Way Past The 9 Month Mark

IamstillwearingmaternityclothesandIhaven'tbeenpregnantin6years

As incredibly painful it is to admit that, it is most definitely true.  You want to know the most horribly awful thing about it?  I loaned my maternity wardrobe to my sister-in-law and then 5 years later when she returned it to pass along to others, I didn't put the clothes in the attic .... I just put them back on my body!  And they fit!  Talk about depressing.  Uggh.  I'm not crazy and I knew that I was wearing them again but it really didn't hit me how pathetic it was until a few days ago at the ballfield.  There I was chatting with other team moms thinking to myself how cute they all looked in  little summery tops and shorts with snazzy sandals; all the while I had on my Mamba Jamba Big Momma tent of a tee-shirt, a maternity jean skirt and maternity undergarments.  Really Sally?!  Hellz Bellz.  AND to top it off, instead of packing that entire wardrobe up and walking the 5 miles to the local Thrift Store to drop it off I thought .. Hey!  I should put this on my blog!  It's sick I tell ya.  S I C K.

It's my husbands fault for this extreme abuse of decade-old-maternity-clothes-wearing nonsense.  He was standing right there with me in Motherhood and helped me pick out these darn things while I was pregnant with Carl in 2000 and freaking 1!  Hello??  We have pictures in the house of me wearing that same jean skirt pregnant as all get-out with Carl and again with Annie in 2005.  The damn thing has elastic on it, and he watches me put it on again and again and again!  Where may I ask is the delicate yet deliberate comment of, "Sally, honey, love of my life, most amazing person in the entire world ever ... why don't you pack that maternity skirt away and try something a little more .... current?"   Nope.  Not a word.  Instead he says I look very pretty.  What?!   Yes, I would look pretty if I was PREGNANT!  But oh no, there he goes, letting me walk out that door wearing clothes for 2.  Shameful.  If you can't depend on your husband for a little reality check now and then, who can you count on?  He probably wouldn't even notice if I didn't talk to him for a week afterwards.

So here I am in Way-Post-Maternity La La Land digging tops and dresses out of bags that should be packed away for friends and family, trying to see if anything still fits and being truly disappointed when something doesn't.  Can you even imagine?  Wanting to take a swig of wine each time that adorable little wrap-around number that I wore at 6 months, will not wrap around this mother 6 years later is disturbing.  Hell, I should be drinking with thoughts like that.  Drinking an Atkins Diet Shake for Cripes Sakes!  Unfortunately it is goodbye maternity clothes time and I have some packing to do.  I probably should feel sorry for Trey, he has been a good sport with the compliments even when I clearly did not deserve them.  Wonder how long he would have let this absurd behavior go on?   Maybe the real question is ... is the man blind?

And those who can't sing .... sing

Unfortunately on the day I was born God decided to be a little stingy with his gifts.  He gave me 10 fingers and toes, perfect eyesight, 2 ears, my health ... yada yada yada ... but he dropped the ball on a really good one.  The gift of a beautiful voice.  Maybe God should have talked to me about this upgrade while we were hanging out up in heaven and I had loads of time on my hands.  I would consider sacrificing a little pinkie toe for an amazing voice that would put Whitney Houston (pre Bobby Brown) to shame.  What good are those rascals for anyway other than getting snagged on every coffee table from here to Kalamazoo?  It's just not fair.  Even though I am deathly afraid of being out in public as the center of attention, I would force myself to belt out a Journey song in any random place, and I would sing all the time so that he would know how thankful I am.  There would no longer be spoken words from me, everything that I wanted to say would be in the form of a song.  "Let's get ready for bed and brush your teeth" would be sung to the tune of Under The Boardwalk, and the kids would finally listen to me.  It would be heavenly.

