Monthly Archives: January 2011

I want my MTv!


I have been fortunate to travel a LOT in my life.  Well, when I was a kid, at least.  Now I am a “Grown Up” and I have to pay for my own travel, and to be honest, I haven’t been out of the country in 9 years.  And that was to Canada.  I no longer have an active passport, and I’ve had a passport since I was 9 years-old.  In those travel years I went all over the world.  I walked along the Great Wall, I took a flash photograph of the Mona Lisa (out of focus – DAMN!), I even climbed a pyramid in Egypt… but most important to me was the hotel room television showing MTv.  It’s true.  Hate to admit it, but there it is.  MTv.  It was new.  It actually consisted of ONLY music television… not reality shows about actor people in rehab.  Bah!  It was Madonna and her Material World, and the Beastie Boys, and Duran Duran.  I could watch it for hours and hours on end.  World history outside my window.  Wellllll…. I guess I could go climb that ancient wonder of the world… right after Corey Hart finishes singing Sunglasses at Night.

I grew up in Saudi Arabia, in the 80’s and 90’s.  There was no MTv.  It was forbidden.  Actually most television was forbidden.  We had a local station that showed edited version of Benson (yes, Benson had to be edited) and occasionally I could find a Punky Brewster episode on the Bahrain network, but there were few options apart from the Indian Movie of the Week.  That may sound fun to you, now that everyone is into Bollywood.  We have sort of adopted India because all of our employees live there.

Soon we’ll be wearing saris and treating our cows much better.

But the Indian Movie of the Week was something entirely different.  I don’t think it translates well into this culture.  Sometimes we’d attempt to watch it, because there would alway be a hilariously strange musical number and a Bollywood scene.  Between those entertaining bits, there would undoubtedly be a murder or a dead baby or something horribly graphic.  Imagine that.  You’re watching SAW and after a particularly horrifying scene, the victims start dancing and singing, in unison with their killer, all in a choreographed parade of bright colors and twangy music.

Needless to say, when I saw MTv for the first time (I remember it SO well) I was completely hypnotized.  Remember that, all you parents out there who don’t allow your kids to watch t.v.  It still exists, and when your kids do finally get to watch it, they’re going to turn into completely obsessed couch potatoes.  I was in Idaho on vacation (okay, not all of our trips of historical greatness), staying with my best friend.  She had MTv (who didn’t?).  We had a sleep over every night, talked about boys incessantly, fretted over the changes our bodies were making (well, I fretted, she enthused), ate junk food, and watched MTv.  She fell asleep around midnight.  Me?  I stayed up the entire night.  I never slept.  I would start to doze, and then there was a CURE marathon.  Oh My God!  My favorite band. I get to see them move and shake and dance!  I kept watching.  In the morning, my friend woke up.  My eyes were glassed over.  She asked if I ever went to sleep.  Well, sure, during the Tiffany video I nodded off.  I must admit.  But then I heard The Reflex, and I couldn’t resist opening my eyes again.  Simon Le Bon!  It was amazing!  What an invention.

I have since relaxed with the music television and no longer find Simon Le Bon attractive.  As I fell victim to the Bouncy Castle Belly Syndrome, he slipped into the British Puffy Faced world of has-been pop stars.  Anyway, it’s hard to ever even find a music video on MTv.  I still wish I could travel.  It was great to bask on the beaches in Greece, scuba dive with the fish in the Red Sea, ski in Austria, float on top of the salt in the Dead Sea, climb mountains in Switzerland, take a cruise down the Nile, and see musicals in London, between marathon EuroMTv sessions.

I need a passport.  I must travel one day with my daughter.  She needs to know where the Bollywood obsession comes from!  She needs to see the art in Paris.  She needs to taste a Ballisto bar.  She needs to see something other than white people.  It’ll be good to leave our bubble one day, when I can afford it.  At least for the time being we have MTv.

Of course, she’s not allowed to watch it.


A bean, a piece of corn, a supermodel, and some papaya water


I’ve been to Mexico one time.  My husband won’t let me go back until their government is overthrown by happy people who crush the cartels with good vibrations.  It was beautiful.  We stayed at an eco resort.  No power, tent-a-lapas on the beach, and an honor bar.  There were also no children allowed.  This was before I had a kid… and childhood meltdowns were unacceptable on a vacation. Now that I’ve had a kid, I can’t really hear other kid’s meltdowns.  Probably due to the hearing damage I have suffered from my own.  It was peaceful.  It was sunny. There was a constant ocean breeze, rustling the walls of our glorified tent.

