Lucinda's Secret

When I left home for college, my mom was all about the empty nesting.

"I just don't know what I'm going to doooooo without her," she moaned to her friends on the phone, prompting dozens of sympathetic ladies-who-lunch dates.

"I'm just too sadddddd to go to church this morning," she whimpered to my father on Sundays, opting instead to loll in bed and watch Little House on the Prairie reruns alone.

"I must shop to keep my mind off of her," she confided to the Neiman Marcus shoe salesman as he wedged a Ferragamo onto her foot.

It was no small wonder, then, that when I arrived home for my first month-long break from school, my mother insisted that I get a job. A 9-hour-a-day, five-day-a-week job. It would teach me a lesson, she said. And it did. It taught me that she didn't want me around so much, after all.

Listlessly, I went to the nearest mall and filled out job applications at every acceptable store I could find. A few hours after I arrived home, a well-known lingerie chain called and asked if I could start the next morning. I stifled a sigh and agreed.

At first, the job didn't seem like it would be so bad. I was assigned to stand in one of the store's three rooms, asking shoppers if they needed help.

"Can I help you?" I asked a mousy middle-aged woman fingering a lace teddy.

"No," she said nervously. "No thanks."

"Okay," I said, instantly backing off. After all, choosing slutwear was a personal matter. Nonchalantly, I went back to folding lace thongs.

"What are you doing?" the manager whispered angrily, sidling up to me from out of nowhere. "Why aren't you helping that woman?"

"She said she didn't want help," I said.

"Did you ask her if she wanted to open a charge account and get 15 percent off her entire purchase?"

"No."

"Did you tell her about our buy-two-get-one-free bra sale?"

"No."

"You need to tell every customer those things!" she growled. "Now get back over there."

Grimacing, I went back to the woman.

"Would-you-like-to-open-a-charge-account-with-us-today?" I said quickly.

The woman looked up, abashed, and thrust a flimsy red thing on a hanger behind her back. "No."

"Because-you-get-15-percent-off-your-entire-purchase."

"No thank you," she stammered, shoving her lingerie selection back on the rack.

"Did-you-know-about-our-buy-two-get-one-free-bra-sale?" I continued, turning red.

"No!" the woman said, before turning to flee. "No thank you!"

Biting my lip, I turned and looked back at the manager, who smiled thinly and gave an approving nod. "She was probably a shoplifter anyway," she said. "We get a lot of those."

I doubt that nervous Nelly was planning on stealing anything, but you'd be amazed how many suburban matrons enter a mall lingerie store and "upgrade" their bras in the changing room. In fact, one of the most hated duties of a lingerie sales person is putting away items that were tried on and rejected. Inevitably, one out of every six or seven tangled designer-tagged bras on the floor is a well-worn Maidenform, discarded in favor of a newer, sexier model. Cringing, we'd report to the manager how many old bras we had found.

"You need to keep a closer eye on women when they're changing," she'd say cruelly, holding up the used bras like the head of a guillotined French monarch. "Or these will start coming out of your paycheck."

Yeah. Keep a closer eye on them how, exactly? I could just picture myself casually sliding my compact mirror around the changing curtain to get a better look at a suspicious shopper. Or perhaps a direct approach would be more appropriate.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I'd say as they came out. "I'm going to have to ask you to remove your shirt."

Just as disturbing were the couples who picked out merry widows and push up bra and panty sets, then went in the fitting rooms together. I don't even want to know what all went on behind those curtains, but some of them stayed back there a very long time. And they very rarely actually bought anything. Eww.

As Christmas approached, the window dressing grew more brazen as the men began flocking in to buy sweet nothings for their loved ones. The dynamic of the store changed entirely, from estrogen haven to sex shop.

"Hey, Baby," they'd say, spying me in the corner. "I need some help finding something for my wife."

"What does she like to wear?" I'd ask.

"I was thinking something like this," they'd say, pointing at a cheesy red bustier and g-string.

"Okay, what's her size?" I'd soon learned that my opinions on what kind of lingerie a woman might want were not needed.

"Well, she's about your size."

This was the answer I got every single time. Whether the buyer was 20 or 45 or 70, whether his wife had had 4 kids or gastric bypass surgery, she was 'about my size.' I was 18. I weighed 120 pounds. Mmkay.

At the time, their familiarity and their touchy-feeliness humiliated me. Couldn't they see the budding poet before them? The sensitive soul? The obvious church-going virgin?

Now that I'm fairly wise to the ways of men, their thought pattern in this situation is so obvious. Any young girl working in a lingerie store must. like. sex. It was just that simple.

One day, a familiar face appeared before me.

"Hey, baby. I need some help finding something for my wife."

It was Lonnie, an old friend of my father's. I had grown up playing with Lonnie's children, had run in and out of his house a thousand times.

But that was years ago, and an hour and a half away from here. Lonnie clearly didn't recognize the adult me.

I helped him choose a tacky red teddy for his wife, who remarkably had lost 100 pounds since I'd seen her; I was told she was just my size. Lonnie was worse than most of the men, squeezing my elbow and getting way too close for comfort. As I led him to the register with his selection, he whispered in my ear, "Would you like to get together for lunch some time?"

I smiled sweetly. "I don't think that's going to work for me, Lonnie," I said. "But I'm sure my father would love to see you again." As his eyes widened, I turned and walked away. Damn, that felt good.

At last, Christmas came and went. On the 26th, we came in extra early to move the whore clothes in the windows to the sale racks. They were replaced by flannel pajamas and comfy knit wear. When the doors opened, scores of women solemnly filed in, clutching gift boxes to their chests. Sleazy see-through nighties, scratchy fishnets and rhinestone studded bras were exhanged for terry cloth robes, fleece slippers and ankle length nightgowns.

The fantasy that was Christmas had truly ended. And so had my job.

I went back to school not a girl, but a woman. A woman who knew that many lesbians preferred crotchless panties. A woman who had helped a perfect stranger find just the right outfit in which to lose her virginity. A woman who'd been propositioned by one of her father's friends.

I never came home for a school break again.

My Big Night Out

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was my Saturday night.

Hubs was up for A Big Award at a locally televised ceremony last night, along with several of his co-workers (my former co-workers). We decided to make a date night of it, pulling our dusty formalwear out of the closet and trying our damnedest to look glamorous.

I slipped into a backless floor length gown and realized I didn't have a bra that would work with the dress. And braless, the dress on me looked like a lumpy velvet sack. Desperately, I thought for a minute, then remembered the two magic words: duct tape. The results were amazing. One piece of duct tape gave me the perkiest braless boobs this side of the Mississippi.

