Southern exposure

I feel like I spend a lot of time exposing myself to strangers.

Well, not a *lot* of time, I guess.  Certainly not in proportion to my time generally.  I wear clothes to work and to take the kids to school and to the grocery store.  When I walk up to the market to get popcorn for movie night, I'm generally covered up.  So in terms of naked-time percentages, the actual amount of time is probably very small.

But still.

Between my regularly scheduled massages and bikini waxes, the occasional facial (which involves a partial massage, so I take off my clothes for that as well), the one time I got a spray tan because I didn't want to go to the beach looking like Casper the Friendly Ghost - let's just say that I'm not fazed by walking into a business establishment and disrobing for a total stranger.

It's a lot of naked.

The massages are relatively benign.  I mean, yes, I'm naked under the sheet, but the sheet is there for a reason.  Although I've been going to the same massage guy for so long, and we're so friendly and comfortable with each other, that I think we've both gotten a little blasé about sheet placement. What's crazy is that I don't see it as a big deal.  It's just more nakedness.

The most extreme example (other than the OB/GYN, who will literally sit with her face 12 inches from my naked crotch, while I've got my feet up in stirrups) is the bikini wax experience.  For this one, I am totally naked from the waist down while a 24-year-old cutie from New Mexico tells me about her latest crush on a guy who's trying to become an MMA fighter - it's kind of serious because she's added him to her Snapchat, y'all. Meanwhile, she's got her (latex-gloved) hands right in my ladyparts, applying hot wax and then ripping it off, moving things around...  It's ridiculously intimate, and yet she and I chat as if she's not doing anything more than filing my nails.

My sense is that this is something women experience and are inured to much more than men. Between the gynecologist and the obstetrician and all of the various beauty and grooming treatments we subject ourselves to, we get pretty used to having to drop trou and lie back and think of England while someone we are neither related to nor having sex with pokes around the undercarriage.

Men, on the other hand, might get the occasional "turn your head and cough" treatment, plus whatever happens when you're having your prostate checked.

But it's definitely not on the same level.

TMI Thursday: Naked in a room with strangers

I know Lilu isn't doing her TMI Thursday segment anymore, but I had this post swirling around in my head and it's Thursday, so why not?

I've been getting a lot of massages lately.

I've been doing Insanity since the beginning of August, and it's six days a week of crazy hard workouts.  It's intense and difficult and results in much soreness and exhaustion.  And around the time I started the program, I signed up for a couple of Groupon-type email services that send you coupons for different local services like restaurants and carpet cleaning and spa treatments.  Lots and lots of spa treatments.  Every week I get at least two offers for discounts on things like mani-pedis and facials and massages.  So I decided to try to use them to get a massage at least once a week.

It's been great.  It's relaxing and therapeutic and rejuvenates my muscles so that I can keep up with the workouts.

This week the workouts ramp up to a higher level of intensity.  As hard as I thought the first month was, month two is ridiculous.  The workouts are longer and everything is just more.  More jumping, more crazy combinations of push-ups and sprints and squats and punches, more time.  So I'm burning an assload of calories and my muscles are screaming and I'm sore and tired.

And did I mention the push-ups?  Jesus H.  Christ on a fucking breadstick.  Endless push-ups, and in more varieties than I thought possible.  Moving push-ups, side push-ups, push-up jacks, push-ups push-ups push-ups push-ups.

So even though it was only Wednesday, and my rest day isn't until Sunday, my pectoral muscles and arms were killing me and I knew I needed some relief.  A friend of mine owns a massage school and his son just finished his training and is looking to start up his business and build a clientele, so he's doing in-home massages for a great discount.  So I scheduled 90 minutes for last night.

Now, one of the things about massage that always strikes me is the level of trust involved.  Every week, I go to a strange place where I meet someone I've never met before, and I take off all of my clothes and this strange person puts on some music and rubs their hands all over my body for an hour or two.  Or a stranger comes to my house and I take off all my clothes and this strange person puts on some music and then rubs their hands all over my body for an hour or two.