The first few days were heaven.  My husband and I had only been married for two years.  It was ROMANTIC!  Each night we enjoyed sit-down dinners in a giant dining hall, with sand floors.  We met people from all over, but ended up eating most of our meals with a kooky couple from NYC, a gay man from San Fran who was in a fight with his boyfriend, a model who had just broken up with her boyfriend, and a curious fellow who may or may not have been a former member of the CIA.

Every night was like its own reality show.

The day I got sick started like any other.  We woke with the sunrise.  My husband’s goal was to beat the CIA guy to the honor bar before breakfast.  They were on their second beer by the time I stumbled through the sand to get my awesome Mexican coffee.  We were sitting in the sand when our NYC friends stopped by to tell us about their first snorkeling adventure.  I guess that people from New York do not snorkel.  The poor girl. She couldn’t get the concept of keeping the mouthpiece clenched between her teeth and spent the entire day squeezing her lips tightly around the mouthpiece, trying to keep the water out. Her mouth was so sore she could hardly talk.

Man.  I always thought those snorkels were pretty self-explanatory.

I was really cold, considering how warm and tropical it was.  I retreated to the tent-a-lapa to warm up under my covers.  After trying to read Midwife (a very graphic novel about – duh- a midwife) I started to feel nauseous.  I thought maybe it was the subject matter.  Things progressed downhill quickly and I spend the next two days of our glorious trip with diarrhea, vomiting, a fever, and a strange welt that appeared on my shin.  At one point I sent my lovely husband for some water. After almost 45 minutes he had not returned.  I pulled my fevered ass from the bed and crawled out of the tent, only to find him chatting with the model.  Great.  She was leaning up against a palm tree, in her string bikini, hair blowing in the wind – looking quite ready for either a photo shoot or a make-out session with my husband.

Barf.  That’s what my face said as my husband jovially trotted over to help me to the bathrooms.

Then my stomach said “barf” to my new friend the toilet.

To give my husband credit, once he got me back to the tent he did happen to find a naturopath also on vacation at the eco resort.  Of course.  She was a naturopath to a Tibetan lama (as in dali lama, not as in llama).  Well, I guess that means she’s more than qualified to take the temperature of a wayward tourist in the middle of Mexico.  She brought me water with a papaya seed in it.  I was not to eat the papaya seed.  I could barely drink the peppery concoction.  My fever began to subside.  I  hit the honor bar with my husband first thing the next morning.  He drank his Corona.  I drank my PediaLite.  Good times.  Our gay friend was departing.  He asked me to take a picture of him with his arm around my husband, so he could make his boyfriend back in San Fran jealous.  Sure.  Why not!  The gay boy, the model, even the former CIA guy had all hung out more with my husband than I had.  They had bonded with each other, over beers and sand. I had bonded with the toilet.

The next day we said farewell to our beach vacation, the naturopath, the (suspected) former CIA guy, the model (good fucking riddance), my papaya seed, and the inner lining of my lower intestine.  I nervously noted that our plane had duct tape on the emergency exit.  We bounced and shook in our makeshift airplane and somehow made in back to our home in the mountains of Colorado.

I was beginning to feel human again.  Deciding that all I needed was some good mountain air, I headed out on a rather steep hike.  After four different people stopped to ask me if I was okay, I realized I might not be.  I didn’t remember seeing spots on this trail before.  I was still so sick, and the change in altitude did not seem to be helping.

I headed to urgent care.

Fevers, welts, and nausea are not as pressing as, say, a gun shot wound.  Ok.  I get that.  Finally I got back to a room and a nurse.  She asked my symptoms, and like everyone esle who had asked, rolled her eyes and said, “Sounds like Montezuma’s Revenge.”  yeah.  Thanks.  Hadn’t heard that before.  And by the way, I don’t care!  Just make me feel better.  I was severely dehydrated (I’m sure my attempted hike helped that) and they pumped me full of two bags of fluids.   After they pulled the needle from my arm, the nurse came back in.

She asked me if I could give them a fecal sample.

Oh goody.  That sounds fun.

I haven’t had a full meal in over a week.  WHAT IS GOING TO COME OUT OF ME?!  A grain of sand? I took my cup into the bathroom with me.  A cup. Have you ever tried to poop into a cup?  Go ahead.  Grab a dixie cup and give it a whirl.