"You look great," Hubs said admiringly as we walked into the hotel lobby where the Important Ceremony took place.

"Can you believe that an hour ago, I was cooking Hamburger Helper in curlers and a pajama top?" I said. We both laughed. Parent humor.

I had a few glasses of wine during the three-hour dinner and ceremony, and was pleasantly buzzed by the time Hubs won, yes, won his award. He gave an admirable acceptance speech, scored points by saying nice things about me, and remembered all three of the girls' names. Heh heh. As the camera swooped in for a close-up of me cheering on my husband, I sat up straight and beamed, sneaking a look at myself on the oversized monitor. Yep. Thank God for duct tape.

Afterward, we headed with some of the other winners to The Palm for celebratory drinks. Our friends had a limo and driver for the night and were pretty sloshed by the time we arrived.
After a rather large French Martini, I realized I had reached my limit. Hubs and I decided to go to one more bar with the gang for coffee. And the bartender there, seeing the Major Awards, poured shots for all of us.

This is the point where if I were a better writer, I'd have some major foreshadowing going on here. A black cat would run across the bar as I reached for my shot. A discordant piano key would sound loudly in the background. The angel sitting on my shoulder would sweetly whisper, "Now, Lucinda, shots are bad. BADDDDDD!"

But none of those things happened. I downed the shot. The room tipped a bit. I was fine. Shortly afterward, Hubs and I said our goodbyes and hopped in the car.

About ten minutes from home, I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. A churning. A bubbling. My digestive system was declaring mutiny.

"Oh my god," I said, waving my hands in distress. "I have to throw up!"

"What?" my husband looked stricken. We were on the interstate in the pouring rain. Then he said the words that reminded me even then why I love him so much. "Don't get it on your dress, whatever you do!"

I thought wildly. What would Susie Sunshine do? What would Susie Sunshine do? I muttered my mantra aloud.

Wait a second! I knew exactly what Susie Sunshine would do. What she did, in fact. Last weekend.

Calmly, I opened my window, stuck out my head, and barfed. And then I did it again. And I decided I didn't like getting wet, so instead of actually hanging my head out as she suggested, I tried to stick only my mouth out the window. Which didn't work so well. And I got some on my arm. And on the car door. But my dress? It was spotless!

And again, I thanked God for my husband. Because rather than being repulsed, he leapt into action, wiping me off when we got home at 1:30am, helping me into the shower, and putting me to bed. Oh, and taking care of the entire family today while I lay around sleeping off the worst hangover I have ever had in my entire life. Of course, the word "hangover" was replaced by "stomach bug" once the girls woke up.

But I lost four pounds. Yay!

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was my Saturday night.

Orange

Last night, Baby was standing in front of me holding half an orange crayon. Thoughtfully, she put the end of it in her mouth.

"No, Baby," I said. "We don't put crayons in our mouths. No."

Quickly, she removed the crayon, looked at it quizzically for a moment, then popped it in her mouth again.

Now this was unheard of. Baby's never been one to put inedible objects in her mouth, particularly right after I tell her not to.

"No!" I said forcefully. "Do not put that crayon in your mouth!"

She took it out and looked at me in confusion.

"But. Iss orange!" she said.

The Cult of Arbonne

If anyone ever offers you a bag of Arbonne products to try for a week?

Just. Say. No.

About a week ago, I mentioned that one of my friends had become an Arbonne consultant and loaned out a $266 skin care line for me to sample and return, along with (She hoped! She hoped!) a lengthy, filled-out order form and my credit card number.

I was bemused. I am not a products person. I don't have a lot of extra cash right now. I spent it all on drink in Atlanta.

However, I tried it. Dubiously. Bemusedly.

And by God, if it didn't work.

After a day or so, my skin was radiant. Lineless. Smooth as silk. Even then, I was disgusted, certain that the moment I stopped using the Arbonne line, my face would return to its normal dull and dingy state. Yet three Arbonneless days later, I was still glowing like I'd just had mind blowing sex.

So now I was really peeved. I wanted that skin care line. I needed that skin care line. But consarn it, I would not, could not pay $266 for it, not to mention a $29 "consultant fee". In an Arbonne-induced frenzy, I arrived last Thursday evening at my parents' house, sample bag in hand, and immediately consulted the world's most product-friendly woman: My mother. She had stunning news.

"Why honey, I'm an Arbonne consultant," she said, smiling wickedly.

What? How could this be? My own mother was hiding this skin care line from me and I hadn't even discerned the shameful secret by looking not only into her eyes, but also at her unnaturally smooth face?

"I don't sell it to anyone, though," she said. "I buy it wholesale for myself. I've given you a bunch of Arbonne products. Don't you remember?"

Remember? No. I didn't. Yet days later, I would return home, open my bathroom closet and find dozens of Arbonne boxes and bottles I had never noticed before. Huh.

Back to my mom.

"I've used it for three years and it's wonderful. But I've rotated to another skin care line now, so you can have all my Arbonne if you want. I doubt we're using the same version, though. I use the age-defying products."

I couldn't contain my glee. "That's what I'm using!" I chortled. "That's what I'm using!" I rubbed my shaking hands, a helpless addict this close to a score.

Mom went upstairs and came down with a shopping bag full of three of everything. Free. Absolutely free. And all mine.

I returned home and gave the news to my friend when we all met for play group on Tuesday. I promised to buy a consolation face masque from her, if she would waive the consultant fee. Eagerly, she agreed. Then, clutching the returned sample bag, she turned to a shy and retiring mom sitting beside her.

"Why don't you take this bag for a week, Sarah?" she said. "I mean, have you seen Lucinda's face? She's glowing as if she were pregnant!"

"Uh. I don't know," Sarah said. "Maybe later."

"Just take this bag," Margaret insisted, handing the bag to her. "I can swing by and pick it up from you on Friday."

"Friday," Sarah said, thinking fast. "Ohhh, I'm going to be out in East Anderson Friday, and that's totally across town from you." She gave the bag back to Margaret.

"That's okay, I'll meet you there," Margaret said, dropping the bag back in Sarah's lap. The rest of us watched, fascinated, our heads moving back and forth as though we were spectators at Wimbledon.

"That's not going to work," Sarah countered steadily, holding the bag out.

"Keep it 'til next Tuesday, then," Margaret insisted, pushing the bag back into Sarah's lap.

