http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dH5we3HYHUo

I can’t embed so the link will have to do……..

Really?  REALLY?  I’m all for the I’m ok, you’re ok, my boobs are ok thing.  Hey!  I think it’s great to have confidence in your body.  But how & in what horrifice universe is it ok to brag about being a dumb tramp because you have great ta-tas?  I do not get it.

 I know this is meant to be a silly song.  However, it has an effect once it’s put out into the world.  Given enough songs like “My Boobs Are OK”, well  people start to believe.  They start to believe that it’s ok to be stupid if you have a hot rack.  Or that you should ASPIRE to being stupid & having a hot rack.  It makes me afraid for our daughters.  And afraid for my son.  Images & media like this effect our sons as well as our daughters.  Like when people sexualize little girls.  When you put a prepubesent girl in a shortie cheerleader skirt & put paw prints on the seat of her cheerleader drawers….. not only does it sexualize the little girl, but also the little boys.

Am I an old fart?  I really am just so much more comfortable & accepting of “I’m OK, You’re OK” or “Our Bodies, Ourselves” than I am with “My Boobs Are OK”.  Honestly I think I am so disgusted by what this video spews out into the universe that i can’t even be cohereant about it.  I have been trying to write this post for 3 days & I just can’t seem to get anywhere.  Maybe I should just go put a Barbie on the barbie.

On Friday, a husband and four grown children encircled the hospital bed that contained their wife and mother.  Since the beginning of humanity, I imagine that loved ones have gathered around the dying in this way, speaking gentle words, smoothing a forehead, holding a cool hand, beckoning those who have gone before to act as ushers into the next world.

She was too young for this, not even 70, but lung cancer knows nothing of age.  She was a beloved wife, the mother of three sons and a daughter, the grandmother of six, the great-grandmother of one.  She played softball and loved to bowl.  My friend, one of her sons, said that she fought to continue living for over a year. 

I read her obituary yesterday, and in it her family asked that instead of sending flowers, just live your life to the fullest, do something you love, and hug your family.

Two days later, 100 miles due south, a 43 year old man watched his mother and his fiancee have breakfast together.  His own breakfast was administered by a feeding tube.  His inability to eat by mouth was the result of extensive surgeries to cure what was originally a cancerous area on the base of his tongue. 

It was a pleasant morning nonetheless.  Unable to speak for some months now, he had recently managed to squeak out the words I love you to his young son.   The boy, overwhelmed with happiness, had jumped up and down on the couch, breathless and joyful.  “Did you hear that Grandma?!  Daddy said he loves me!” 

Despite surgery, chemotherapy, and experimental treatments, a mass lurked in the dark secret places of his neck, pressing on his carotid artery.  The growing mass systematically eroded the layers of that artery, and as he walked slowly into the bathroom on Sunday morning, the final layer was irreversibly compromised.  His fiancee, alerted only by an uncharacteristic cough, went to check on him.  She found him there and called his mother, my own husband’s aunt, who held him in her arms as his final moments came to pass. 

Is it too much to hope that the last image his consciousness was able to hold was that of his son?  Perhaps his mind’s eye even replayed his son’s joyful leaping as he uttered the words every child longs to hear…I love you.

It is always hard to be reminded that we are connected to this existence by such a fragile tether.  As I kissed my own son’s pink cheek last night, I was even more thankful than I always am for the opportunity.  As I walked past my bathroom scale, I realized how insignificant its numbers actually are - the weight of my life means so much more.  As I climbed into bed next to my dear sweet husband, I took a moment to see clearly what a blessing he is to our lives. 

Live your life to the fullest.  Do something you love.  Hug your family.  Sometimes the simplest advice is truly the best.

I used to spend a fortune on underwear. Silk, satin, lace, even upscale cotton; I was the Queen of Intimate Apparel, and Victoria’s Secret was my demesne. Today, however, I lowered my hoity-toity standards. I bought panties in bulkat Costco. My husband is a lucky man.

At least I’ll be comfortable.

One of my sons vomited in his sleep a few nights ago. He didn’t cry, whimper or scream; he just went back to sleep in it, poor little dude. The next morning, he handed my husband a handful of half digested bits. While this is rather gross, I don’t think it warranted the actual gagging from my husband as he picked our son out of the crib. I went in, cleaned the bedding, the crib, the floor, etc., and it was not a big deal. I can’t say that it was fun, but gag worthy? No way. I’m not sure if I’m tough or if my husband is a pansy, but after they’ve thrown up on me, pooped on me, peed on me and even (blush) eaten a piece of cat poop and kissed me, what’s a bit of vomit in a crib?

Just gag me now.