Heidi in Real Life

Like old war stories and legendary football game tales, for we women , the births of our children represent something to be proud of-- a battle we’ve fought and won.   Today is my son Jon’s 20 th birthday. As an additional birthday gift, I promised him that this year , I would not remind him, at certain important times of the day, what it was like in my “Labor and Delivery” room 20 years ago. I might have gone a bit overboard last year, when at 8:30 pm, I said, “You’re crowning!” He didn’t like that much, but I enjoy reminding him that I went through Hell to get him into this world. It’s all part of the mother-guilt continuum. In my defense, as the mother of two boys, I still consider it my duty to “out-gross” them now and then . There’s a world-wide, centuries-old, sisterhood for women--where the only joiner fee is to have actual birth experience to share. Each birth is different and special. Each birth has its “Slasher Movie” elements, too. In fact, I think so...

All activities I planned for my kid's birthday party either went way too fast, leaving hours of chaos, or they bombed.   Piñata's last only minutes.  Kids also cheat at  the “Pin the Tail on the Donkey" game.   I've have also been booed. The most recent disaster was a slumber party for my daughter and 5 friends. I’ve been doing birthday parties for years and a fter much pouting and resistance on my part, the party was scheduled and Krista invited several guests: Folded-Arms Girl - wouldn’t participate in any of the 3 Ms (music, movies or makeup) Painfully-Shy Girl - wouldn’t speak to anyone but my daughter Passed-Out Girl – slept through everything past 8 pm, even my “Do you want me to call your mother?” reputation-tarnishing question delivered at 3:30 am, when ‘Folded-Arms Girl’ became rambunctious with a microwave popcorn bag on her head. Overly-Sensitive Girl - wept twice ( I still don’t know why ), and bawled when ‘Painfully-Shy Girl’ sp...

My recent series-of - unusual-actual events during a flight inspired the following concepts . Aren’t we all sick of listening to flight attendants flatly demonstrating stuff we already know while on board a flight? Don’t we all get it by now? Aren’t there things you’d rather know?  Scenario 1: You sit by a stranger and immediately open your reading material, using the polite, “Don’t talk to me, I’m busy” etiquette. The man next to you starts talking... non-stop . You fantasize, as he drones, about pretending you’re deaf, mute and/or blind. You wish you’d packed Limburger Cheese in your purse, to take out and gnaw on and use big “H” words like, “HOOOOOOOWW did you manage that?” or “HOOOOWWDY, pardner” in his direction. You turn your head towards him with a glazed, drooping eyelid, dopey-look, yet nothing deters the barrage of verbiage. You’re forced to listen and unwillingly communicate, when all you want to do is read...your....BOOK! Flight Attendant In...

One of my birthday gifts this year was a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) to get my new driver's license. Despite it being a people watcher’s paradise, full of citizens large and small, Spanish, deaf or Amish (who have to register their buggies), I dread it. I know I’m in for one of those awful , fun-house, nose-growing, eyebrow-uniting wretched pictures again.   I have a long history of awful license pictures, beginning with my first sweaty picture at age 16. I was so self-conscious about it that, months later, I cut it in half and paid for a replacement. Another Heidi ‘gem’ was when I was photographed saying the “W” in the word “Wait!” But my personal favorite--the one where I looked like a female impersonator, I managed to keep for what seemed like decades, thanks to years of mail-in-renewal privilege. Generations of bad driver’s license photos exist in my family and friend's wallets too. There was: ET- the Extraterrestrial - made famous by...

Now is the time when skinny animals show up in wooded backyards to forage fearlessly. White-tailed deer, though they gnaw my bushes, are a pleasurable sight. Even red foxes, with their reputation for eating wise-cracking, cocky gingerbread men are viewed with marvel. It’s not that unusual to have black bear visit here in semi-rural Wisconsin. Last year, a bear was seen within 100 yards of our school bus stop: “What did you do ?” I asked, fearfully, hearing the story retold. “We kinda said to ourselves, “Hey—is that a bear?”” my friend said. “We thought it was a dog,” another friend added. “Do we have some kind of ‘bear’ drill, in case that happens again?” A bear that hibernated through the winter we just had, wouldn’t wait for a honey pot from Piglet, either. If I were “Reawakened-Bear-Hungry,” I’d might eat a mail box, take bites out of a sharking boat, or a gobble down a whole box of Girl Scout cookies. A real hungry bear might view my child ...