"I, uh, well, I like to know the exact ingredients of my skin care," Sarah said, laughing weakly and looking around for some support. "I'm weird that way. I would have to research this a little more before I try it." She started to hand the bag back to Margaret,who calmly stopped her with one hand.

"I'll be right back," Margaret trilled, getting up from off the floor and leaving the room. Quickly, Sarah pushed the bag to one side and turned her back on it. Moments later, Margaret returned with a photocopied list of Arbonne's ingredients. "It's all organic," she purred, handing the list- and the bag- back to Sarah.

Sarah knew she had lost. Desperately, she opened the bag and fumbled through it. "Well, I've just invested a bit of money in another skin care line, so maybe I can find something in here that I don't already have and just try that."

"No," Margaret said, steely-eyed. "You have to try the whole thing."

I would like to say that I intervened on Sarah's behalf. Instead, I repeated tonelessly after Margaret, "Yes. You have to try the whole thing."

On my other side, Pam piped up in an uncharacteristically dull voice, "Your skin will be smoother than it's ever been before." She, like my mom, was a wholesale buyer and slathered Arbonne over her face two times a day.

Darkly, Sarah stuffed the sample bag into her diaper bag and said her goodbyes.

And yet, I have no doubt in my mind that by next week, Sarah will return to us fresh-faced and Stepford eyed, eager to talk about crossing over to the dark side.

The Arbonne Side.

New for Searchers! The Lisa Rinna Repository

Strange things are happening here at Suburban Turmoil.

Ever since my Golden Globes wrap-up, I have found myself caught in the uncomfortable Google beam of Lisa Rinna Radar.

All sorts of folks have been sifting through the pages of my life, searching for more information on "Lisa Rinna hairstyle," "Lisa Rinna dress," "Lisa Rinna Freak Face".....

Yes. Lisa Rinna Freak Face.

Okay, so maybe they have a point.

I think that whoever agreed to inject that much collagen into her lips could be decertified based solely on this photograph. And I'm hoping she's wearing that cross in order to ward off the plastic surgery demons that clearly are plaguing both her face and her upper body.

As for her hairstyle...

I know. You're not looking at her hair. Silicone aside, though, Lisa Rinna has the very hairstyle that every suburban mom in my town has worn for the last three years. They look just like Lisa when they leave the salon, at least from the forehead and ears outward. But give it a few days and it turns into this:

So if you've come here because you're thinking of getting a Rinna 'do, let me urge you against it.

And who is Lisa Rinna, anyway? I mean, what has she done to deserve this kind of star status?I looked her up on IMDB and couldn't believe that I had been so ignorant of her illustrious career. With such gems as Night Sins, Lies Before Kisses, and Robot Wars to her credit, it's a wonder she hasn't been nominated for an Oscar.

The strangest thing about the Lisa Rinna searches is that many of them are coming from the same computer in, of all places, Los Angeles.

Could it be that Lisa Rinna is Googling herself?

No, no. The stars do not Google. Surely Lisa has her personal assistant do it for her. I can just picture her face when she finds out I'm onto her searching habits...

Oh shit is right.

A Bit About My Weekend

"Lucinda, this is Mindy. She's been reading your blog."

Sally, my friend from high school, introduced me to Mindy last night over cocktails at a trendy tapas bar. I was staying with Sally for the weekend, doing what any good wife and mother does when she's on her own for a few days with her girlfriends: Drinking, talking, drinking, eating, drinking, sleeping late, drinking and... you guessed it. Drinking.

"Oh my god, I spent like, three hours reading your blog while I was supposed to be working. And you have to understand, I never slack at work, but I just couldn't stop, like, I couldn't! Oh my god, I feel like I know you," Mindy was cute and effusive. I giggled. "You're a good writer. Have you written a book or anything?"

I was really starting to like Mindy a lot.

"Unfortunately, no."

"Well, I have to ask you, well, I have all these questions, like, how did you meet your husband?"

I told her the story of meeting my husband at work and falling madly and irrevocably in love with him.

"That's great," Sally cut in at the first opportunity. She had only heard my little love story about 100 times. "So Mindy, tell me more about Mark."

"I will," she laughed. "But first," she turned back to me. "I'm sorry. I have to know where you got that statistic that 75 percent of women polled are bare floor down there."

"I can't remember," I confessed. "But I think it was Esquire."

"Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah." Sally said. We had spent the previous evening with other friends, who also had read my blog and -surprise!- wanted to talk hoo ha. "So you and Mark seem really well-matched, I think."

"And I'll talk about him in a second," Mindy said quickly. "But first," she turned to me and laughed. "I have to ask. Are you still bare floor?"

"Yep."

"And you like it?"

"Yeah, it's fine."

And from there, the discussion went pretty much the way it had the night before, as each woman at the table talked about her hoo ha and what she does to make it appealing. There were serious arguments over the merits of a landing strip, questions as to whether bare floor is merely catering to perverts and neat freaks, and secret confessions of hoo has left in their natural state.

As it turned out, I still had a lot to learn. Because it's no longer about waxing, on all fours or otherwise. No. Today, it's about laser hair removal. $1200 and five lasering sessions will leave you bare floor... FOREVER.

And I have to admit. It's tempting.

But that's another story for another time. My point is that although I have tried to leave my hoo ha story behind, it follows me. Out of cyberspace and into 21-and-up bars (Yes. Apparently, my hoo ha story even has a fake ID). The women of America (and several in Canada and I believe there may even be one in France) are desperately seeking reassurance that their hoo ha grooming choices are acceptable to the male species. And while I really appreciate hearing about all of your hoo has and am shedding a tiny tear of gratitude that you would share such personal information with me (and anyone who comes here looking for "wheelchair diaper grunting poop"), let's just get one thing straight...

I AM THROUGH TALKING ABOUT MY HOO HA. AND YOURS.

I mean it. It's going to be at least a few weeks before I'm willing to talk hoo ha with you or anyone else again. Capiche?

Great. So we're cool.

As for the weekend- I had a blast. I love my friends and wish I could see them more often, but even a few days away has its consequences... Because while I was gone, my husband turned into an irritable garden gnome and tomorrow, I have to go home and kiss him and break the spell. He needs me, people. Ain't love grand?

Behind the Scenes at the Golden Globes

Thanks, Drew. For once, no one is looking at Eva Longoria.

Newly-blonde Alanis Morrisette seemed cheerful despite being newly diagnosed with mopey nipple disorder.

Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick wouldn't confirm or deny reports that they are shooting a new reality series for HBO tentatively titled No Sex and it's Shitty.


Penelope Cruz took a break from shooting Lawrence Welk: The Movie to attend the star-studded event.

Debi Mazar spent the evening trying to convince producers to give her a role in the remake of Rosemary's Baby.

Alas. Even this cleverly designed evening harness couldn't conceal the toll motherhood has taken on Heidi's formerly perky cleavage.

When Scarlett Johanssen couldn't get extra Golden Globe tickets for her young niece and nephew, she found an ingenious way to sneak them inside.

Shortly after this photo was taken, it was revealed that Harry Hamlin and Lisa Rinna's Golden Globes invitation was actually from 1985. They were immediately escorted from the premises.

Pamela's dress was designed by famed French couturier Otto Titslinger.

Melanie Griffith revealed tonight that she was the inspiration behind Mattel's new "Aging Badly Barbie," due in stores this February.

Mariah Carey currently is filming "Supersize Me 2" on location across the United States.

I Need to Get This Off My Chest.

As you've watched me blatantly whore for Best of Blogs votes this weekend, perhaps you've been a bit surprised, even alarmed, by witnessing this new and unexpected element of my personality.

"Lucinda always seemed like a woman of integrity," I can hear you saying in my mind. "I would have thought she'd be far too dignified to grub for votes like a common state senator."

Well folks, there was a time when I tried taking the high road. And it was full of potholes. Potholes and roadkill.

The year was 1989. I was in eighth grade and I had decided to run for freshman student council president.

With my fashionably french-rolled Guess? jeans, freshly permed hair and gaggle of girlfriends, I knew I was a shoo-in for the office. The competitors were quickly narrowed down to me and one other girl. Jody Cornette.

At 13, Jody had long frizzy hair, a lazy smile, and the buxom body of a full-grown woman. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't funny. She wasn't smart. Yet she held a special place in the imaginations of her male classmates, a place the rest of us couldn't hope to attain.

We girls, of course, hated her. And with so many side-ponytailed friends behind me in my bid for president, I knew I couldn't fail. Still, I wasn't taking any chances.

Just to make sure that no one forgot I was the candidate with the most to offer, I spent hours coloring dozens of posters emblazoned with the magnficent slogan, "Get up and go! Vote for the pro!" and a picture of a frightened, running Mickey Mouse beneath as added incentive. After all, The People loved Mickey Mouse.

Jody, on the other hand, put up a few poorly-colored bits of construction paper, imploring her classmates to "Vote for Jody." My friends and I snickered when we saw them. Was that the best she could do?

Finally, the Day of Speeches arrived.

I stood before my fellow eighth graders and delivered a magnificent speech that I had been working on for weeks. Full of noble sentiments about friendship, academic excellence, good sportsmanship and free pizza, I had made my own self cry when delivering it in front of my bedroom mirror the night before. I received a standing ovation from my classmates. Triumphantly, I took my seat on stage as Jody nervously stood to deliver her rebuttal, scrawled on an index card.

"Um." she began, before pausing in fright before the sea of faces. I giggled behind my hand.

"If I am frethman prethident (Did I mention Jody had a lisp?), um, I will do my betht to lithen to all your conthernth."

The boys watched Jody's heaving chest in rapt amazement.

"I will, um, try to get the dreth code changed tho that girlth can wear thorter thkirths."

From the front row, my friend Emily rolled her eyes. It was a Christian school, for heaven's sake. We knew that wasn't going to happen.

Jody haltingly continued on for a few more moments, then sat back down to scattered applause. I clenched my fists in my lap. Victory was most assuredly mine.

"You're so gonna win!" My friends assured me afterward. "She was horrible!" "She doesn't have a chance!"

I remained calm throughout the voting. In my mind, I had already won. I wasn't even nervous when the principal got on the intercom at the end of the day to announce the winners.

"Ninth grade secretary, Annie Arnold. Ninth grade treasurer, Rahul Rajabarad. Ninth grade vice president, Steven Carlson. Ninth grade president..."

I smiled, preparing myself for the crowd of well-wishers about to surround me.

"By a very close vote, Jody Cornette."

Beside me, Emily gasped. I sat in mute horror, my victory smile still frozen on my face.

"What the....?!" my friend Kristen said from across the room.

Jeremy Aldred turned around in his seat, a pitying look on his face.

"The boys all voted for Jody," he said apologetically.

"Why?!" Emily demanded angrily. "Lucinda was way better!"

"Jody has bigger boobs," Jeremy shrugged. "Sorry," he said to me, before turning back around.

Yes, folks. You read it right.

My potential career as a budding politican was undone by my boobs. Or lack thereof.

So imagine me now, a Mommy Blogger finalist with my arms protectively crossed over my chest, glancing around to see what the competition has to offer.

Apparently, Big Yellow House has stripper-sized boobs. Dasbecca is probably a D-cup. Personally, I'm not doing so bad, but a 34-C just isn't gonna cut it in this competition.

So when you see me begging for votes right now, just picture in your minds an angry eighth grader with a really big perm, furiously stuffing Kleenex into her almost-A and swearing revenge.

Oh, and while you're casting your ballots (and some people have found they can vote again after waiting 24 hours, hint hint!), please don't forget about my friends... Michele Agnew in Best Overall Blog, Christina's blog, My Topography, in the Art Blog category, and Raehan (Agog and Aghast) and Minerva (A Woman of Many Parts) in Inspirational Blogs.

I know you'll do what's breast. And I thank you for your loyalty.

Hoo Ha Brouhaha

My cell phone rang this afternoon while I was at the supermarket.

"I can't believe you wrote about that."

"About..." I looked around. Just me and the canned vegetables. I lowered my voice. "About my hoo ha?"

"YES," my husband hissed.

"Well, it was pretty funny. I thought."

"Yeah," he conceded after a pause. "But I can't believe you wrote about it! About us. Oh, and that 75%? That is totally wrong."

"I don't think so."

"Yeah. It's wrong. "

"Oh, I guess you would know better than I. Mr. Casanova. Since you used to get around back in your heyday. Or so I've been told."

I'm starting to get mad now. Suffice it to say my hoo ha story is most definitely on my husband's mind. Now that I think of it, your hoo ha's are probably on his mind too.

"I read the comments," he snickered before I hung up on him. "People certainly volunteered a lot of information!"

As I put my phone away, I paused before the low fat cottage cheese. And I shuddered.

