Good Question

My husband, being the gifted handyman that he is, is often asked by friends and co-workers to repair some thing or another in their home.

(Meanwhile, my honey-do list sits home by the phone waiting for a booty call. You know the old saying, "The handyman's children need their house painted." Oh, wait, that's a cobbler's children don't have shoes...sorry, just a little snarkiness leaking from the unfixed roof there.)

Where was I? Oh yes...this past Saturday for instance he got the bat signal just as we were sitting down to lunch and he informed the commissioner he would be by to fix the woes of Gotham that evening. So around that time Vicky Vale here is feeling the need for caffeine and since Batman wanted me to tag-along and hang out with him I jumped in the Batmobile excited for the java, uh, the company...Hey, I may need my house painted, but I do have my priorities in order.

This person's home is on the market and they no longer live there, but they did have friends of theirs staying in the home over the weekend since they were in town for a wedding. And their firends had the cutest stinking kids. Seriously.

Their little boy was probably six months old and was all dressed up for the shindig. He was teething and drooling and quite the serious little man. I kept exchanging my dignity in hopes of a giggle, a smile, anything toothless and baby-like, but he remained indifferent to my blathering.

The little girl was fashionably adorable, of course. All of 3 years old, she spoke as precise as an ivy league English professor. She informed me she was going to be a ballerina and firmly requested my full attention as she spun in a circle showing me her ballerina skills.

Arms out, eyes closed she spun and spun in dizzying circles and her dress flared out around her like the perfect ballerina's dress should. I told her I thought that was the best thing about a dress. She heartily concurred.

She finished her ballet recital with a grand flop (that is french for "to throw oneself with passion") on to the couch and emphasized it by sticking her legs straight up in the air. I applauded and politely turned away giving her a moment to recover and cover. However, she remained positioned thusly. After a moment or two of awkward silence, her mother, (in that very motherly voice that asks a question in a tone that implies it is in no way an easy question but something you should pay strict attention to or else) inquired "Mikaela, do ballerinas show their panties?"

At this, my dainty little professor slash ballerina sat up, furrowed her brow in thought and replied...


And promptly began the second act of her recital.

Applause, applause. Roses are thrown. Bows are taken. Curtains close. Good night.

The Right to Bare Arms

Just because my arms could fit a tattoo of one of them there naked lady outlines you see on 18 wheeler mud-flaps. Life-sized. With room to spare. Doesn't mean I should be ashamed. (Ok. Just disregard my last post and momentarily put aside all my insecurities.)

You see, I don't care that they flap in the breeze, jiggle when I brush, hang like a hammock with a sumo-wrestler napping in it.

Or that I've been likened to a flying bat.

Or that I could be a circus side show phenomenon, The Incredible Stretchy Woman! (as well as The Bearded & Mustached Lady!)

Or that I could get some serious lift (about 1 to 2 inches off the ground) if I flap hard enough.

Or that I should register them as weapons. No kidding. Honey, I can slap the silly off of a clown from two feet away with these arm flaps of mine!

Never mind any of that...I've worked so very hard. And these flappy babies are a symbol, a memorial banner (hung low) if you will, to where and who I once was. A beautiful tribute to WLS success stories and 40+ women all over the world.

And I want them removed as soon as I can get insurance approval. Or a large sum of money falls from the heavens with no strings or taxes attached...whichever comes first.

But until then, I will wear short sleeves. Go sleeveless. Wear spaghetti straps. Wave and flap as much as Grandma Moses with an American flag on 4th of July. Without shame or shawl to hide behind.

Take that you inbred, banjo playing goons!