Like 99% of the population that cannot sing I sometimes have a lapse in judgement and with my hearing where I really think that my voice maybe isn't so bad.  (it is)  This happens usually on my daily commute when I have an hour of alone time bliss, and I can sing without the eye rolling from my children.  I prefer anything by Journey, Air Supply, The Pretenders, REO Speedwagon, Ronnie Milsap, Heart, Steely Dan, Suzy Bogguss and Al Green with Born To Run by "The Boss" and American Girl by Tom Petty being my all-time go to songs.  I dare you to tell me that when Separate Ways by Journey plays on the radio you are not blasting that song and singing at the top of your lungs.  Impossible not to.  Here is where my problem begins.  After a lucky morning of an incredibly awesome morning playlist I really start to think that just maybe I actually CAN sing!  And, not only can I hold the tune, that I sound pretty darn fantastic!  Anyone that is in the car with me or is unfortunate enough to be stuck beside me in traffic will undoubtedly agree that this is not the case.  I am awful.  Just painful.  Years of holding my one woman rendition of Back On The Chain Gang by The Pretenders has seriously damaged my recognition of tone to the point of being totally out of tune on the simplest of  little ditties.  I murder Twinkle Twinkle Little Star; and I know this because just as I am considering skipping work and driving straight on to Nashville, I turn the radio volume down and my worst fears are realized.  There will be zero recording contracts in my future.

All of us crazy people out there being ridiculous on the local Karaoke stage singing Aretha Franklin who can't hold a note and should not be singing in public period, are always the ones that do.  Man, if I had a decent voice I would walk into the nearest McDonalds and just put on a show like no other.  Can't you just imagine ordering off the Dollar Menu when all of a sudden some lady breaks bad with the National Anthem, Whitney Houston style!?  How killer would that be?  I totally would do that.  All. The. Time.  One moment I would be checking out at my local Food Lion and the next just going to town with the theme song to Annie.  "Tomorrow tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow, you're only a daaayyy aaaa wwwayyyy"!  Bet me five bucks I wouldn't. 

So one day when I'm reincarnated, you're children's children see me walking around in Budapest minus my pinkie toes, they better be ready for some Tom Petty cause I'll be bringing down the house.

Hey old people, go sit down!

There is nothing worse in this world than an old lady show-off.  Yucky stinky feet, over-ripe bananas and gum left underneath a desk are chocolate covered raindrops compared to watching a lady older than Methuselah out running in the heat of summer.  This travesty needs to stop.  Now.  The morning drive to my son's summer camp is completely ruined since I am forced to cruise at 30 mph past old women and men exercising in the 100 degree heat while I am cool as a cucumber in my AC.  How can I possibly enjoy my breakfast of leftover pizza and can of Coke with them just staring at me, giving me the "You should be the one out here running Missy" stink eye?  What once was a treasured summer tradition and a favorite part of my day; driving along the oceanfront watching the waves crash on the shore is now nothing more than a drive of shame. 

How much longer must this game of "In Your Face" last?  We get it already.  Old People of the World ... You Are Awesome!  There, I said it.  Done.  You walked 65 miles to school in the winter without shoes while carrying your drunkard father and pulling the old mule with the corn you alone harvested by hand.  Our generation is lazy, disrespectful, brazen, obnoxious and doesn't know the meaning of hard work.  Please allow me to say a gigantic THANK YOU and please go back to your house and sleep in, for gracious sakes you deserve it.  Why must you torture us young adults who are exhausted from staying up too late spying on old crushes and people we haven't spoken to in 20 years on Facebook, and haven't the strength to conjure up any breakfast other than last night's leftovers and coffee that is black as night?  It must be a "beach living" thing that rejuvenates their old souls, encouraging them to break out those well worn running shoes and blaze a trail past the young folk.  Maybe they have forgotten that the gold watch on their wrist was a retirement present, and was supposed to be used for keeping up with time on the ol' golf course. 