Because I just might unwittingly have started a hoo ha revolution. Your hoo ha status reports set a commenting record here. And I'm telling you, dear readers, it is a little bit frightening to me that although I don't know what most of your faces look like, I could probably pick out your hoo ha in a blogger line-up.

I don't know how I feel about that. I was raised in the South, where we don't even have hoo ha's, let alone talk about them. A part of me wants to swim back to the safe shores of cursing toddlers and frontal lobotomies.

Another part of me feels compelled to ride this hoo ha wave as far as it takes me.

So women of the blogging world, (and the one man brave enough to comment with his concerns about itchy hoo ha hair regrowth) consider Suburban Turmoil a safe place for you and for your hoo ha, whatever you decide to do with it.

And now, let's move back to the no-wake zone, shall we?

The Nether Lands

I'm not what you'd call a high-maintenance kind of girl.

Oh, I keep up appearances. Mostly. I wear make-up and brush out my hair and I wouldn't be caught dead in a track suit (apologies to all my track suit wearing readers- Hey, you look fabulous! It's just not a good look on me). But I gave up manicures a long time ago. My hairstylist sees me once a quarter, if she's lucky. And when it comes to ahem, waxing? Well.

I don't go there.

"It's not that bad," a friend told me when I asked her about her waxing sessions. "I mean, I have a woman who comes to my house and does it. I can't imagine going to a salon for a bikini wax."

"But what happens?" I asked.

"You get on all fours and she puts the wax on, and then rips it off. It doesn't really hurt that bad."

Excuse me... WHAT?! You get on ALL FOURS?! Now, I know I have waxing readers out there, so correct me if my information is inaccurate, but this is what I was told by a very reliable source. And it freaked me out so badly that I had nightmares about it for months afterward.

After very little soul searching, I decided that I'd be doing the landscaping all by myself. And there would be no wax involved. My DIY method didn't allow for a lot of finesse, but at least I wasn't bottomless on all fours in some salon's dingy back room.

And for years, I was at peace with my decision- Until one recent day, I read a survey in Some Magazine in which 75% of women polled said they are "bare floor" down there.

Betrayed doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. You're telling me 3 out of 4 women are completely bare down there and I didn't know? Where exactly was I when all of this was going on? Why was I kept out of the loop? Was it all part of a wide-reaching conspiracy to make me out to be some sort of circus freak?

Enough was enough.

I went straight to the drugstore and winced my way through various waxes until I finally came upon my miracle solution. Thank God for Sally Hansen and her Painless Bikini No-Wax Hair Removal Brazilian Formula.

I held on to the stuff for a week before actually using it yesterday while the baby was asleep and I had the house to myself. Yes, it was painless. Yes, it did the job it claimed it would do on the box.

But how on earth would I tell Hubs? And what if he hated it?

He wouldn't hate it, though. It was very porn star. And that's what men like, right? Secretly?

Fast forward to last night.

I had decided to be subtle, yet sexy.

"So, are you sleepy?" I asked as we got ready for bed.

"Yes."

"Really sleepy?"

"I'm sleepy."

"But are you really, really sleepy?"

"I'm not that sleepy." Hubs was confused. Was this my version of a come-on? Because if it was, he sure as hell didn't want to screw things up.

Awkwardly, I got undressed.

He watched. Then, he did a double take. An honest-to-god double take. And then he... He...

Laughed.

HE LAUGHED, PEOPLE.

So I in turn did what any woman would do. I yanked the sheet from the bed and covered myself. In one quick, God-help-me-now motion.

"What???" he said, laughing helplessly. "What the..?"

I feebly tried to explain.

"Wait," he said once his laughter had subsided. "Let me investigate."

"No!" I said, anxiously clutching my sheet around me. "Let's just pretend this never happened."

It took quite a bit of coaxing before Hubs was allowed to conduct his investigation, but I'm going to just close the curtain on the scene right there. Because according to public opinion, this is a mommy blog. Therefore we must keep things family-friendly.

But the next time you suffer through an embarrassing moment, keep in mind that there is nothing but nothing more embarrassing than having your hoo ha laughed at. Period. End of discussion.

Maybe you're wondering now why I told you all this.

You know what?

So am I.

Bobbed

I'd like to say that I was busy ironing or something when I blithely paused by my computer, pressed a button, and discovered to my great surprise and delight that I was a Best of Blogs finalist.

Because I wouldn't want you to think that I got up at 3:30am Wednesday morning, snuck downstairs like a criminal and checked to see whether the BoB list was up (It wasn't. But I wouldn't have known that, because I slept like a baby Tuesday night). And I certainly wouldn't want you to think that I sat hunched and bleary-eyed over my laptop yesterday, pressing the refresh button until I developed a weird tic in my right index finger. No, no. That wouldn't do at all.

So instead, picture me wearing a stylish von Furstenburg wrap dress, gaily laughing as the flowers and balloons and messages from well-wishers arrive, saying something like, "I just can't believe I'm a finalist! Thank you! Oh! Thank you!" Picture me standing on my front porch gasping as the high school marching band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In" in my front yard. Because that's what it felt like. So we'll say that's exactly what happened.

I am staggered by all the new visitors who've stopped by. Damn that cannoli story. You guys probably think I'm a freak. You may be right. But I have had a brush with fame before, so I like to think I know how to handle myself now that I'm older and wiser.

Yes, as a much younger lass, I was a perky morning television anchor in Podunksville. My station's ratings left a little something to be desired (Why else would they have hired me?), but I didn't care. I was famous. My name was destined to be in lights.

Unfortunately, I didn't have many fans. I can only think of two, in fact. A bag boy at Harris Teeter known as Butchy Wutchy... and my gynocologist.

Butchy Wutchy had coke bottle eyeglasses and a tangled mass of sandy blonde hair. He also had an extraordinarily loud speaking voice. Really, I can't think of why he was wasting his talents at Hairy Tweeter when he could've been announcing play-by-plays from the press box of the local middle school football field. But anyway.

"Hey!" he'd shout each and every time I showed up in the checkout line. "Hey! It's Lucinda! From Channel 2! I watch you! I watch you! Har har! Everybody, look!"

I have Butchy Wutchy to thank for my mastery of the smile-cringe.

But honestly, the gynocologist was far worse. I only had to see him once a year, but still. The last thing you want a man between your legs to say is, "So! You have got to give me that recipe for Chicken Parmesan! I could tell you were really enjoying it last week! Oh, and everything down here is looking just fine! Tell me, what exactly was in that recipe?"