Either way, it's a lot of nakedness and rubbing and strangers.

And the trust has to go both ways.  I trust that the therapist will respect boundaries and keep the sheet strategically placed and not be an axe murderer or a serial rapist.  And he or she has to trust that I will likewise respect boundaries and not make an inappropriate pass or request and not be an axe murderer or a rapist and that I will pay the right amount when the service is rendered.

Last night my friend's son did a phenomenal job.  He really paid attention to the areas that needed work, was very thorough and professional, and played great music.

As I lay there on the table, naked except for a thin sheet, with a young man with big, strong hands working me over, I felt the good pain of sore muscles stretching and relaxing and releasing lactic acid.  But then the relaxation brought on some gurgling in my belly.  A build-up of gas.

Oh dear god, I thought.  Please.  Please don't let me fart in the face of this cute young boy whose dad is my friend from high school and whom I see socially.  Please.

In the end, with much effort and difficulty, I didn't.

Trust.

TMI Thursday: Lost in translation

OK, folks, time for another TMI Thursday. Click the picture above to read more awesomely cringe-worthy TMIs courtesy of LiLu at LivitLuvit.com.

After Jason and I met in December of 2003, I went back to visit him Costa Rica in February 2004. We had a great time surfing and, uh, getting to know each other again.

Surfing with Jason in February, 2004

The second or third day I was there, which also happened to be my birthday, we were out in the water in the late afternoon, when I had to pee.  So I peed.  And felt that twinge, that slight sting at the end, that made my stomach sink.  Because I knew I was getting a urinary tract infection.

It was the third one I'd ever had in my life (and I haven't had one since, thank goodness).  The first time I got one was in law school, and when I started experiencing severe pain and, oh, yeah, blood while urinating, I seriously thought I was dying.  I went to the student health clinic and the baby-faced med student who treated me gave me some pain pills and some antibiotics -- but not before engaging me in extensive, meaningless chit-chat while I was sitting there holding my crotch in agony -- and I was fine within an hour or so.  

Yes, they're easy to treat.  But holy shit, they're awful, and they go from mildly uncomfortable to excruciating in about 12.7 seconds.

So I'm out in the water, feeling that little painful tingle, thinking, Fuck.  I know what's coming.  And I'm in Tamarindo, Costa Rica, without a fucking clue as to where I can find a doctor who's open after hours.

There was a little chemist shop next to the surf camp, so I went over there and pleaded with the pharmacist to give me something.  And they did, but I can't remember what it was, though I do remember it didn't help.  The night wore on, Jason threw a little birthday party for me, and we were sitting there in the restaurant at the surf camp, hanging out with everyone, as I became more and more uncomfortable.  I had to pee constantly, it was intensely painful, it was getting bloody, and I desperately needed to find a doctor.

I whispered to Jason, practically crying, that I couldn't take the pain anymore and needed to go to a clinic or something.  But at that point, it was 8 at night, and the closest place that was open was an urgent care-type facility about 30 minutes away.  And neither of us had a car.

Jason went and whispered to Jorge, one of the guys who worked at the surf camp, about whether he could take us in the surf camp's van.  Apparently, he wasn't supposed to, but he did it anyway.  So we climbed into the van and went speeding down this narrow country road to the clinic.

Once we got there, everything was fine. The doctor was very nice and perfectly competent, but he was out of oral antibiotics, so he asked me if I wanted to get the antibiotics in a shot.

And I'm all, yeah yeah, I've got a monster pain threshold and no issues with needles, bring it on. I leaned over and exposed the top of my butt cheek.

"You might want to lie down on the table. This could hurt a little."

Mmm hmm. Fine. Whatever.

I got up on the table and proceeded to get the most painful shot of my life.  It felt like it took hours, and the doctor kept pushing and rubbing and jiggling the needle in my butt, trying to help my muscle absorb the thick liquid he was pushing into me. It took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes. But then it was over.

I hobbled outside to find the boys, who had decided to wait by the car.  My ass-cheek was throbbing and sore.

