawer and success. Lime is zested. And Mom said I would never use that thing. Add zest. Next, I added 3 tablespoons of raw honey. Unfortunately the honey had crystallized and I couldn't, no matter how much I whipped it get it to be smooth.  So much for body butter.        This is where I heated it on a double boiler, whipped it, cooled it, and whipped it AGAIN only to find there was not only a grit but also too much honey. What now?  Can't waste it all.  Too much time and coconut oil, oh and the lovely Shea butter.  Answer: Sugar.  I added 1/4 cup of sugar until reaching the desired consistency.  Then still using the whisk attachment I whipped up the concoction.  The result is light and fluffy, but deeply moisturizing.  Exfoliating, while cleansing and nourishing my skin.  I LOVE IT.  I used it on my face and body with wonderful results.

Equipment: Medium bowl
                  Hand mixer
                  Zester (optional)
                  Measuring cups and spoons
                  Container, I like small Mason Jars or upcycling Altoids tins
Ingredients:  1 part Shea Butter (1/4 cup)
                   1 part Coconut oil (1/4 cup)
                   1 tablespoon Raw Honey
                   Zest of 1 Lime
                   1/4 -1 cup Sugar

     Whip Shea Butter and Coconut oil to a whipped cream consistency. Add honey and lime zest. Whip till blended. Add sugar 1/4 cup at a time until you find your sugar scrub zen.

     My measurements filled one pint jar.
I love being a messer mouse, but a messer mouse with moist, softly glowing skin is...
               

The Identification of a Messer Mouse

     My mom refers to it as "being a messer mouse". My dad is one.  I am one.  All young children are "messer mouses".  We are creative, must do, hands-on learners and builders.  We also tend to me butterflies of creativity, fluttering from one creative endeavor/hobby/ project to another messier project that must not be moved.  I know we should be "messer mice", but that doesn't suit Mom.  Mom has a love/hate relationship with our creative endeavors.  She enjoys the end results and complaining about the mess.
      My Dad once built a 12 foot windmill in our living room.  It was my sister's science fair project.  He rebuilt engines and carburators in front of the fireplace.  We refinished numerous pieces of furniture together in the living room.  I made four Power Ranger costumes in our living room.  Four doll quilts, two costumes for Seven Brides For Seven Brothers the high school production, oil paintings, and woodworking projects were all built in the living room.  While Dad and I are messer mouses, we are not isolationists.  We crave the company of our family and thrive in the hub of things.  We want need to share our endeavors and our observations with others.  Now I am endeavoring to share with the world. Insert maniacal laughter here.
      You may be a messer mouse or just live with one.  Either way identification can lead to understanding and even appreciation. Messer mousing is an enriching activity.