"Um. Chicken." I'd say through clenched teeth. "Tomatoes. Uh. Maybe... oregano?"

"Oregano!" he'd shout gleefully. "I knew it! Okay, this might pinch a little."

I think we've had enough of this trip down memory lane.

Let's get back to the present now, shall we?

I would like to say that all things are merry in Lucindaland. That my former 15 minutes of fame prepared me for this moment in the cyberspotlight. But unfortunately, it appears the competition already has cycled into high gear. And I feel like I've been pushed into some sort of blog battledome.

While half the finalists are busy getting sloshed, another who shall remain nameless appears to be using her superhero status to plot her ascension to the Mommy Blogger throne. How else can you explain the pile of flaming dog poop I found in my inbox this morning? There was no note attached, but I seem to remember that a certain someone has been going on and on about her adorable new puppy dog. I'm not pointing fingers. I'm just sayin'.

No, I feel very certain that all of the nominees will behave with grace and dignity. We are mommies, after all. And everyone knows that mommies are nothing but nice.

So thank you, BoB. And thank you to all of you who've sent me kind e-mails and comments. I think I'll get back to my ironing now.

Oh, and confidential to PP: Game on, my friend. Game on.

Holy Cannoli

As I thumbed through the mail, my heart skipped a beat.

To The Italian Food Lover at 1120 Stillwood Drive. I read the postcard for Abruggio's Family Restaurant with shaking hands before dropping it and abruptly running for the stairs. I flew down the hall and angrily threw open the attic door.

"How did you do it?!" I shouted, before taking the steps two at a time to the very top of the house.

Turning away from a small black-and-white TV in the attic corner, a greasy-haired middle-aged man in a ripped t-shirt, faded black dress pants and suspenders shrugged and turned his palms up in a halfhearted apology.

"Eh," he sighed. "Things happen."

"The deal was, I put you up and I give you all the Italian food you can eat-- so long as NO ONE KNOWS YOU LIVE HERE!!"

"Your rigatoni leaves a lot to be desired," he said, quietly defiant.

"Look," I pleaded. "Don't you get it? What will the neighbors say if they find out The Italian Food Lover is living in my attic?!"

"Aye yie yie!" The Italian Food Lover ran his hands through his thick, graying hair. "Abruggio's is not even in your neighborhood! Who they gonna tell, eh? Now get me some Fettucine Alfredo, woman. I pay you well. I am hungry! Hungry, I tell you!"

I sighed and turned away, stomping down the stairs to make my displeasure known. My brain worked feverishly. I had to find a way to get The Italian Food Lover out of my attic. But how. How?

Suddenly, the phone rang in the kitchen. The fog lifted from my brain and I jumped to pick up the phone. It was Hubs.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just got the mail and came back inside."

"Did we get anything good?"

"No, not really. Although we did get a postcard from Abruggio's addressed to The Italian Food Lover. And I was thinking, what if we had some guy called The Italian Food Lover living in our attic, and..."

I paused as the silence deepened on the other end of the phone. It was an infinitely patient silence. An I-will-wait-for-you-to-get-through-this-story-and-give-a-little-heh-heh-heh-fake-laugh-at-the-end silence. Not the kind of silence I was looking for at all.

"Uh. Anyway. No. Nothing good came."

"All right, well, I guess I'll talk to you later. I love you."

"I love you too."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Lucinda's Advice Column- January 2006

So far, the new year has brought many a Googler to my door here at Suburban Turmoil. And despite evidence to the contrary, I'm no hardhearted bitch. I feel compelled to give them a little something for their efforts.

You guessed it, folks... It's the January 2006 edition of....

Lucinda's Advice Column

Good Advice for Bad Googlers

Fucking baby makers- Norfolk, NE

Norfolk, I get the impression you're looking merely for a sympathetic ear- and I am so feeling you. They take up all the good tables at O'Charleys with their mealy-mouthed broods. They block your way to the Campbell's soup with their enormous car-shaped carts. They make wayyy too much noise during King Kong. Their minions projectile vomit in the unlikeliest of places.

Fucking baby makers.

"She's nice" "What does that mean"- Reston, VA

Ohhhh, the dreaded "she's nice." Well, it's pretty apparent that the 'she' in question is butt ugly. And I'll bet someone's trying to set you up with her. I've written a statement for you to memorize: "I appreciate your efforts to help me find a date before I'm 41, but I'm not really looking for nice. I'm looking for hot. Or at the very least, warm. Yeah. A warm body would be good... I'm definitely looking for someone who's breathing. That is non-negotiable. What did you say this nice girl's name was again?"

Cheating lying philandering husband his name is- Aliso Viejo, CA

His name is what?! His name is what?! Don't just leave me hanging here. In order for me to help you, I must have his name. Also his social security number and address. Because this credit card application requires it. And Neiman's is calling my name.

Humiliation dressed like a baby girl- Ottumwa, IA

This actually happened to me once. I was forced to wear a scratchy bonnet and suck on a pacifier while everyone stood around staring at me with goofy grins on their faces. Of course, I was only 6 months old at the time, but still. I will never live down the embarrassment.

So to all the baby Googlers out there, if you are feeling humiliated over your clothing status, just scream like hell every time your mommy tries to dress you. You will be down to diaper-only status in no time. Trust me on this one.

Adult diapers Lindsay Lohan- Peru

Lindsay Lohan is well-known for her fashion-forwardness. I mean, she did leggings before anyone was doing leggings. Well, I mean, no one ever really did leggings except her, but still, she was first Anyway. Peru here is totally on top of things, because recently, Lindsay Lo was spotted walking the red carpet in a sparkly top and an adult diaper. Designer, of course. My advice: Get your own now, while you can still be the first in your subdivision. Plain old Depends will work- Just sew a few sequins on and you're good to go! And please, please send me a picture of your ensemble.

My husband is a liar- Pt. Orchard, WA

Oh really? And why should I believe you?

Mothers against mothers again- Salt Lake City, UT

Oh, the M.A.M.A.s. I hate that group. And I hear they're lobbying certain members of the Senate pretty hard these days. Mothers Against Mothers Again really needs to get a grip, if you ask me. There is absolutely nothing wrong with having more than one child.

Santa elf topless- Seminole, TX

You sick bastard. It's cold up there in the North Pole. Why would you even suggest that an elf go topless? Particularly when they're already bottomless? Good Lord, I've had enough.