After contorting my arm to fit under my butt, yet above the water in the bowl, standing in a squat, I pushed and pushed.  My legs were shaking with the combination of my recent illness and the partial squat position.  I tried harder.


Plunk…. Plunk.

I did it!  It wasn’t much, but I did it!  Pride filled my chest… until I looked into my plastic cup.  There it was.  The only food I had consumed in the last 24 hours was a few bites of a burrito.  I had just expelled an entirely whole, undigested, corn kernel and a bean.  I swear.


I have to give this to the nurse.  I pulled up my pants, swallowed my pride, took a deep breath, stood tall, opened the door and presented my bean and corn fecal sample to the nurse.  My face was burning.  She took it and tried not to smile.  I said, “Um.  It’s not much.  I’m not even sure if you can use it. I haven’t had much to eat lately.  Oh.  Besides beans and corn.  Obviously.”

“Obviously,” she replied.

I left the urgent care, my head hung low, and waited for my antibiotic prescription to be filled.  I dared to leave my bubble and that’s what I got.  A supermodel hitting on my hubby, a gay man hitting on my hubby, and Montezuma’s Revenge.

I love beaches, but I have to admit that when I think of Mexico, all that comes to mind is a single bean and a piece of corn.

mini mental


I had a roommate in college who studied mental health.  She focused on gerintology for a time, and would bring home tests for us (to make sure that we were indeed 20-something college students, and not elderly people in disguise). I am a terribly unfocused person and from time to time, my husband gives me shit about being dementia bound.  Of course, this is not funny, dementia is scary.  Fortunately, it’s most scary to those of us who witness it.  To those of us who have it, once we’re fully immersed in our dementia it is probably like a long-term holiday.   Making new friends.  Eating new foods.  Talking to our pets who’ve been dead for 20 years.  Not all bad.  Anyway, what I have is not dementia… it is a serious lack of attention.  Perhaps a lazy persons version of ADD or ADHD.  I am easily and constantly distracted.  Like right now, for instance.  I was just cleaning, I came over to the computer to print some homework assignments because I forgot about cleaning.  I “woke” my sleeping computer to find myself checking email.  That reminded me to check my blog, because I haven’t had much time for it lately.  That reminded me that I was actually supposed to be printing my homework, or no… that wasn’t it.  Oh I WAS CLEANING!  RIGHT!  So, I guess that’ll have to wait.  While we’re on the subject of mental health, let me return to my original train of thought.  My old roommate would encourage me with bits of knowledge:

“Don’t worry, it’s not that you can’t find your keys, it’s that you can’t recall what your keys are for, or what a key is.”

“Can you count backwards from 100 by 7’s?”  (no.  I can’t do this.  OH MY GOD!  I’ve lost it!)

Mini-mentals are quick little tests that are given to people suspected to be suffering some form of dementia.  The fact that later that day we floated on a lake, rhyming ‘-tion’ words (inebriation, annihilation, constipation, manipulation, etc.) for at least and hour, while laughing ridiculously hard,  probably means that we weren’t qualified to be judging other people’s mental states, let alone our own.  So, there you have it.  Vacations from the here and now, even if only in your mind, are fun!  I can thank my dad for  this distracted-ness ability.  I think it protects us from being to serious.   My mom is always panicking that he has dementia.

“He doesn’t remember things I just told him that morning!”

There is a difference between poor mental health and intentionally turning off your hearing aid.

I do not have a hearing aid, because other than the damage I have suffered from fighter jets zooming past overhead and small children loudly screaming in my ear, my hearing is just dandy.  I know what my car key is for, but I try time and time again to unlock someone else’s car with it. That does not mean I am suffering from brain shrinkage.  A lack of coffee… perhaps.  I do find it alarming that my first response is not “whose car is this?”  but rather, “what the hell is wrong with my key?” In the early years of parenthood I made a couple of trips to the gym while sporting clogs (two different color clogs).  My sister made sure I knew this was simply the way your brain works after having children.  She did a whole workout with two different athletic shoes.  I have put the checkbook in the freezer.  I have found the milk in the pantry.  I have no clue how I’ve kept track of my daughter for six years.

Every now and then it’s good to reassess.  Your brain may not be as quick and it was when you were a teen and you could make out with a boy while studying for your biology exam and managed to do both quite well.  It may not comprehend your spouse 85% of the time, due to a combination of hearing loss and Charlie Brown Syndrome.  CBS.  You know.  The teacher in Charlie Brown?