Surely there must be something interesting to take up an old lady's time besides out riding her bike at the crack of dawn when it should be me out there sweating my ka-tush off.  There is a hole slew of those old bike riding bandits, making their way up and down my street and taking up 2 lanes of traffic while I am outside yelling at my kids.  Isn't Wheel of Fortune on or aren't there some old people vitamins that should be taken with dinner around 5:15?  Just a wee glimpse of grandparents on the tennis courts in the middle of the summer heat, with their cute little saucy tennis skirts that once graced my now fat ass, makes me want to hurl.  I fly home enraged with a sense of tennis court entitlement, grab my racket bag and out the door I go to hit some tennis balls against the backboard for hours if I must.  I will let those show-offs know that I too can withstand the heat and have no intention of allowing them all the glory of a perfect sweaty match.  No Sir.  If some 85 year old can handle it, so can I.  5 minutes later I faintly remember leaving my oven on and must get home to just check; once there I realize that Surprise, it is time for my afternoon nap.

We hear you loud and clear seniors, you have made those of us with untouched workout tapes feel like bums.  Now, please go home and knit so I can get back to researching the new diet fad, where I may lose weight without actually having to get off my couch. 

Is there an echo in here?

We have an echo in our house whose name is Annie and she is trying to send me to the looney bin.  If it wasn't for the fact that I do not have any clean underwear, I would seriously consider packing my bags tonight.  I have thoroughly looked over the hospital discharge records from her birth and there was no mention of a Repeat Button located anywhere on her body, however I am quite certain she has one.  There is not 1 request made by me that is not repeated verbatim with a little sassy twist added for special effect.  Me - "Annie, please go brush your teeth, put on your nightgown and get ready for bed".  [Hip out, head cocked, shoulder dipped, eyebrow arched] "Go brush my teeth, put on my nightgown and get ready for bed?"  "Right now?"  (It always ends with a "right now?")  Me - "Annie please grab your bookbag, put on your coat and let's go because we are running late".  [sassy stance]  Annie - "Grab my bookbag, put on my coat and let's go because we are running late?"  "Right now?"   For the love of God, Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, the old man down the street and John Lennon, why can't the child just freaking go and do what I say in silence?!  Mr. Roger's Neighborhood; it drives me up the wall.

Oh boy does she have her father snowed; just wrapped around her little Repeat Button like a ribbon on a present.  I would not be surprised if one day my husband just drops me off at the front of Walmart to go "park" and never comes back, and I couldn't really blame him.  Can you imagine the scene playing out on a regular basis with Trey walking in the front door while I am running around in a fever pitch, screeching about how no one will just DO WHAT I ASK THE FIRST TIME, with wild eyes and my hair standing on end?  In all fairness to me, he never fails to just miss another marathon of "I know you are but what am I" or "Annie would you please", that would drive a hibernating bear from his cave and totally justifies my latest freak-out. 

Good ol' Annie Girl never sets her Repeat Button in overdrive for her Daddy.  Nope.  She is a smart little cookie and I am sure there are a multitude of interesting repeats in our future,  just as long as I can stay on this side of the Padded Room.  Annie and I look like something straight out of a made for TV movie, with her calmly walking behind me, devilishly repeating every request I make while I am ransacking the medicine cabinet for those last few Xanax left over from my wedding 12 years ago.  Classic.

Maybe they'll get Eva Mendes to play my me.

Next time I'll wear more red lipstick And less clothes.

Tomorrow is Sunday, my least and most favorite day of the week.  Family Beach Day and the dreaded Bathing Suit Day.  Yuck!  Having to squeeze my squishy self into something that is the most unflattering piece of nylon and spandex is my own version of Hell on Earth.  Which brings me to this shocking confession.  I cannot believe I am going to say this on the world wide web, but [deep breaths] this is so hard!  Ahem [another deep breath, stand up straight] ... "My name is Sarah Alice Yates Stidham and I would like to go on record saying that I should have listened to my mother, Martha Wayne Clark more when I was younger and that she may have actually known what she was talking about".  Whew, that was painful.