The car was there, but there was no sign of Jason or Jorge.

I looked down the street.  Off in the distance, I saw a blinking sign for Imperial, the national beer of Costa Rica.

Motherfuckers.

I limped down the street and found the guys sitting at a bar.  Rather than stay mad, I joined them and ordered a beer.

I was telling the guys about the experience at the doctor, mostly in Spanish because Jorge's English wasn't great.  

Jorge asked me, "¿tienes infección de la pepa?"

I leveled a withering stare at Jason. "'Infección de la pepa?' You told him I have a pussy infection?? So now everyone at the surf camp is going to think I'm some kind of nasty skank?"

Jason's eyes got big, then he shrugged and looked sheepish.  He pretended to be intently concentrating on the foam on the side of his glass.

I turned to Jorge, rolling my eyes at Jason in the process.  "No.  No es 'de la pepa.'  Es urinario.  No es 'de la pepa.'"  It's not "de la pepa," it's urinary.

Jorge nodded as if to say, yeah, right.

We finished our beers and made our way back to the surf camp.  I got better and Jason and I enjoyed the rest of our weekend.

And of course, I did end up marrying the guy. But I think the lovely and wise Mrs. Banks had it right when she said, "though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group they're rather stupid."

TMI Thursday: Would you, could you, in a tree?

OK, folks, time for another TMI Thursday. Click the picture above to read more awesomely cringe-worthy TMIs courtesy of LiLu at LivitLuvit.com.

Back in September 2004, after Jason and I had gotten together but when he had gone back to Australia to reconnect with his family, renew his driver's license, and make some money, I went to visit him. We hung out awhile with his family near Sydney, but then decided to take a trip. Initially we thought about going to the Gold Coast to go to the beach, though it was still kind of winter-ish and not that warm.

Then I read a book by Bill Bryson called In A Sunburned Country, about his travels through Australia, including out to Western Australia, south of Perth, where there are giant trees. Like, bigger-than-most-redwoods giant. That people are allowed to climb.

In addition to these giant, beautiful, majestic - and did I mention climbable - trees, he described the countryside as extraordinarily gorgeous, with rolling hillside and vineyards and cliff-side views of the Indian Ocean and amazing underground caves with stalactites or stalacmites or whatever the hell they're called.

All of that stuff sounded awesome, each justifying a trip out there in its own regard, but he seriously had me at the giant climbing trees. I told Jason that instead of going to the Gold Coast, I wanted to go to West Oz to climb the giant trees.

So we flew the 5 hours from Sydney to Perth, and hung out at King's Park and walked around Perth and saw one of the Bourne movies and had yummy sushi.

And we went to Freemantle, this funky little hippie town south of Perth, and saw funny-looking quokkas on Rottnest Island and stayed in a working pub, which, given the noise of drunk people singing all night, was a better idea in theory than in practice. Particularly since the heat in our room didn't work and it was 40 degrees out, so we had to sleep in our coats.

We rented a car and drove south down the coast to Margaret River, where we sat watching the sunset over the ocean while we drank yummy wine that had been recommended by a skate-rat-looking kid with bleached blond hair and a broken arm from a skateboarding accident. He looked like someone that would be sent over from Central Casting if you called and asked for a typical surfer dude. But then he started talking about grapes left to sweeten on the vine and the acidity of the soil during the winter of 2000 and it was totally like having Keanu Reeves's character from Bill and Ted as your somalier. In other words, kind of awesome.

Finally, finally, it was time to go see the giant trees. We drove into the Southern Forest, and the trees were just magnificent. In addition to being enormous, they are beautiful -- a smooth, shimmery, marble-y grey colored bark, with silver-grey leaves. The climbing trees were fire lookouts at one time, with pieces of steel rebar stuck along the trunk in a spiral to climb up to a little platform/tree-house type thing at the top. They were opened to the public for climbing probably about 30 years ago.*

First we went to the Gloucester Tree, which is about 60 meters high (about 197 feet). And it was amazing. The climb was incredibly cool and the view from the top was spectacular.