“mwa mwa ma mwa mahh mahh.”

Different shoes are not necessarily a sign of dementia. It just means that you’ve been woken at least five times in an eight-hour period and you got dressed in the dark and never looked in the mirror.  Welcome to motherhood.  Some of us suffer from dementia.  Some of us suffer from a lack of focus. Some of us suffer from sleep deprivation.   Some of us just suffer.  Those people are hard to be happy around aren’t they?  Guess what.  I do it anyway.

They don’t like me.

Now, if I can stay focused for five minutes, I must start practicing counting backwards from 100 because that is really hard for me.  If I start now, maybe I’ll have it memorized when I really do have dementia… and I’ll be able to fake them out for a week or two, while I pack my bags and start walking to Hawaii.  If you see me, as an elderly woman, sporting my flip-flops, wearing zinc oxide on my nose, just let me walk on by… right into the ocean.  In my bubble there is only simple addition.  And I have friends who are sea turtles.

Have you noticed that the mini-mentals are quite similar to DUI tests?  So, next time you decide to drink and drive, you may want to consider just how much your brain has shrunk.

You have just been found incompetent.

Call me!


I never thought I’d see the day when prank phone calls were a thing of the past.  Such a tragedy, really.  What do kids do now, anyway?  Play Nintendo, instead of calling a random phone number (such as 867-5309) and asking them if their refrigerator is running, or inviting them to a non-existent party, or – as my sister was known to do in the early 80’s – ask them if they wanted to come “hang at my pad (she was 8).” We always gave fake names and fake addresses.  It was so fun, and I’m sure we really had them fooled.  Now no one would even answer their phone because of that stinkin’ caller-id (which I admit is the single best invention of the century).  If I don’t know you, or I feel too undercaffeinated or overstimulated, or if you are talking politics, I won’t take your call.  Grade schoolers can’t prank call me.  It’s such a shame.

That being said, I frequently ACCIDENTALLY prank call people.  I mean to call someone else, but I have slippery fingers (massage therapy job side-effect) and misdial.  It often takes me a while to figure this out (blonde hair side-effect).

I was home one morning, at the same time as my husband, which is statistically unheard of in our house.  Some military show was on, and to avoid the attack on my sense of hearing and my intact chi, I decided to take the dogs on a walk.  We headed out.

“wap wap wap wap wap wap wap wap”

About ten minutes into our walk, I heard a helicopter.  At first I thought it was hearing damage from the military channel.

“wap wap wap wap wap wap wap wap”

No.  There was actually a helicopter.  A military helicopter.  It was pretty close.  I watched it fly away and kept walking, becoming instantly distracted by my yellow lab’s insatiable appetite for prairie dog poo.

“wap wap wap wap wap wap wap wap”

What?  The same helicopter?  What is going on here?  I stopped watching the lab and started watching the helicopter.  The lab swiftly dove towards a prairie dog hole.  I pulled back on her leash while the pug peed on the hole.  Not very polite to the prairie dog, but at least he’s not going to contract the plague through peeing.

Once I had a semblance of control over my dogs I scanned the horizon.  There was that damn helicopter.  Making a big circle and headed back my way again.   Is the prairie dog field actually an undercover Al Khaida training camp?  Are those really prairie dog turds out there?   I don’t live in Afghanistan so I thought this was pretty funny.  I fumble around in my pocket and get my phone out to call my husband.  This is not the easiest task when coordinating two dog leashes and avoiding prairie dog excretions.

The phone rings.  Rings again.

“Hello?!” The t.v. must still be on, it’s so noisy in the background.

“HEY!  I can’t believe you called the CIA on my ass!”  I shout into the phone, watching the helicopter make another round, juggling leashes as I’m pulled down the trail to the next small pile of poo.


“I said, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU TURNED ME INTO THE CIA – a helicopter keeps circling me!  They’re hot on my tail!”  I’m kidding of course.  I think this is hilarious because I know my husband is sitting on the couch watching a similar helicopter on the military channel.

I wait for the laughter.

I can hear the television in the background.

“Um.  Who are you trying to call?”

Oh.  That’s not my husband, is it?

“Greg?  Oh.  Uh.  I’m sorry.  Um.  I thought this was my husband.”

“Ummmm.  No.”

“Oh god.  I’m so sorry.  Have a good day!”  I’m always polite.  I went to Montessori.  There’s never a bad time for manners.

