Sleeping Like A (Ruffle-Butt) Baby

AAAAAAND . . . the air conditioner broke.

I'm not really one to lay around in my underwear, but when it's 85 degrees in your house at midnight, it kinda seems like the only way to go. Summer is definitely more bearable in your underwear.  I can understand why some people choose to walk abound in it all summer long.

Like babies.

Wouldn't it be awesome if it were socially acceptable for everyone to wear baby clothing?  Like, a tank top onesie with no pant legs?  I could definitely get into that.  That would be a lot cooler than the polyester blouses and denim capris that are the norm around here.  And ruffle-butt briefs are a lot more frilly and fancy than those Lycra skirts that got popular a few years ago.  Just pull on a ruffle-butt and baby tee, waltz into church with that and just see if you don't get a couplea envious stares.

Really, though, I have always hated sleeping without pajamas on, and I think the reason goes back to when I was a kid.

I grew up in California, so earthquakes were pretty common.  I was raised to accept earthquakes as part of life, and if the earthquake was at night, I wouldn't even get out of bed.

When I was about 11, my step-mom was the only adult home one night.  It was our first earthquake experience together.

I woke up to a pretty powerful shaking.  But, of course, I stayed in bed.  My siblings were all still in bed, too.  For all I knew, everyone was still asleep.

SO.  Earthquake.  Kids in beds.  Shaking continues.

Before we know it, a blur of white races  across the hallway toward my brothers' room.  My step mom--in an impromptu sheet toga--pulls my brother off the top bunk whilst trying to hold the top of the toga in place, and simultaneously trying to get the rest of us down the stairs and out the front door.

In my 11-year-old mind I figured she had either been taking a shower right at that exact moment and had run out of clean towels to wrap herself in, or she had been holding a toga party for one.  Or it might have been 85 degrees in the house and she had been laying around in a little less than I am, and just grabbed the first available covering.  It was probably the last option.

So, the lesson I learned from that experience is: always wear pajamas to bed because you never know when your solo midnight toga party will be interrupted by the need to bolt down a flight of stairs while saving 4 small children from the impending doom of a natural disaster.

I only wish that was the last time one of my parents came to save us from an earthquake in the middle of the night without clothes on . . .

The point is, there is a reason I wear full-coverage pajamas to bed every night.  It's so I can be prepared for anything.  And to save my kids the embarrassment of, well, em-barr-ass-ment.

Only, tonight, it's too darn hot.  Sorry kids.  Tonight I'm sportin’ the ruffle-butt . . . minus the ruffle.

Hooters

I recently celebrated my 36th birthday.

When I tell people I'm 36, a lot of people say, you don't seem to be 36, which I'm not sure what that means.  I'm not sure if it means they think I look younger than 36, or I look older than 36, or I act younger than 36, or I act older than 36. I have been told I'm pretty youthful, which, I think just means I still act immature a lot of the time.  

I'm 36 years old, but my 8-year-old informed me the other day that I'm actually 52 years old.  Because, as the 8-year-old pointed out, when my mom was born 52 years ago, she was born with all the eggs she would ever have, therefore, when I was born, the cells from which I was created were as old as my mother, and therefore, I am 52 years old.

I've actually come a long way since I was young and immature.  For example, when I was 18 years old, I got a job at Hooters.

That's not a joke, that's true.  

So...I was straight outta high school and I moved across the country to go to theater school in NYC.  Which, I really moved across the country to get away from my parents so I could do whatever I wanted without them knowing, because this was before Facebook and Instagram, and hieroglyphs, because, like I already said, I'm 52 years old.

So, I was living on my own for the first time, and I was a poor college student in NYC, and I had a friend named Sondra who worked at Hooters.  So it's a long story...no, well, that's pretty much the whole story.  

She told me to apply and I got a waitressing job.  At Hooters.  Which, obviously the Hoot-o-Meter wasn't working that day.  So they let me in.  And the Hooter's boss must have obviously seen past my outside appearance.  I'm sure he could see that I had a really big...heart.  And really perky...attitude.  And a really firm...resolve.

But you know, if anything, this story is so show that, whatever it is that you think you can't do...yes you can!  You don't have to be Dolly or Pamela or Kaitlyn.  You can look like me and still work at Hooters!  

So, go!  Live your dream!  And aim high, my friends, aim high.

But, you know it took me a long time to get where I am with all that.  Up until this point I haven't wanted to talk about my job at Hooter's very much.  You know, because I wasn't proud of it.  But then I thought, you know what?  F that!

(F means "forget" btw.)

I thought F that!  I am proud, because #1) every experience I’ve had taught me and made me who I am, #2) I love my body the that way it is!, and it's taken me a long time to get to this place of love for myself, and #3) because now, at 36 years old I can look back at that 18-year-old Hooters girl and say, "Oh, honey.  Just wait 'til you're 52..."

I don't believe in fun

I don'r believe in fun.  Sorry, but I don't.  Some people would be like, "Sorry, not so sorry," but I'm not "not so sorry."  I am sorry.  I don't believe in fun.  And it kinda makes me sad.  Because it kinda makes other people sad, like my kids.  And my hubby.  They all like fun.  And I just don't.  Anytime anyone suggests an activity, I'm like, "well, what's the objective?"  And they're like, "To have fun."  And i'm like, "what?"  Cuz I really just don't get it.  I don't get fun.  Why would you do something for the fun of it?  Even more, why would you spend money for fun? I get spending money on rest, or rejuvenation for going on a vacation or even to do something you've never done that will stretch your limits like sky diving or bungee jumping, although i don'g understand why you'd want to spend that much money for potential death, but that's different, so...I just don't get the idea of doing those things for fun.   

What is fun anyway?  Have you thought about that?  What does it mean when you say I want to have fun.  Is fun something you can have?  Is it a tangible thing? Or an experience? Or an emotion?

(Maybe this is a good time to tell you that I am a psychology nerd. Okay, psychology dweeb. Okay, if psychology had collectors mini-figures, they'd be all over my bedroom . . . wait a minute . . . psychology mini-figures . . . huh.)

Cuz if fun is a thing that I can stick on my mantle and be like, see, this is me having fun, then I could get it.  It's something to show off and have and hold to remind you of how much money you once had before you spent it on having fun. I get that.

And if fun is an experience like having...a shower...then I get that, too.  (That's what I say, I say i'm gonna have a shower instead of i'm gonna take a shower.  It just sounds less criminal.)  But if fun is like a shower, then I really get that, cuz i need some of that every day.

If fun is an emotion, I kinda get that, too, cuz we all want to feel something.  We say things like, "We're going to Disneyland just for the fun of it."  When what we really mean is, "We're going to Disneyland just for the dopamine rushes."

But doing expensive stuff that you don't really care about anyway just so you can say you've done it or so you can have a rush, I just don't get.  I can enjoy free things while still getting stuff done.

Like music...I enjoy singing along with Aretha Franklin's RESPECT while I clean the entire house by myself.  To me that's fun.