How do you cook a Nauga?

Today started with a list of things to do. Get a muffler fixed, stop at the bank, get some boots repaired, buy some new shoes, grocery store and so on. Dan and the dog-face boys took care of the car drop-off at a local muffler shop, a small independently owned place that has done work on all of our cars. Dan has a relationship with them and they once even signed some custom work they did on his 1960 Ranchero. They know him there and he likes to take his business to the small shop.  

I lounged in, loving Saturday morning until Dan and the herd returned.  When I got up I looked around the bedroom. Quite a mess as I’ve been trying on clothes to see how they fit since my recent landscaping. Very pleased with what I’m seeing in the mirror, the resulting debris of cast-off costume changes needed some attention. Included in that pile were a pair of boots that never quite fit properly. 

Dan did a quick Google search to find out the hours of the local shoe repair shop. The search led to one of those sites where people leave reviews. The owner of the little shop really ticked off a customer with a rant about folks from a political persuasion other than theirs (and ours as well). This led to a discussion of patronage – do we go to the most local shop, or do we find another place for the repair – simply because of this review and the owners political affiliation? Does it matter if we take our business to a shop in Wauwatosa or West Allis? 

We went to the Tosa store and turns out the owner doesn’t care to do that type of repair work. He did give us the name of the one shop in town that might help us and no political commentary. Off we went to downtown Milwaukee, to a store that has been in business for over 75 years. This felt good. The proprietor took a look at the fix we wanted and declined to do the work. Turns out the original purchase, made over the internet, was not of sufficient quality to warrant the amount of work needed for the repair.

Next was a stop at the “big bank” to close our checking account of over 30 years. Since last November I’ve gone through the tedious exercise of moving all of our automatic bill deductions from the bank to the credit union.  A quick check of the remaining bank balance yesterday uncovered another fee deducted, I suspect from going under the “minimum required account balance.” Time to bail. Asked why we were closing the account I mentioned fees and loss of services. Dan placed his hand on my leg – a gentle reminder that getting snarky with the woman stuck working on a Saturday, and with no control over these things, was not the person to vent on.

This led to a discussion of what does “local” mean. Here was an individual, working “locally” at a bank whose home office is in another country.  Didn’t our use of that bank constitute local support of their employees? Which led me to thinking about an all-hands meeting at my employer yesterday where we discussed economic issues in Europe and Asia that were impacting “our” projections. I work locally, don’t I? For a multinational. Am I a hypocrite in my fight against the big bank?

Next stop, locally owned shoe store to pick up some new running shoes. I’ve been advised by my physical therapist that now is the time to transition to more foot/body friendly natural running shoes. The shop is tiny. The shoes are made in China. Damn. Apparently the only barefoot running that I can do, that is guaranteed to be made in the USA, is my own bare feet. Shoes purchased and now I was feeling really conflicted.

Leave it to Dan to bring me back to reality. Through all this chasing Dan was puzzling over how to fix the “unfixable boots”.  Back at home he exclaims, “I’ve got naugahyde!  I bought it before we got married to fix those scratch and dent end-tables we had.  I can use that to fix the boots.”  So, once again, my do-yourself-husband will implement a home made fix with a material older than the internet on a cheap internet purchase. And I think I need to buy another cow, or pig, or nauga through the Heifer project just to balance out the karma for the day. Does anyone know—are naugas white or dark meat?

Landscaping

I’ve used this blog to metaphorically think out-loud, a combination reality check, rant, quasi-journal, self-reflection and sub-text chronicle of a thought-process that would get me from here (Wauwatosa) to there (Key West). Most of the time I feel like the writing is a quick throw-away that allows me to move on to the next thing that needs attention. For the few of you who do pay attention (and I thank you for that), you’ll have noticed a short absence. I haven’t written anything for awhile, mostly because I’ve had one really BIG THING on my mind, and felt the need to keep it quiet.

This one thing was about a desire for personal change that I could barely articulate to myself, much less my husband of 32+ years, and with extreme difficulty to the few people from whom I felt the need to gather opinions. The decision has now been made, the money has been spent and I’m on the road to recovery.