He hung up.  I looked at my phone.  One number off.  I looked up, expecting the “wap wap wap wap wap” to be coming from a police helicopter by now.  It wasn’t.  I decided I’d better keep walking.

In my bubble I love my caller-id.  I can avoid people I don’t want to talk to.  I can answer my phone with a comical voice, saying stuff like “hey baby, what’re you wearing?” because I know who is calling me (usually).  Why did this man answer his phone?  Why didn’t he immediately call America’s Most Wanted?  Why don’t people ever call me with funny mix up’s like this?


That’s because I don’t answer.  Better change that.  My bubble could use a caller-id vacation.   An old-school prank phone call or some heavy breathing would make me laugh.

If you’d like to call, my number is 867-5309.

Happy New Year! denied.


busy busy busy! I am writing my application for graduate school, so I don’t have time to add to my blog right now… 😦

BUT! I will say one funny thing. I set my own New Year’s Resolution before January first, and it was to always have my fridge stocked with beer and to drink that beer more often. Now that I have weighed myself at the gym, I have to already revoke that awesome resolution. Well, I guess I can still stock it. I just can’t drink it because it’s making me look like a mammoth. Not that hairy, but you get the idea. So, before I am allowed to shave my legs again, I must lose five pounds. hehe. I’m not sure if that’s a reward or a punishment. After I get to shave my legs (which may actually put me at six pounds) then I will have to find another reward for five more pounds. A beer? Oh. I guess that would be counterproductive.

So, I’m just saying, if the new year is your excuse to get in shape, then DO IT! GO! I am more motivated by my upcoming reunion, but that’s just me. I hope that your resolutions last longer than my beer drinking did.

My daughter’s first resolution was to eat more candy. I wonder if she had overheard mine. I explained resolutions more thoroughly to her and she said that she changed hers to “making the world healthy by picking up garbage.”

I told her mine (after abandoning the desire to drink more beer) was to enjoy my family and appreciate my life everyday.

“No Mommy. You can’t do that one. It has to be about the world.”

Resolution #2 – denied!!

The story of Boobs McGee


Bad massages make me sad.  I’m sure I’ve given 1 or 2  in my 14 year career, but I promise you I have never ever ever given a CREEPY massage.  Well, I did play Prince during a massage once. That may qualify as creepy.

I have had a creepy massage, but not the creepy that some people pay for.  This was creepy in a  I might stab you in the back when you get relaxed sort of way.  And dispose of your body in the basement.  THAT kind of creepy.

I met Boobs McGee at the gym that I exercise at.  The first thing she said to me was, “You’re such a great swimmer, were you in the Olympics or something?” Well, hello flattery (and complete inaccuracy).  Ask anyone on my college swim team.  I was the slowest person on it.  I didn’t race, I gently floated to the wall.  So, I took that compliment as a golden nugget and chewed on it for the rest of the day.  I finally shared it with my husband.  He laughed.  He laughed hard. “You’re a great swimmer, but an Olympian?  C’mon.”


I saw Boobs again the next week at our local park.  Should I explain why we call her Boobs?  Well, she has huge knockers and she seems to like them to be well documented.  I can see her, sitting poolside, striking the pose of the playboy bunny silhouette on the trucker mud-flaps.  She’s confident.  That’s a positive, but I’m gonna call her Boobs anyway.  Makes me feel better about myself.

So, there she was, at the park.  We began to chat.  I thought she was odd, maybe a bit hyper, but entertaining as hell.  She was OUT THERE! We exchanged phone numbers and emails.  Then I mentioned to a friend that I had met this woman.  She knew immediately who I was speaking of (Boobs) and warned me to steer clear.  I thought, well that seems a bit judgmental.  After all, she told me I swam like an Olympian.

Yes, I am a naive fool.  It’s true.

Turns out she’s a former massage therapist.  I don’t think I asked enough questions about what that meant to her.  She emailed me to see if she could give me a massage so that I could tell her if her space (in the dining room of her rental house) was adequate, and give her some pointers on her technique.  By this time, my instincts have started sending me little twinges of doubt about Boobs.  I stall.  She asks again.  I am busy.  She asks yet again.  I am working.  She just keeps asking, and in order to stop the endless requests, I accept.

Never ignore both your instincts and your friends.  That’s just dumb.