Professor Owl Meets His Bitter End

For days, Professor Owl had been listening to the plans being made for his demise. Mute and forgotten in a corner, his loathing for Lindsay and her foul-mouthed clan grew as he watched her chuckle and rub her hands in glee.

"Ooh, Hubs, here's one. Let's boil him in oil. Although oil might be dangerous. How 'bout we boil him in water? But do you think that would damage the Calphalon?"

"Beat him with a baseball bat. That's possible... Wait. Do we have a baseball bat? Because that wiffle ball bat is for pussies."

"Running over him would be easy and fun. Do you want to drive or take pictures?"

Enough was enough. Professor Owl was getting the hell out.

He waited until the coast was clear, then silently waddled out the kitchen door without looking back. Da bitch, he thought. Anything's betta dan dis.

Professor Owl carefully closed the screen door and inhaled deeply. Aaaaah. The smell of freedom... and also the smell of... was it... dog drool? He slowly turned around.

Oh shit, he said to himself. Shit on a stick.

The professor could feel his wings shaking as he and the yellow devil stared each other down. Dammit, you're an owl! he told himself frantically. Now think, damn you! Think!

"Wanna play?" Professor Owl asked haughtily.

Oh yes. The yellow devil wanted to play all right.

"No, dat's not it!" Professor Owl yelped. It was no use. Grasped in the yellow devil's powerful jaws, The Prof prepared for the worst.

But just as his alphabet flashed before him, fate intervened in the form of a toddler.

Dressed in a pink sweater and striped leggings, she beamed at him with the smile of one who has been eating blue Lucky Charms marshmallows. A lot of blue Lucky Charms marshmallows.

"Bad doggy!" she shouted.

The yellow devil's grip tightened.

"C'mon!" Professor Owl croaked. "You can do betta dan dat!"

"BAD DOGGY!" she cried again, louder, looking around for reinforcements.

For a moment, her innoncent ploy seemed to work as the yellow devil paused in consternation and dropped Professor Owl on the ground. Instinctively, the Professor played dead.

But what the...? Was his avenging angel toddling away?!

"Try again!" he pleaded.

That was all the yellow devil needed to hear.

Fuck! Professor Owl thought to himself as the yellow devil carried him to his destiny. Lindsay is sooo gonna blog about dis.

Eighties Ladies

It must be snowing in hell.

Because I have heard words come from my stepdaughters' mouths that were not meant to be uttered in my lifetime.

"If I could live in any decade, it would have to be the eighties," my 15-year-old said wistfully while we were riding in the car.

"The eighties? I said "The 1880s?"

"No! The 1980s, of course!" 15 said, crossing one legwarmered shin over the other and turning up the volume on her iPod so that I could plainly hear A-Ha's "Take On Me" reverberating off her damaged eardrums.

"What about you, 12?" I said, after forcibly shutting my gaping jaw with my palm.

"Ummmm...." She twirled her side ponytail thoughtfully. "The eighties. Definitely the eighties."

I don't know why I was so surprised. The warning signs were right beneath my nose. This season's Christmas haul included "The Breakfast Club" on DVD, the "Pretty in Pink" soundtrack and a bubble skirt. A fucking bubble skirt.

Inexplicably, my stepdaughters are trying to recreate for themselves one of the most embarrassing decades in recent history (I say "one" because judging from the photos of my husband wearing a wife beater, silky short shorts and a sad attempt at a white-man-fro, the seventies may in fact have been worse).

But the more I think about their penchant for all things eighties, the more I get it.

While my childhood played out alongside Rio dancing on the sand, Michael Jackson telling bad guys to beat it and Madonna fueling my dreams of one day becoming a Material Girl, the girls haven't been so lucky. Their memories of school dances, soccer championships and first loves are paired with an unlikely soundtrack of songs about lovely lady lumps, taking X in da club, and showing off their goodies.

I could relate to the music of my youth. But I'm pretty sure the girls won't ever feel a need to drop it like it's hot when da pimp's in da crib.

And if they do, they're so grounded.

So in that respect, their decision to explore the tacky splendor of the 80s makes sense. To them, it's a world where reality is distilled to three distinct groups of jocks, preps and nerds. Polka dots and Molly Ringwald rule. Hats and gloves (to which they've always been partial) are hot. So are the Coreys Haim and (eeg.) Feldman.

I don't have the heart to tell the girls that thoughts of the eighties induce nausea in most of us who actually lived through them. For one thing, I'm pretty sure that my hairspraying habits are responsible for a large hole in the ozone layer. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I'll also admit that my copy of the Valley Girl Handbook eventually disintegrated after I thumbed through it a good thousand times (I just tried to find a new copy online, but apparently they've all been burned). The girls don't need to know about all of my mistakes.

No, for now, I'm going to silently suffer through their pale blue eyeshadow, their off-the-shoulder sweatshirts and their love for the quaint games of Pac-Man and Donkey Kong. Because when I consider the alternative, the eighties don't seem so bad, after all.

The Cruddy Professor

When I was young, I had an evil doll.

Handmade by a supposed "friend" of my mom's, he was a cross between Humpty Dumpty and a psychopathic clown. His handstitched smile oozed menace. His misshapen lump of a body made for particularly demented shadows on the walls at night. His arms and legs were just the right length to wrap around a small child's neck after she had gone to sleep...

I spent a lot of sleepless nights worrying about that doll.

And because of my experience, I've been particularly vigilant about which toys make it into my toddler's room. She will never own a toy monkey with cymbals or anything with sharp little teeth that look like they could take a chunk out of your arm the moment you close your eyes.

But despite my watchfulness, an enemy has somehow made it past the border. And he must be stopped.

I found Professor Owl at a garage sale for two dollars. Practically new, he seemed like an incredible bargain. Push Professor Owl's question mark and he would prompt you to find a letter. Push the corresponding letter and he'd congratulate you on getting it right. After a quick once-over, I snatched him up and handed over the cash.

At home, I gave him to Baby, who was delighted by her talking owl. But after she started punching his buttons, I noticed some major design flaws.

For one thing, Professor Owl's voice was jarringly loud. For another, he had an irritating New Joisey accent.

"Hoy. Oym Professuh Owl. Can you foind da lettuh A?"

Baby giggled and pressed D.

"Troy again. Can you foind da lettuh A?"

She tried T.

"C'mon! You can do bettah dan dat!"

"What did he say?" I asked Baby. She looked at me blankly. Did he just tell a 1-1/2-year-old that she could do better than that?!