Let me back up a minute. We are a family of do-it-yourselfers (as immortalized in the Atomic Boy post from last year.) If at all possible we get it done, and only in rare circumstances do we call in the experts (tree trimming, dryer repair, roofs on three story houses). But the one personal project on which I have devoted a lot of time and energy is one where I was making no progress, and my frustration levels were rising.

I have certainly commiserated with fellow moms about how some women have skin that snaps back in place moments after giving birth to their 20 pound baby, and some women (like me) lost all elasticity before the 6.3 pound baby’s first cry. Throw in another 8.8 pound baby, via C-section, and we no longer needed to pack a tent for camping.

Now, 25 years later, I find I have been subconsciously communicating that I wanted to make a change. Clothes shopping for me has always been grim, and even at my thinnest (post-baby) weight nothing ever fit right. And when it’s picture time I much prefer to stand behind someone or some thing, and please, don’t catch me sitting down. As I walked through my thought process with my husband he described a completely non-verbal interaction that I’ve had with the mirror on a daily basis for many years. So when I told Dan I was ready for some personal landscaping, he did some research and helped me make an appointment. When I told my sister I had the procedure on the calendar she said “well yeah, I know you’ve wanted to do that forever.” So on December 27 I didn’t get puffed-up “fish-lips”, plumped up Pamela Anderson breasts or the “is it faux-real” Joan Rivers face. I just had my stomach cinched in a bit.

So, why, in this day and age would I bother with this? Ultimately, because no matter how hard I tried I wasn’t comfortable in my own skin. The final realization came when I completed my latest triathlon. Dan and the professional photographers on the route pulled off some pretty good action shots – me running from lake to bike; me biking full speed in my tri-suit; me running on the 6-mile course. I reviewed the professional shots (mostly side views) and purchased none of them. I deleted most of Dan’s shots and posted few. I ran that last leg of the race looking at the shadow of a woman much larger than my image of myself.  If two coaches had been asked to pick 10 competitors (based on appearance) who would “finish” it would have been a throwback to every gym class I’d every been in and I’d have been left on the bench. I finally realized I wanted my physical self to look somewhat as good as I actually felt.  I completely and totally did this for me. And I kept it quiet because I didn’t need anyone talking me out of it.

This was absolutely not a decision made lightly. I joined an on-line forum that provided an opportunity for Q&A with surgeons as well as women in all phases of the process, from research to recovery.  What I found were women in agony months later. Rented hospital beds and purchased walkers. “I wish I’d NEVER done this” said one poster who’d had two surgeries to repair the first. Bad infections. Women walking hunched over six months later. Sure, there were success stories, too, but 98% of the women posting were much younger than me. I went back and forth for months, changing my mind multiple times a day. I had several in-person sessions with the surgeon who patiently answered all my questions. I thought the holidays would be a nice diversion, but instead I was in a funk of nerves. I kept going to the gym and sweating it out, but no amount of crunches, tucks, lunges, planks, rows, spins, runs or stair climbs was going to move the unmovable mass of my abdomen. Soon checks were sent and cashed. The day was approaching. My surgeon made a point to say that this was the most painful procedure he did. It would require an overnight stay for monitoring and pain management. 

That day—we arrive at 5:30 am. By 7:30, I am in the operating room. By 11, I am in recovery. By 1 pm, I’m in my room, groggy but feeling OK—like a really tough abs workout. By 10:30 pm I had completed 2 short walks up and down the hallway. By 7:30 the next morning Dan was back with a big cup of tea. He and a nurse helped me out of bed for another short walk. I sat in the chair and enjoyed my tea—waiting for the pain to hit. By about 10 am my surgeon came in to check on things, and was very surprised to see me out of bed. Surprised that I’d already walked the halls. Surprised that I’d already used the little girl’s room. Surprised that I was smiling and ready to head home.

Dan kept an eye on the timing for pills, and the “1 or 2 for pain” was only 1, and is diminishing daily. By the three day checkup my surgeon told me I was in the “top 5 to 10 percent” of recovering patients. Despite the fact that my abs never looked like a 6-pack, all that exercise had paid off.