Me climbing the Gloucester Tree

View from the top

Tourists

Then we went to the Dave Evans Bicentennial Tree. I have no idea who Dave Evans is or was, but it's a hell of a tree - 75 meters (about 245 feet) tall. It was getting to be late afternoon when we got there, and there was only one other car in the parking lot. As we climbed to the lookout tower at the top of the tree, we saw people get in the car and drive off.

Meaning we were all alone.

And I don't know why -- this is seriously unlike me -- but there was something about being all alone on the top of this insanely tall, beautiful tree, in the gorgeous countryside, on a warm, sunny late afternoon, that kind of ... got to me.

I looked at Jason.

"So...," I drawled.

"Yeah?" he responded.

"What do you think about, uh, inaugurating the tree?"

His eyes got wide.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Really???" I think he was in a little bit of shock.

"Really."

So we got it on in broad daylight in a treehouse in the middle of the Australian forest. And then carved our initials in the railing for posterity.

Poor Jason had a sore neck and probably some splinters in his ass for the rest of the day.

But he didn't complain.

_______________________

*What I particularly loved was that in the U.S., you'd have to sign liability waivers and be attached to harnesses and whatnot - assuming they ever let anyone up on a giant tree at all. In Australia, the rebar was totally exposed - no harnesses, no safety nets, nothing - and there was a sign at the bottom that basically said, "this could be dangerous, turn back if you're not in decent shape." Yet another reason I love the Aussies.

TMI Thursday: Walt Disney causes gender confusion in a toddler

OK, folks, time for another TMI Thursday. Click the picture above to read more awesomely cringe-worthy TMIs courtesy of LiLu at LivitLuvit.com.

Zeke is increasingly interested in private parts. Both his own and other people's. He's had his hand in his junk pretty much since a) he discovered he had control over his hands and figured out how to grab things, and b) he discovered his penis.

But now, he's all interested in checking out everyone else's business, too.

"Baby's penis!" he'll say when I've got Josie on her changing table.

"No, Josie doesn't have a penis. She's a girl. She has a vagina." I decided early on I wasn't going to come up with some cutesy name for it.

"Baby's vagina!"

"Right."

Or I'll be getting dressed in the morning and trying to talk to him about how he needs to go find his socks or something. But if I'm standing there in my underwear, he's all mesmerized, staring at my groin, like he's trying to develop X-ray vision to see through my clothes.

I'll say, "Zeke. Zeke! I'm talking to you! Pay attention!" But he's a total fucking zombie, all engrossed by what's behind my Fruit of the Looms. Or he'll just point and say, "Mama's vagina!" And I'm all, "yeah, yeah, Mama has a vagina. Now go get your socks."

*sigh*

But at least in those situations, there's clarity about what to say.

The other day I was putting Zeke in his PJs while he was playing with a little Mickey Mouse stuffed animal. The doll has a pair of pants with a hole in the back where the mouse's tail pokes through.

"Tail," Zeke observed.

"Yes, that's his tail."

"And that's his bum-bum," he said, pointing to the mouse's butt.

"Yep."

He turned the mouse around and pulled down the doll's little pants. "Mouse's penis," he said, pointing between the doll's legs.

"No, actually, the mouse doesn't have a penis."

Zeke thought for a second. "Mouse's vagina!"

"No, well, actually, honey, the mouse doesn't have a vagina either. He doesn't have anything."

This was not a satisfactory answer. "Mouse's penis! Mouse's vagina!"

"Uhhhh...."

I have no idea what to say about this one. If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all (mouse) ears.

TMI Thursday: You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family, so can you pick your family's nose? What's that saying again?

OK, folks, time for another TMI Thursday. Click the picture above to read more awesomely cringe-worthy TMIs courtesy of LiLu at LivitLuvit.com.

Denver is a very dry city.

I don't mean that it has a subtle sense of humor. I mean that most of the time, the air is utterly devoid of any moisture, particularly in the winter.

