secret

If You Want A Secret Life, Follow Me

Being a secret agent or CIA operative is definitely on my list of things I would love to do, but probably never will. (Along with running a marathon and doing a stand-up routine.) It’s the allure of having two separate, secret lives that are both filled with amazing people and experiences you can never divulge to either group. I would love to come home from a job of assassinating some underground operative, throw my jacket on the couch, and say “Work was fine. Nothing really exciting.” I do that now, but it’s painfully true. I’ve never lived a secret life. I’ve been that person who did all the “right” things like getting married, having kids, baking cookies, and getting a reasonable mortgage. I secretly don’t have any secrets. But last week…I had a secret life. It’s the kind of secret life I can’t tell you about because then it wouldn’t be a secret and you would probably look at me in horror the next time you saw me in the grocery store. It’s really THAT kind of secret life.

It begins, like most surprising adventures, with the completely mundane task of planning a trip. The hubs and I travel without our kids once a year and usually it’s an uneventful, albeit (mostly) relaxing, vacation to a warm destination. He plays pool volleyball with strangers, I read alone in the corner of the pool area, and then we eat a mediocre dinner together and end up watching TV in our room. We then argue about sex and eventually fall asleep around the same time other people are heading out to club. It’s basically like our regular life except in a warm climate and without children. It’s nice. But last week it was better than nice…it was fucking amazing.

Me as a secret agent. Except with bigger boobs.

Me as a secret agent. Except with bigger boobs.

We showed up at the adults only Mexican resort the hubs booked and had no clue what to expect minus the topless optional situation. We walked into a beautiful lobby, full of fully dressed models and I immediately decided that my top would stay on indefinitely. I have nursed kitten babies and my fat sacks weren’t that amazing before they had been suckled, so I’m already in the clan of saggy tatas. Moving on. We get to the room, change into our bathing suits, and meander to the pool area. Also known as ‘The Sexy Pool’. Now, you may wonder why we went to the sexy pool instead of the sport pool or the quiet pool and I will tell you…it wasn’t my idea. The quiet pool sounded like my jive. I had a book and I would travel…by myself, in the corner of the pool, for 5 days straight. But I married a social butterfly.

“Just one drink at the pool bar, then we check everything out, and you can go read.” the hubs coaxed. Just one drink, he says. Just one motherfucking drink on my way to debauchery.

How I planned to spend my vacation. That didn't happen.

How I planned to spend my vacation. That didn’t happen.

Once at the pool bar, the hubs is like a prepubescent boy with a permanent chub for the vast array of naked tatas. I too, am checking out the titty committees, but for different reasons. I need to know if my boobies are the worst of the bunch, land somewhere in the middle, or if I should just grab that bottle of vodka on the bartender’s shelf and drown myself in the sport pool. As I’m doing the comparison, I glance over to the hubs who is now looking at me like I have suddenly morphed into a melted wax statue of Betty White. And then my bikini top is gone.

“Sweetie, we don’t wear tops here.” I whipped around to find a woman holding my green bikini top between her teeth. I calmly took it from her (with my hand, cause I’m classy like that), set it on the bar, and said to the hubs “Well, I guess that takes care of that situation.” Then I sucked in my mommy gut and tried to sit back far enough to make my boobies hover at least 6 feet away from my knees. Basically I sat back like I was relaxing in a Lazy Boy recliner.  Not awkward or uncomfortable…AT ALL.

This is the part of the story where I wish I could tell you more, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy by the Mexican government. All I can say is that at one point during our 5 day vacation the hubs wanted to take pictures of me walking in from the ocean, the kind of sexy photos you might see in Maxim or Playboy. Unfortunately, I’m 3000 fantastic features away from being a model and when I looked at the photos all I saw was my cringy face and some baby monkeys swinging from my chest in a sad attempt to find armpit bananas.

Just imagine two of these little creatures swinging off my chest. Hot stuff, right?

Just imagine two of these little creatures swinging off my chest. Hot stuff, right?

“You look sexy.” the hubs told me later that day.

“I look like an 80-year-old prostitute fighting the waves for a meth fix.” But he wouldn’t hear of it. I like that about him.

That’s all you will ever know about this secret life trip. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be a secret and you would ask lots of weird questions like “Why did you think that was acceptable behavior?” or “Do you have any close up shots of you doing that one thing?”. No one needs that. My advice…live a secret life and go to an adults only place in Mexico and let your freak flag fly. FLY IT VERY HIGH. Then text me so we can exchange secret photos.

hearts

I’m Having An Intimate Relationship…With My Fit Bit

I’m not training for an Iron Man Competition or a marathon, hell I don’t even walk my dog (mostly because I have kids), but I am an upright mammal who has to walk to the mailbox so that’s physical activity and probably requires tracking. So I requested a Fit Bit for Mother’s Day and then forced my husband to give it to me early. If you aren’t in the know, the Fit Bit is a piece of plastic you wear around your wrist (or ankle, in my case) that tracks your steps, your sleep, your physical activity, and the amount of calories you burn. It can do more, but my Fit Bit and I are still in the ‘getting to know you’ phase of our relationship. Yes, I said relationship.

She's cute, right? We love these pants on us. #blessed

She’s cute, right? We love these pants on us. #blessed

I refuse to name inanimate objects like cars, but I don’t refuse to have awkward relationships with them. My Fit BIt just gets me. From the moment I put her around my ankle, I felt like she really cared about the progress of my life. “Your goal today is 10,000 steps.” And all I wanted to do was make her happy. I couldn’t wait to get my steps in and prove that I was a worthwhile person to love. That’s not weird, you’re weird.