And the result? While it will take several months for all of the healing to resolve, that first post-op shower, with all the swelling, stitches and bruises was-pretty amazing. I suspect I’ll be buying more post-race pictures this summer. And I’m already looking forward to buying a beautiful fitted dress for a June wedding, new swimsuits for our next diving vacation and a few new costumes for a triumphant return to Key West in the fall!

Vanilla Teasers in Paradise

Vanilla

First off, we need to talk about vanilla. Could there be anything more dull? But the word has a fascinating history. The Spanish sailors, arriving in the New World, encountered this fragrant plant. The flower bore a resemblance to a part of the female anatomy they had not seen in many months. Suddenly, dull ol’ vanilla is one hot word. 

In a post I wrote on January 6, 2011 called “Do it yourself, Atomic Boy”, I mentioned “Vanilla Teasers”, with the promise of an explanation. So here it is. I’m a Midwestern girl, with corresponding sensibilities, modest wardrobe and approach to life. Serious risk taking scares me, especially when it involves a personal investment. Five years ago Dan began researching this wild, week-long party in Key West called Fantasy Fest. Dan, always crazy over Halloween, became possessed with the idea of going. I’d walk past the computer to see picture of painted, scantily clad people and would remark “If you think I’d wear something like THAT you are sadly mistaken.” Dan’s comment was always the same. “Feel free to wear a Burqa, I just want you to be comfortable and have fun.” For two years Dan corresponded with Fantasy Fest veterans about the things to do and not do. During that time two ladies sent me almost the same e-mail: “Hon, take that special nightie that you would only wear on special occasions and throw it in your suitcase. By the third night you’ll wear it out on the street.” Dan was dealing with some freaks—an intervention may be in order.

Gradually, partly due to exercising, I started looking at those pictures differently. I starting seeing that these were not all 21-year-old hard bodies at this shin dig, there were a lot of women like me. In fact, there were a lot of women there who clearly didn’t run, bike, swim and lift heavy objects for no reason. I started looking at the nightie drawer with possibility.

With that said,  two years ago I somewhat reluctantly agreed to our first Fantasy Fest. On our first trip we were joined by four great friends. We all researched the themes for the nightly parties, brought appropriate costumes, participated in the four-hour long parade down Duval Street, and had a wonderful time. Back at home, we downloaded the borrowed laptop where we had stored photos during the trip. As we watched the 1200-plus photos transfer, Dan looked at me with just a bit of surprise, and commented that “it looked like you had more fun than I did!” It was a revelation for us both.

Last year, Dan and I returned on our own. I bought some new swim suits and planned costumes for the evening events. Wearing one of my outfits—completely covered, mind you--many people with cameras asked the 25-year-olds wearing just paint to move so they could get pictures of me. One flash after another, the reason for lifting heavy objects was made clear.

In another instance a sly over the shoulder smile and a kicked-up leopard high heel resulted in hundreds of flashes going off at once. So many, in fact, that Dan didn’t get the shot. “My God, you just channeled Betty Page,” was his remark as I walked back to him. (From Dan, there is no higher compliment in the world.) A photographer who did get the picture shared it with Dan. It hangs in our Betty Page room, unless the room is set to a “G” rating, as it is for most parties (more on that in a future post). Affirming? Yeah, I’d say so. Times one hundred.

Prior to last year’s trip Dan had proactively participated in an internet forum and made virtual contacts with other people who were also going. As we were not traveling with friends this seemed a good way to make introductions prior to the week. As a result, we were invited to two parties.  The first, a clothing optional pool party; the second a surprise birthday party.

Yes, you just read clothing optional pool party. For Dan, no problem, as he constantly reminds me that when it comes to men, “you can’t think simple enough.” For me, that falls under unbelievably serious risk taking. After all, I’ve got a 53 year old body marked by significant stretch marks, a nasty C-section scar and I suffer from the cruel effects of gravity (stupid, stupid laws of physics). However, as the invitation reads “optional”, then I have the option to leave all my clothes on.

The day arrives, we get on our rental bikes and head over to check it out. I must admit that I was repulsed and intrigued by the idea of witnessing a few naked people eating picnic foods. We walked in the courtyard and found, I don’t know, maybe 150 naked people in and about the pool. Dan immediately stripped off his suit and jumped in the pool. After about 5 minutes, and feeling self-conscious because I was overdressed, I lost half my suit and found Dan in the pool.  What passed was a surreal afternoon of people talking about their kids, their jobs, the ingredients in the chip dip and the next vacation on their calendars. We stayed for about 2-hours, met some very nice people and had a great time.