Resulting in lots and lots of boogers. And opportunities for nose picking.

While I certainly don't walk around in public with my finger up my nose, the fact is, the combination of altitude and dryness make my nose a ripe breeding ground for massive boogie boulders the size of California raisins. Sometimes they can be removed with a powerful honk into a tissue or handkerchief. But other times they're just stuck, requiring some manual excavation. It can't be helped.

Let's just say that I'm sympathetic when it comes to nose-picking, especially in this climate.

Anyway, Jason and I have differing views on this, I guess. We've never really discussed it, but he seems a bit more critical of people (read: me) who overtly pick their noses, whereas I tend to give people more of a pass. So it's become a (minor) issue in the area of child-rearing.

We have a very firm policy of always backing each other up when it comes to decisions involving the children, particularly disciplinary issues. We don't argue in front of the children and we don't undermine each other's efforts at discipline. If I disagree with something he's done, I'll bring it up with him privately, but Zeke knows there is no point in appealing to me if he doesn't like something Daddy has told him, because he won't get a different answer.

When it comes to nose-picking, Zeke, like most 2-year-olds discovering the wonders of having fingers that can poke into things, spends half of his time with his finger in his nose, particularly now that it's winter. This drives Jason crazy, so Jason is constantly telling him to get his finger out of his nose and to get boogies out by blowing his nose or using a tissue.

And I'm nodding and smiling, but I never say a word, because secretly I'm thinking, "the kid doesn't know how to blow his nose. I've tried to show him, but he's just not quite there yet. He can't help it. He's got boogies! Having boogies sucks."

So while outwardly I say nothing to contradict Jason's instructions, inwardly I'm trying to beam my brain waves into Zeke's head, so he understands that my position is, "I feel you, dawg. Those boogies aren't gonna pick themselves. Let me know if you need help."

TMI Thursday: I guess I'm just that approachable, even when naked from the waist down. Wait, that came out wrong.

OK, folks, time for another TMI Thursday. Click the picture above to read more awesomely cringe-worthy TMIs courtesy of LiLu at LivitLuvit.com. In a strange kismet-y twist, Lisa at That's Why and I both have IUD stories today. Go figure.

So I have to start by saying that while I can be very social when I want to be, I don't really have this image of myself as the most approachable person in the world. My friends and family and people that know me know that you can come to me with any problem and I'll gladly talk to you and give you advice, and I'll keep everything confidential to the extent that you want me to, and I don't judge. But I'm sort of reserved with people I don't know all that well, so I'm always surprised when strangers chat me up and start telling me their deepest darkest secrets.

And yet, it happens pretty often, so maybe the bitch-mien that I think I'm projecting -- or maybe hoping I'm projecting, so people will leave me alone -- isn't really there at all. I don't know.

Anyway, this afternoon I was at my OB/GYN's office for a follow-up visit after getting an IUD put in four weeks ago (no more kiddos for me, thankyouverymuch). And I love my OB to pieces. She is easy to talk to and friendly and is a terrific doctor. Over the course of my pregnancy with Josie, she and I developed a really nice rapport, and would talk about our families and our lives in addition to just what was going on in my uterus.

So today when she started talking to me about an issue she is having with one of her employees, I was happy to listen and to offer my take on it, and even give her a little bit of legal-ish advice.

But she started the conversation while she was washing her hands getting ready to start her examination, continued it with her head in my crotch and my feet up in stirrups while looking at my cervix with a speculum in place, continued it further as she lubed up her hands with K-Y Jelly to poke around inside me while pressing on my abdomen at the same time, and finished it as I sat there, naked from the waist down, holding a little wipe-y thing that I was supposed to use to remove said K-Y Jelly from my cootchie. Except that I felt too awkward to reach down and wipe myself with her right there, so I just sat there, feeling all jellied and drippy as we finished our conversation.

Later on, as I was leaving, she said, "Wendy, thank you so much for talking to me about that issue. I feel much better about it, and I appreciate your advice."