While we were at work, she buzzed my ankle and I giggled a little because we had a secret that no one else knew…I had already hit my 10,000 steps. “Congratulations” she messaged me. Then later “You are a real overachiever!!” That one got me in the tear ducts. Me? An overachiever? She just always knows the right thing to say.

This morning she was asking how I had slept and when I clicked over to let her know, she had already created a graph of my sleeping patterns. Just like a true friend would. She was a little concerned that I had been a bit restless and had woken up once during the night, but I told her not to worry because I felt pretty good and just needed a cup of coffee. Then I said “What do you think we should wear to work today?”

That’s not weird.

I imagine this is how she watches me sleep. #notweird

I imagine this is how she watches me sleep. #notweird

Sometimes when we are just hanging out and having our morning coffee, I gaze down at her little lighted display face and I think “You really bring something special to my ankle…and my life.” It’s not a relationship built on pressure or expectation. She knows I can succeed and is there to cheer me on, but without all the “Do this, do that.” Upon returning home from work last night I had an even stranger thought than any of the previous ones I’ve mentioned, I thought “I wonder if she knows about my bad habits. Can she pick up on my nicotine consumption or blood alcohol level?” But that would be crazy, right? RIGHT?

We haven’t talked about food yet. She’s asked, but I’m not a great eater and I’m a bit embarrassed to admit how many cups of coffee I drink and peanut butter sandwiches I eat in a day. It’s not that I want to lie to her, that’s not a great way to start a relationship, but I’m tempted to tell her that I had a boiled egg and some yogurt this morning and that I’m packing a kale salad for lunch. That’s not lying if I am thinking about maybe doing it, right? What will really happen is that I will eat a peanut butter sandwich on the way to work, drink four more cups of coffee, and then choke down a lemon pound cake for lunch. I just don’t want to feel judged. By my Fit Bit. That’s not weird, you’re weird.

Wait..this is food? Solid pass.

Wait..this is food? Solid pass.

Next week we are going to take a bike ride together and I’m going to tell her about the bike race I signed up for and we might even go to a yoga class together. I’m trying to plan what yoga pants would look best next to her and what flip flops won’t cramp her style. I mean that’s what you do in a relationship, you think of your partner and  how to make them shine. It’s the least I can do if you she’s going to watch me sleep.

This is not weird, you’re weird.

bloody heart

I Like Not Seeing Bloody Body Parts

When I was 17 I watched a colonoscopy and what I assume was some sort of heart surgery. I stood over a man and watched as a doctor used a shiny metal contraption to spread a total stranger’s ribs open until all I could see was a pumping heart and lots of bright red body tissue. The rest is a blur because I probably passed out or threw up or got so light headed that I had to crawl out of the operating room on my hands and knees. Apparently this was before HIPAA regulations, because who in the fuck would authorize a high school student to hang out during a butt hole exam? At the time, I was participating in a job training program through my school which allowed me to miss two classes every day and engulf myself in the intriguing world of nursing at our local hospital. And by local hospital, I mean a small town hospital with no regulations and doctors who were only hired because they had lost their licence or were being sued by disgruntled patients. It’s the kind of hell hole you warn your family to keep you away from unless you are ready to die a slow and painful death under the care of hacko whackos. After years of ‘serving’ our community, that old hospital was recently converted to a haunted house. Sounds about right.

Pretty close to what our local hospital/haunted house looks like.

Pretty close to what our local hospital/haunted house looks like.

Until I had the experience of watching a human heart pump blood, or a long tube crawling up a human asshole, I thought I wanted to be a nurse. That didn’t last long. Every day spent at the hospital made me lightheaded and I could usually be found hunched in a chair in the lobby with my head between my knees or wandering aimlessly, trying not to vomit on myself. After one semester of that, I decided I would not be pursuing my nursing degree, but would instead wander the planet with no career strategy at all. Nailed that one like a champ.

I’m not sure how nurses do what they do. While at the hospital yesterday for my husband’s surgery it became clear that I would have been the absolute worst nurse on the planet. Think Nurse Ratchet. While my husband was in the recovery room, doped up on whatever miracle pain medication they had given him, he began complaining incessantly about his blood pressure cuff. “Can’t you just take this off? It’s uncomfortable and I don’t like it.” I tried to shush him but he wouldn’t have it. The nurse kindly told him (900 times) that they needed to watch his blood pressure until he was ready to get up and get dressed. “But I just want it off now and then you can put it on later.” He was slurring his words and threatening to take the cuff off on his own and all I could think was ‘If I was this nurse I would be using a pair of dirty gym socks to tie this man’s hands to the bed and then I would make that cuff ten times tighter.’ Not really nurse-like behavior.

Could have been me. If I wasn't a fucking pansy about everything.

Could have been me. If I wasn’t a fucking pansy about everything.

Once we arrived home with two prescriptions, a novel-sized folder filled with post-op instructions, and my groggy patient I realized that I was in charge of this shit show; I WAS THE NURSE. I did my best…for about 25 minutes. Between fresh water cups, doling out meds, grabbing blankets, and heating up soup, I became angsty and found myself sitting on the toilet well past the time I had finished peeing. Then I heard my ‘patient’ snoring, so I bolted out the front door to enjoy an adult beverage and check FB. When my daughter showed up on the porch after school, I handed over the reigns of care to her because she’s 13 and she needs to learn how to dispense pain medication and fill up ice packs. I’m doing her a favor. Maybe one day she will become a nurse and she can thank me for her early training. At the very least, I was off the hook for having to throw away another bloody tissue and becoming so light headed that I fell down the stairs and ended up in the hospital with massive doses of pain meds coursing through my veins. Wait. I’m back on duty.