"Red" night

That evening, the night-time theme was “Red”. We put on our outfits and headed out to the first stop, Captain Tony’s.  There was a nice crowd, live music and pirate’s punch. Standing near the bar a couple who had been at the pool party stopped to say hi. Conversation was animated and we found a lot to talk about. He and I had worked for the same employer; he had taken a work transfer to Florida. She (as Dan has reminded me 100 times since) was wearing a skin-tight, one piece white Speed Racer jumpsuit unzipped far enough to fit in at Fantasy Fest. Needless to say, she and Dan were having an intense conversation. And then there were the odd comments that her husband would lean over and whisper in my ear. Did I just hear what I think I just heard? Yes, that’s what I thought I heard.

So, he comes right out and asks “What do you guys do for fun?”

Dan turns to me and says, “Paula, why don’t you start?”  (I slowly turned and stared at Dan, thinking really, are you really that unaware?)

I slowly turned back, smiled and said, “Not so much.”

Him, “Not so much?”

Me, “No, not so much.”

Him, “Well when you take out the not so much, how much is left?”

Me, “Not so much.” (I’m an outrageous flirt, that’s all the much he was going to get.)

Him to his wife, “They’re ‘not so much’.”

Her, “Really?”

Him, “Yes, let’s go dance.”

And off they went. Dan turned to me and asked “what the hell just happened?” I grab his hand and walk as fast as I can out the door and down the street. About a block away I finally stop and say, “They were SWINGERS, they wanted to have sex with us.” Dan, momentarily stunned, replies “But she was hot!” (Insert the sound of an old transmission being shifted without the use of a clutch.) The bulb still not coming on. “Dan, they wanted to have sex with us!” You can now hear the gears starting to engage. Dan repeats “But she was hot!” I wait, knowing that shifting Dan out of “I get to stare at cleavage” mode takes a while. He gets a huge smile on his face and says “high-five, we’re HOT.”  And it is true, when it comes to men you can’t think simple enough.

We meandered through various bars and at midnight found our way over to the surprise birthday party. Walking into the backyard we once again find people in various states of undress. This time, we both stayed fully clothed. We started talking to one couple, from Minnesota. She was wearing a snowflake skirt and no top. He had on a shirt and shorts. Suddenly, there it was again, were we interested in a little fun? Dan jumps in, confessing to having “fallen off the turnip truck earlier in the day” and no, thank you, we were not interested. They were totally cool, as was Dan. I, on the other hand, had had enough, it was time to leave.

The next day we had reservations for a clothing optional cruise. Dan, sensing my displeasure with the entire turn of events, figured we would just skip it and head to the pool for the day. My Midwestern frugality kicked in and I insisted we go – it was pre-paid. At the pier we found a group of 30 people, many who seemed to know each other already. We recognized one couple and Dan bravely stepped up to chat. We introduced ourselves and Dan relayed our “adventures” from the previous evening, quickly setting expectations that we were not looking for any extra-marital activities.

This was our introduction to our now dear friends from central Wisconsin who started laughing and nodding in understanding. She explained that they were not interested in that either and, in fact, there is a name for couples like us – “we’re Vanilla Teasers.”  Fun to be around, but no funny business. Since then we’ve had several opportunities to spend time with our new Vanilla Teaser friends and have enjoyed their company immensely.

So this year, we are heading back to Fantasy Fest, members of a club we never knew existed. Our wonderful new friends are going as well.  And I’m proud to be a Vanilla Teaser, in a 32+ year marriage that allows me to enjoy a week of wearing costumes and paint, a clothing optional cruise, a lot of flirting – but not even a thought of chocolate syrup, whipped cream or colored sprinkles on my vanilla fun.

Do it yourself, Atomic Boy!