Let me break it down like this ... I should have worn more red lipstick and less clothes when I had the chance.  Actually skip the less clothes part .. I should have just walked around completely naked.  all-the-time.  Am I suggesting that I was a stunning beauty like Sophia Loren?  No, absolutely not, but there were a few years tucked away in my lifetime that this old girl was easy on the eyes.  Naturally I feel that way now looking back over old pictures and remembering how self conscious I was with my appearance back then, and now realizing that I had an attractive little body going on.  What's not to love about creamy wrinkle-free skin, pre-children perky breasts and curvy hips, a firm little tush, flat tummy, shapely legs and arms?  Am I right?!   Oy Vey why didn't I listen to my mother?!  I haven't had a lifetime of hotness but I feel confident saying that somewhere in between say 1990 and 1997 when I was in the best shape of my life, I should have worn my hair down, slapped on some Revlon Red and gone about my daily life au naturale.  My mother warned me that I would regret not wearing the cute skirts that showed off my toned legs and the fitted little dress numbers that looked great on me but I was too shy to wear.  She was so right by saying that time goes by so fast and we would all look back and realize how beautiful we really were.  Darn it all!  I haven't worn a skirt 3 inches above my knee since Clinton was in office. 

My poor husband, what a little trooper he is.  Unbeknownst to his little skinny ass that can still wear the same pants from high school, he met me on the downswing.  I moved to the beach still looking pretty decent, we started dating and then .. Hocus Pocus .. I'm a fatty-boom-baladdy.  Basically my metabolism left on vacation and I haven't seen that wench since.  Why is it that the ladies in need of additional coverings wear too few clothes and those who would look so attractive in less clothing look like they are modeling their entire wardrobe?  Maddening.  Every season I unpack my old high school jeans and I still have my favorite black dress I wore to my first formal in college that I have every intention of being cremated in, hanging in my closet.  But, I will always regret getting rid of this red dress I had in the 11th grade.  It was a crepe red criss-cross in the back sassy number I purchased from The Limited and wore for my job interview with The Express.  Boy I looked smashing in that dress with my red shoes and matching red scrunchie if I do say so myself.  Got that job too.  Never wore it again.  idiot. 

Surely there is a kid out there in the world that will invent a Time Machine before I kick the bucket.  You can be sure that when they do, Sally will be grabbing her trusty Revlon Red,  jumping in, setting that dial on May 12, 1991 and will be naked faster than you can say Mom Jeans.

If you don't have anything nice to say, then come sit by me

Gossip - noun.  Idle talk or rumor, especially about the personal or private affairs of others: the endless gossip about Hollywood stars

Let me be the first to admit that I am a gossip whore.  Yes I am.  It is a terrible flaw and something I am not proud of, but I love hearing about other people and their private affairs, regardless if I know them personally or not.  Could not care less.  I can't help it.  Some people collect bobblehead dolls or shoes, I collect gossip.  It doesn't necessarily need to be all kinds of crazy drama gossip even though that is what I prefer.  No, I am quite happy knowing that somebody from another town, that I will never meet, just broke their leg jumping across a busy highway on a pogo stick.  Thrilled.  Love it.  Tell me more.  What's the best about gossip is that no one will admit they enjoy hearing and delivering it; that by admitting you are a bona-fide Gossip Junkie it will land you on the local Leper list.  Heck no Sista!  Come sit by me and tell me something good. 