"You're more than welcome. I hope it works out OK," I responded.

I just didn't know how to say, "Doc, I really like you so much, and I enjoy talking to you and am happy to help you out in any way I can. But would it have been so hard to wait to initiate the conversation until after I'd put my pants back on??"

TMI Thursday: You might want to skip this one if you've never had a baby but plan on having one someday...

The lovely, talented and hilarious LiLu does a weekly segment called TMI Thursdays involving (over)shares of embarrassing, humiliating stories about her life (and if you're thinking of clicking over there, just know that it's not for the faint of heart).  Readers and fellow bloggers are invited to join in. I admire her and her readers' willingness to just put it all out there.  

I've never participated, not because I don't have ridiculous and embarrassing stories to share, but because my mother reads this blog. And my brothers. And some of my cousins. And many of my friends. And the friends I generally don't worry about so much, but there are some things that my mommy just doesn't need to read about on the internets about her precious baby.

But today I'm going to jump into the fray (and I actually already did earlier today -- on Lisa's blog, she and I had a lovely discussion about the consistency of pregnancy poo and the relative merits of Metamucil).   My mother won't mind this one. My brothers might, but whatevs. They'll deal. My friends will likely think to themselves, "Jesus, TMI!"  (Though Elizabeth, dearest, you might want to skip this one.)  But that's kind of the point. In any event, if you're squeamish and don't feel like you can handle the nitty-gritty of what actually goes on during childbirth, you might want to come back and visit another day. 

Seriously. You've been warned.

I was sitting in the break room at work today having something to eat, when one of my coworkers walked in.  We said "hello," and she asked me how I was feeling.

"Are you doing OK in this heat?"

"Yeah, I'm fine.  The heat doesn't really bother me.  I did my first pregnancy in Hawaii, so I'm pretty well used to it."

No, the problem isn't the heat.

The problem is that I think this baby is breaking my vagina.

I don't mean just the part from which babies actually emerge -- Zeke already broke that part. I have vivid recollections of the last 20 minutes or so of labor (in other words, 3 hours and 40 minutes into the actual pushing part -- yeah, that's not a typo, I pushed for 4 fucking hours), when Zeke was way down in the birth canal but stuck behind my pelvic bone because even though the ultrasound tech told me he was only about 7 pounds, he was actually almost 9 pounds and was basically too big for my body. And through the pain of feeling like my nether regions were going to split in two, I could hear the sound of scissors, because the doctor was cutting my vajajay open to make way for Zeke's ginormous head. The good news was, I was already in so much pain that I couldn't actually distinguish the pain of having someone cutting me open in that manner from the other pain I was feeling, so in that sense, it didn't really hurt. And he stitched me back up and it healed and whatever. But still, I'm not exactly intact down there.

Anyway, back to the Joey.

Conventional wisdom has it that with boys, you gain less weight and you carry the baby low and out in front, like a basketball. Supposedly, with girls, you carry more weight all over your midsection, and the baby sits higher up on your torso.

I call bullshit. 

Because while I've definitely gained a little bit more weight with the Joey than I did with Zeke (and starting 10 pounds heavier this time around didn't help), I feel like she is sitting -- no, make that pushing -- on the absolute lowest part of my pelvic floor, as if she's trying to crack the bone right in two.  It's different from the typical lower abdominal muscle stretching that goes on as the baby grows.  This is lower down, and feels like the stretching of the muscles and the weight of the baby are putting too much pressure on the bone itself.

So in addition to the standard pregnant-lady waddle, I've got kind of a gimpy thing going on.  I sometimes want to just put my hands down there and walk around holding my cooter together.  I don't  -- well, not most of the time, anyway.  Sometimes when I'm home alone I'll walk around looking like a 5-year-old who's trying to find a bathroom.  But out in public, I haven't lost all sense of decorum (not yet, anyway).

So if you see me and stop to chat, and I get this sort of distracted, vacant look in my eyes, it's not that I'm bored or blowing you off.  It's just that my vagina hurts.