I show up at her house.  She lets me in and asks me to undress and get on the table.  I must admit, she had set the room up nicely, but I did still have a weird feeling about being next to the kitchen.  I lay face down.  She says, “Now, I know that you’ve been doing this a long time.  Feel free to tell me how my work is. I mean, I haven’t been doing it lately, so it’s not going to be a good as yours, and my hands aren’t that strong yet, and I know that it’s not up to par, but this is just for practice, so just let me know.”

Obviously, she didn’t want me to tell her anything.

She began, fingernails scraping my skin.  She was chatting.  I was chatting (you should always try to win over your captor).  She told me about her “muse.” This is a word that I am only familiar with from my art studies – a creepy old dude trying to bone down on some young naked model. That’s what’s called “inspiration” to the masters.  Her “muse” was a lifeguard, about 22 years her junior.  Did he know he was her “muse?”  Good question. She showed me a picture of him in her locket.  It was a profile picture from his Facebook page.  She had printed it and cut it out, into a nice little heart.  Around her neck.  Um.

My radar is going off.  Damn delay.

Creepy massage continues, with a nice twenty-minutes of “rubbing” my butt cheeks.  I know, our asses are compiled of huge muscles.  They need some manipulation.  There is a difference between massaging the gluts and rubbing a butt.  Trust me.

At this point I am really regretting my choice to come here.  I am vulnerable, mostly naked, with a crazy lady.   And then she asks me to roll over.

She mentions how much she misses her “muse.”  He has not called since he moved to Arizona.

I am wondering to myself, “Is Arizona code for your basement?  Is he locked in there?  What’s that noise?  Is he scratching on the floor?”

Her story has sparked a memory of mine about a woman who had a restraining order against her because she was stalking one of the lifeguards.  Oh crap.

Boobs is a stalker.

And she is giving me a rub down.

Surprisingly, she didn’t murder me.  She finished the TWO HOUR massage and I got myself dressed faster than I’ve ever dressed before.  As she walked me out through the living room to her front door, she showed me some more pictures of her “muse.”  All from Facebook (note – check your privacy settings!).  For a hot summer day, I sure was shivering a lot.

I still see her.  My least favorite encounters are  in the locker room.  It’s always when I am bending over, trying to quickly get my underwear on, and there she is, right behind my bare ass.  “Hi!”

So unnerving that she recognizes me from my butt.

The last time I stupidly made small talk at the gym, I said to her, “Gee.  That poor swim instructor.  Someone should tell her that her swimsuit is completely see-through.”

She replied, “Awww. Why’s it always the girls?  I want to see a guy with a see-through suit like that.”

Creepy?  Well, in my bubble – YES!

Beware of the Boobs McGees.  They are out there and they WILL rub your butt, if you let them.

(what’s that noise?  oh.  probably just the wind.)

The Floater


It was time.  We had dated six months.  What else would we be doing?  There we were in a well-lit studio, my future husband bent over, naked.   Me?  I was busy shaving his butt hair.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the two of us.  There was my professor and another printmaking student in the studio with us.

I was an art major in college.  This does not mean I was a wild child.  I’ve never been too wild.  People would much sooner mistake me for a hayseed than a tattoo artist.  Still.  Even a hayseed can love art.

My problem was that I had run out of money to buy art supplies.  I was a part-time nanny, but that only paid $6 an hour.  I needed my litho plates to finish my final project in order to get my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree.  Lucky for me, my professor needed a couple of “models” for his latest project.  He offered to pay me in art supplies.  yay! What could possibly be wrong with that?

My future husband agreed to model, as well. He was offered $100, wisely calculating how much beer he could buy with that.  We hopped in the car, one weekend, and drove and drove to my art profs house.  My boyfriend/future husband drank mini bottles of whisky in the passenger seat as we neared the suspiciously innocent seeming suburban neighborhood.  It was 8:30 in the morning.

We arrived at the site of our impending nudity.  We sat in the car, looking at each other.  We started laughing.  Who does this?  The prof, who was a heavy smoker and looked like he’d survived the 60’s, but just barely, led us out back to his studio.  It was beautiful.  He had remodeled his garage into an art space. A very well heated art space.  Aw crap.  Well, I could still run, I suppose.  My future husband was first.

“You might want to do something with your hair,” the prof said.  My husband was bald, so we both knew what hair he was talking about.  The prof was going to be making plaster casts of our entire bodies.


“The plaster I’ll use around the genitals is very fine, and can pull out the hair.”  yummie.  That sounds fun.