"Don't play with him anymore, Baby. He's an asshole."

Of course, when I say 'don't', all my baby hears these days is 'do.' Defiantly, she studied Professor Owl's Alphabet-tattooed chest and punched the letter A.

"No! Dat's not it! Can you foind da lettuh A?"

"He's a liar!" I grabbed Professor Owl from Baby's hands. "No more. Professor Owl is a liar, Baby! Don't you believe anything he says."

She looked up at me wonderingly. Once I had distracted her with Zoboomafoo on TV, Professor Owl was quickly exiled to the back of a pile of stuffed animals.

Until yesterday. On a major toy expedition to the deepest corners of her room, Baby found Professor Owl hidden beneath the friendly teddy bears and Sesame Street castoffs and dragged him off to her daddy. Silently, she held him up for Hub's approval.

"Oh! What's this?"

"It's Professor Owl. Don't let her play with him. He's an asshole and a liar."

"Lucinda! Really."

"Okay," I said, going back to my In Touch. "Find out for yourself."

"Hoy! Oym Professuh Owl! Can you foind da lettuh Q?"

After hesitating for a moment, Baby hit Q.

"That's great, Ba-" Hubs started.

"No, dat's not it. Can you foind da lettuh Q?"

"What?!" Hubs said, outraged. "Don't you listen to Professor Owl, Baby. You got it right."

Baby looked confused. Hubs pressed Professor Owl's Q button harder.

"Come on. You can do bettah dan dat." Unbelievably, my 200-pound husband was being taunted by a stuffed animal.

"Let's throw him away, Lucinda," Hubs glowered. "He's a liar and an asshole."

I stopped Hubs from throwing Professor Owl away, simply because merely chucking him in the trashcan wasn't good enough.

Professor Owl must pay for his crimes.

If I could, I'd drop a huge anvil on him from the top of a nine-story building. Or a grand piano. Unfortunately, I don't have access to that kind of thing.

So I'll leave it to you. If you can come up with a richly satisfying yet do-able way to pay Professor Owl back for the anguish he's caused me and my family. I'll take care of it. And I'll take pictures. And I'll post the results.

Any ideas?

Get a load of the smug look on this bastard's face.

In Which I Go to the Gym and Lose My Fucking Mind

I haven't been to the gym in oh.... a while.

I mean, December was really busy. I was under a lot of pressure, okay? There was cookie baking and party throwing and present buying and gift wrapping and... and... well, let's just say I felt really pressured by a certain someone to walk my ass off , and therefore I passively-aggressively didn't. Yeah! It's all her fault!

But today, there were no more excuses. The last bottle of wine had been drunk. The last New Year's Eve cupcake (don't ask) had been eaten. Hubs got home from work early and gave me a look that said it all. A cheeks-puffed, eyes-bulging look that let me know today was G-Day.

And yet, as we pulled into the parking lot of the Gym, I realized I had made a mistake. A big mistake.

"I can't do it," I said quietly while Hubs unbuckled his seatbelt.

"Come on," Hubs prodded me. "We're here."

"No. It's too embarrassing," I insisted. "Everyone will laugh at me."

"Yeah right," he chuckled. "There are tons of people at the gym today who haven't been there in a while."

"You don't understand," I muttered darkly. Hubs gave me the look again. I sighed and opened the car door.

As we walked through the double doors of the gym, the guy behind the desk greeted us with a smile.

"Hey!" he said brightly. Then he did a doubletake. "Lucinda? Is that you?!"

I shook my head and quickly put up the hood on my jacket. But it was too late. He had picked up the phone.

I heard his voice crackle over the PA system. "World Gym members, let's give a warm welcome to someone I haven't seen here in a long, long, lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng time.... Lucinda!"

The pulsing dance music stopped. The room grew silent as 50 heads turned in my direction. Then I heard it. Snickering. Giggling. Guffawing.

"I TOLD you!!!" I whispered through clenched teeth, grabbing for my husband's arm beside me. I came up with air. Looking wildly around me, I caught sight of him darting toward the men's locker room.

I was on my own.

"If y'all don't mind, I'd like to work out in peace, thank you very much," I said with as much bravado as I could muster.

Nervously, I got out my gym card and attempted to run it though the laser scanner. Nothing. Over and over, I waved my card in front of the laser's eye. But it was no use.

"Um, that's a security camera," a woman at the counter said. "The card scanner's over there. Have you been here before?"

"Sure I have," I countered. "I've, I've been traveling the world and I uh, haven't been here in a while. The scanner used to be over here."

"Yeah. In 2003," she said flatly.

I bit my lip, scanned my card and speed-walked to the Stair Masters. A sea of tanned, toned bodies parted in my wake.

I climbed up onto the machine, set the time to 30 minutes and started stepping. Surely the worst was over.

Scree... Scree...

What the hell was that? I stepped faster.

SCREE. SCREE. SCREE.

Something was wrong with my machine. Every time my feet made a cycle... Scree. Fucking scree.

I looked around. Every other machine was taken. Beside me, a middle-aged woman huffed away to her iPod, the sales tag on her sports bra bobbing up and down with every step. $9.99. On sale.

"Stupid newbies," I said under my breath.

Scree. Scree. Scree. Scree.

Despite myself, a soundoff began to form in my mind.

Working out is hard to do...
Scree. Scree. Scree. Scree.
'Specially when everybody's thinner than you.
Scree. Scree. Scree. Scree.
I need to fucking lose this gut.
Scree. Scree. Scree. Scree.
So I won't look like such a slut.
Scree. Scree. Scree. Scree.
Fuck you.
Scree. Scree.
Fuck me.
Scree. Scree.
Fuck you, fuck me..
SCREE-SCREE!

"How much time do you have left? God, that thing sounds horrible!"

It was Hubs, back from the weight machines.

"Huh? Uh, I have..." I looked down. Thirty-FIVE minutes? "Uh, I'm done, actually."

"Good. Let's go."

As Hubs helped me down from my Stair Master, I heard a loud "Whoa! Whoa!" from the treadmills in the next aisle. A guy's shoelace had gotten caught in the tread. Before we could react, he fell on his back and was whipped off the treadmill onto the floor.

Hubs and I leaned over the man as he lay there, groaning.

I laughed a little.

"What's so funny?" Hubs asked.

"You were right," I said, stepping carefully over the poor sucker on the floor. "There are lots of people who clearly haven't been here in a while."

Arm in arm, we sauntered out the door. Two former sluggards... back on the workout wagon.