I look over all of the tattler websites for the latest celebrity news, flip thru the People and US Magazines while standing in the checkout line and comb my local newspaper for the Crime Section so I can be updated on all the latest delinquent news in my small town.  Small towns are the best.  We all complain about how everyone knows your personal business but sometimes it can come in handy.  Isn't it good to be in the know?  And I just can't get enough of the latest Jennifer Aniston boyfriend saga.  Does she really have a boyfriend?  Are she and Courtney Cox on the outs?  Could there be a Brad and Jen secret liaison in the future?  I need to know these things.  Sometimes I catch myself discussing what dress Anne Hathaway should have worn for the Oscars and that I prefer seeing her in deep hues as if I am her personal stylist.  Goodness I am nuts.  Of course there are strict gossip rules that must be followed. If someone tells you to not tell another soul, you totally can't.  Except maybe your husband because you are dying to tell someone and husbands never listen to you anyway. (I would never do that)  Nope, just having my gossip tank full of delicious tidbits about some woman who is in your neighbor's Sunday School class, that was busted smoking a joint in the non-fiction section of the local library, with the twin brother of the Mayor who just got home from Rikers during the 4th of July parade is right up my alley.  Don't care if I never meet them, it's just good to know.

That is why I love me some Facebook.  Yes indeedy.  There is nothing better than to log on after a crap day and see someone's relationship melt down Jerry Springer style all over Facebook for the world to see.  Naturally it is also great to reconnect with old friends and to see pictures of their sweet family and all of the incredible spots they have visited because they actually finished college and have a super cool job and travel all over the world to places you'll never go because you are a loser but you really aren't jealous because that would be so lame.  Sorry, I got off track.  A shout-out to your kids is a must and some updates of an amazing weekend too, but I can do without the hourly my husband is awesome and words of wisdom.  It makes my week watching someone come completely undone (like myself) on a daily basis.  Aren't we all a little zany?  It can't just be me.  Yes please, on your horribly embarrassing weekend that someone else had to update you on because you funneled one too many Natty Lites.  Oh, and don't forget the pictures!  I'll need those so I can call the other Gossip Queens and we can discuss that halter top you wore and your 14 yr old daughter's mini skirt that you had no business wearing. 

This summer will be a scorcher and you know how crazy people get in the heat.  Umm Hmm.  I'm counting on it.

5 Miles to Meltdown City

I'm pretty sure I am on a little winding back road to Crazy Town, and it would be safe to say that my poor husband would agree.  Poor fella.  One minute I am charming, funny, nice, full of life, nice, pretty, thin, nice, happy, nice and the next ... SHAZAAMM ... I am totally bananas and want to start a whole new life, except with an already made 9 and 5 year old.  Trey (my husband) probably thinks that I am having a "Mid-Life Crisis" do-watchy, but I don't really like to say "mid-life" anything.  Mainly that is because who is to say when the middle of my life really is?  I am 37 now so does that mean I'm kicking the vodka bottle at 74?  And, most importantly, I would like to save my mid-life crisis for much later in life when my children have children so I can really shake things up a bit.  Don't judge me, those little white hair inducing rascals deserve it!  No, I'll have a nice little "Sally's going nuts" episode now and wait for the doozy later.

Now don't start dialing Dorothea Dix and looking up straight jackets just yet, I mean everyone is entitled to a little crazy-spell now and then right?  It's not like I want to buy a cow and start drinking unpasteurized milk in my tepee and shark tooth bedazzled Mu Mu with Corn and Barley, my children formerly known as Carl and Annie.  But I do find myself getting a little crazy itch where I want to sell everything, buy a suped-up Van and just cruise to parts unknown.  How hard could it possibly be?  Trey could grow a beard, I could start braiding my hair and wearing Stevie Nicks inspired attire, and the kids would let their hair grow long and wear bathing suits all day.  Sounds awesome to me.  Oh sure the novelty would wear off after the first tussle with a bear while salmon fishing in Washington State or run-in with a whale while trying out our twig and gum wrapper dingy in Maine, but who doesn't have those problems?  Bring it on!  The open road would be our teacher.  Learn by experience.  We could teach Annie to read from billboards! 

Probably my best bet would be to have a good old hissy-fit, complete with lots of bad words, alcohol, really ugly crying and an old Patrick Dempsey movie.  I should just get a Life Coach.  My own Jiminey Cricket that preferably looks like Brad Pitt, pre-Angelina thank you very much.