Never let it be said that after 32+ years of marriage there are no surprises. The title “Do it yourself, Atomic Boy!” denotes at least 3 things. “Atomic boy” - no matter what haircuts our children had over the summer, before school we would give them a clipper and allow them to cut it off themselves. This usually resulted in random tufts of hair reminiscent of those poor souls who had endured overdoses of radiation, thus “atomic boy”. The “do it yourself” alludes to the children cutting off their own hair. It also reflects the fact that it cost us nothing to do. This starts my story.

Prior to our last vacation at Fantasy Fest in Key West I had a critical area of my anatomy “cleaned-up”. This involved making an appointment, showing up for the appointment, and actually having the waxing procedure completed. At 53, I’m old school, so this was a surprise for Dan. I thought it might be fun if he undergo the same procedure, after witnessing the results first hand on a clothing optional cruise during Fantasy Fest 2010 in Key West. I suggested the same spa and trained professional, which would result in a $50 expense, including tip.

We were invited to a party for New Years Eve by a fun couple we met at Fantasy Fest. After many hours of laughter, wine and Jaeger, we found ourselves naked, in the hot-tub. While we had a wonderful “vanilla-teaser”* time, it was clear that Dan was different from the other two guys in the tub. And not just because they were sporting Anacondas. When we got home I again suggested that before next year’s Fantasy Fest Dan accompany me to the spa. I didn’t expect anything until the leaves began to turn next fall…little did I know that branches would be stripped far sooner…

Tonight, walking to spontaneous Thursday night at Hectors, I noticed that Dan seemed to be limping more than he should have after a 3 mile run. I chose not to say anything, thinking he was perhaps tired after a long day at the office. But as we walked through the doors he confessed he would need help finishing an “oh so special project”.

Dan had purchased the “Extra Strength Brazilian Bikini Waxing & Shaping Kit”. It included a scissors, mirror, some bamboo sticks, a tub of wax and some soothing gel. "Natural Botanicals help relax & soften hair at the root for easy, complete removal."

Throughout dinner I could only drink my Margaritas and wonder what damage had been done. It was only on the walk home that Dan showed me the burn he had suffered on his arm. This is when I initially peed my pants. I will be channeling Dan from here:

"The instructions said to microwave the Brazilian Bikini Wax for 30 seconds. After 30 seconds there was no effect on the wax. The instructions were specific—do not microwave it for more than 60 seconds. The Brazilians clearly have no concept of time. After 90 seconds the wax was still “rock hard”. Standing naked in my kitchen I grew frustrated. I took the jar of wax from the microwave and stabbed it with the bamboo stick. It exploded, silently, splashing boiling hot wax all over my right hand and arm.

I immediately ran the burns under cold water. The wax turned to cement. I should have paid more attention because the instructions were very clear about removing the wax before it got ROCK HARD!

The instructions also noted that the maximum area that wax should be applied was 2” X 2”. I was in a rush, and now that the wax had stopped boiling, I needed to move quickly. I covered a good third of Dan Territory with a thick coating of warm, sweet smelling goo. I awaited the magic.  Moments later it was time. I grabbed the edge of the rapidly solidifying wax and pulled. jesus fucking christ, pain, so much pain. I counted to 3 and on the count of 3 I counted to 3. Eventually, I tore the alien from my loins. It had 500 legs! A patch of Dan that last saw the light of day in the third grade looked up at me and asked ‘why? why?’. I put the bamboo paddle back in the bucket, deciding that a smaller patch might work better.

As many of you may know, our son is a huge fan of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Toward the end of that book Ford Prefect meets the designer of Earth One, and all of those beautiful Fjords. ‘All of the little crinkly edges.’ Having never looked closely at my own scrotum, in hindsight, smearing hot adhesive into the tiny crevices of the most tender spot of my own body was ill advised. While I debated (she’ll never notice) leaving the last hunks of rock-hard goo stuck to my privates I said a silent prayer and, John Wayne-like, yanked them from my body. The sight of blood made my hands shake, and I retreated to the safety of the gym and treadmill."

Ahem.

We arrived home from Hectors, me with wet pants, Dan in a state of tenderness. I assessed the damage and explained again why I had suggested a trip to the spa. His response? “That was almost eleven dollars!” I’m off now to assist in some repair work, then a quick kiss goodnight as Dan needs time to recover.

*Subject of future post – say tuned.