So, we greased up my future husbands “man hair” with Vaseline (an ointment only used for gross anatomical needs) and then he turned around.  The prof suggested just shaving his bum.  “It’s a lot easier that way.”  He handed me the trimmers.

Well.  My future husband looked at me, with eyebrows that said ‘Will You Love Me Forever?  Butt Hair And All?’  Aw.  How could I resist.  He bent over and I shaved.  Good fun.  The other student in the studio began chatting with us while she did her art work.  I’m not sure what possessed her.  Had it been me, I would have plugged in my headphones and pretended nothing out of the ordinary was happening.  I would not have acknowledged the fact that there was a girl from my art class in the same studio, shaving her nekkid boyfriend’s butt hair.  While I’m facing the cheeks, she was facing my future husband’s face and while they talked,  they realized they knew some of the same people from high school.  Bet there’s some good stories about him floating around at the reunions.  What the hell is going on here?  Who chats at times like these?  So, I continued my pruning.  I asked myself if other girlfriends did this sort of thing.

He was ready.

The prof started with his legs and feet.  No problem at all.  My future husband laid there, semi intoxicated, with plaster on his lower body, and a slight grin on his face.  Then the prof moved on to his upper body.  Still no problem.  THEN it was time for the middle.  This was a special technique.  He used a circular structure, like a bowl with the bottom cut out of it, and set it around the “area.”  Then he poured the extra fine plaster into the bowl.

My future husband complained that it was very cold.  His slight grin had disappeared.  We turned the heat up more.  I think what he was really saying was “SHRINKAGE!” He was worried that his junk would be immortalized at a smaller size than it was at a warm beach.

And then something bobbed in the plaster.

The prof was still holding the bowl structure on to my boyfriend’s body (fortunately, so his hand were full).  He shouted at me,

“Hold it down!  It’s floating!”

Yes.  I had dated this boy for six months and here I was, pushing his penis down further into cold plaster, because that particular part of his anatomy had the nerve to float!  I was too absorbed in my task to notice the other student working on her art at this point, but let me just say how thankful I am that cell phone cameras were not yet in existence!

So, my future husband’s plaster eventually dried.  There was his junk.  Immortalized in a rather floaty and supposedly smaller plaster cast.  Mission accomplished.

And now it was my turn.  I was offered alcohol.  I accepted.  I was offered some more.  I accepted again.  I stripped down.  I was prepped, as well, but since it’s me I’m talking about, I’ll skip that part.  We poured the plaster.  I laid back in the heat and imagined I was at a spa.  I was covered from my collar bones to my hips.  The prof was chatting with my future husband. The student was chatting with both of them.  Everyone was chatting.  I was silently realizing that I’d had too much to drink.  My bladder was about to explode.

“If I pee on the plaster, will it ruin it?”

The prof looked annoyed.  My future husband laughed.  Probably because he knew I would do it.

“Can you just hold it 20 more minutes?”

TWENTY??!?!? “Sure,”  I said.  Oh jeeze.  Think about hot deserts.  Think about sunshine.  Think about paper towels.  Think about paper towels mopping up a spill.  Of pee.

“No.  I can’t hold it.”

So, the prof begrudgingly removed the top of the somewhat solidified plaster cast and I escaped my spa treatment.  I walked, because if I had run I would have bounced my bladder that was fuller than a water balloon.  It  was at least eight times its normal size.  I gently waddled to the toilet and took the world’s longest pee.


Peeing sure feels good sometimes.

I returned, a bit chilly, to the studio, ready to have the plaster put back on me.  It was semi-dry, so the prof just laid it back over me me.  As I relaxed, I realized I had just streaked nude, slowly – with a definite waddle – past three people (two men) just to get to a toilet.

I should have peed on the plaster.

Yes, my parts would be up for public viewing somewhere, at sometime, but I was getting all of my art supplies for free.  That made me happy. What didn’t make me happy was the fact that the plaster over my bladder was about two inches higher than my actual body, now that I had peed.  Man.  I was going to look like a bloated nudie.  Bummer.

Two years later, I received a call from the University.  They were investigating my old prof on suspicion of sexual harassment with a student.  Weird.  He seemed to have such good boundaries with his students.  Can’t imagine someone misinterpreting his intentions.

In my bubble we had a business transaction.  It never felt sordid or inappropriate.  I guess it depends on the bubble.  And how much shaved butt hair is floating around, protecting you, yet impeding your vision.