Thanks anyway, Justin Timberlake, but I mean “Sexy” the car. It’s been two years since we bought “Sexy” the Chrysler Pacifica and it's already shabby. It's not faulty mechanically-- it’s just been broken-in, like an old shoe or an old dumpster. When I drove our used 2004 white beauty off the lot, I was in a 1950s movie, fake scenery whizzing behind me, scarf casually wrapped over my head, dark glasses, bright lipstick and hair blowing. I turned up the radio, opened the sunroof and I was young again in my new sexy ride. “Sexy” was pristine at first: black interior, GPS, leather seats, bitchen stereo. I took a vow to the car, “I promise to keep you clean, and not forsake your floor mats in favor of salty boot prints. I will not allow gum-wad sculptures to be constructed in your ashtrays or spill drinks on your fluffy carpeting.”   I meant every word . I lovingly kept it clean…until the first child-pop-spill spoiled my perfect image of her  She was imp...

My girlfriend shared with me a comparison she recently read of, that likened the Mammogram Experience to running your boob over with a car.    Although I imagine people do have some discomfort, today, after my second-annual “Breast sandwiching,” I still feel fine.   Today, the first attendant I met led me to a changing room. He went in one room, “Looks like we’re out of gowns,” he said.   He went in another room, “We’re out here too.” I started to wonder how prepared they were for incoming patients, when, “Here we go.” I closed the door and lifted the gown to put it on. It was the largest, most humongous, mongo-spacious gown I’d ever  seen. I could fit my entire family in it…after a Thanksgiving dinner. They weren’t out of gowns in those other rooms; they were out of size “Elephant” gowns. My well-meaning attendant had done his best to be discreet, but the proof of his opinion of my size versus their standard garments was the flowing, flowered te...

When I’m on food restriction, food is all I can think about. Now I’m counting calories, sadly chomping vegetables I do not like, and guarding my stash of “allowable food items” like a lioness hoards her kill. “Back off!” I hiss; yellow eyes burning. My stomach was making angry-volcano rumblings last night. “Feed me!” it roared, as Audrey II in “Little Shop of Horrors.” I sat straight up in bed —I can have air popcorn! The moment the dry, fluffy, puffy stuff came tumbling out of the popper, I grabbed a fist -full and pushed it in my mouth frantically. And I bit own my finger…hard. As my finger throbbed, and I felt faint from the pain—a couple of thoughts stood out: That I have the jaws of a Kodiak bear Air popcorn tastes like electricity There really should be a sleep-over camp for people just starting a diet.  A get-away from temptation.  Or maybe a hotel called “The ‘No-More’ Suites” : There, hungry, grumpy people could be housed until Day 4, when th...

While in a dimly-lit parking lot the other night, my daughter Krista screams, “Mom, it’s a Porcupine!!” We drove over to get a closer look. Porcupines are not uncommon in our part of Wisconsin (although I’ve never seen one out in the winter). “No, it’s just a dirty little snow-pile off someone’s car,” I said, amused. Snow Porcupines may not be the exact technical term for those “Dirty Packages” of snow that accumulate right behind your tires and are EVERYWHERE now. Following a cruel cold, the slightly warmer temperatures create a short Snow Porcupine season, when every car and truck has multiple “creatures” to drop. Driving is hazardous as cars embarrassingly and unexpectedly release their animals in streets and on highways. They come in two species: “Mushy” Snow Porcupines – which cause your car to skid, but then might be crushed flat, or... “Rock” Snow Porcupines –Essentially solid ice and will mess you and your car’s suspension up . They can ricochet of...

I 'm getting ready for the ball--the exercise ball.  I'm trying to burn a few extra calories in my sedentary life. Sitting on an Exer-Ball at my desk will accomplish this goal while I do my work.   Right? Of the many things heavy people have to consider: How wide are the dining booths at the restaurant--do I need a table? Is the toilet seat screwed on tightly so it doesn't shift when I sit on it? I add to this list: Is my Exer-ball plug secure? The pressure required to pop the plug, I'm quite certain, must be equal to my weight times the force it's exerting on the ball's now straining weak spots.  A story problem from Hell.   H x F = Ker-plow! I will tape the plug with duct tape, just for some reassurance.  I will likely hear if a problem starts--the ripping of the tape perhaps, or some sideways hiss.  I'm starting to wish it had a handle like a Hippitty-Hop, for something to hold onto to if it starts to...