Stuck in Frump, Striving for Fab

As a mom, I've always been very careful to try and discourage certain behaviors in my children lest they one day embarrass me themselves in public.

You mom's know exactly what I'm talking about.

It takes a lot of diligence to watch for and train out such undesirable and impolite behaviors as nose-picking, or scratching themselves in inappropriate places, as well as pointing at others or staring in such a way as to make the party being stared at distinctly uncomfortable.

Jeff's dad was a double amputee for the last several years of his life, and so we've paid extra attention in training our children never to stare, point or otherwise make someone with disabilities feel uncomfortable, going to the other extreme of making it a point to make eye contact, smile and show courtesy to folks who have struggles with things that the rest of us take for granted.

Nevertheless, as hard as I have worked on behaviors with my youngest son, my celebration of success was cut short by the next phase of Judah's life.

That phase in which it has become virtually impossible to control what comes out of his mouth.

Four year olds! They see, they think, they blurt out.

At some point after the Terrible Two's, all of the repressed curiosity (repressed because parents worked so hard to distract their children from certain activities lest they make huge messes or get hurt) suddenly shakes loose and comes bubbling up to the surface.

Their earlier lack of satisfied curiosity from hands-on exploration is now manifested by thoughts of, "Why?"

Millions and millions of thoughts of "Why?"

Which result in millions and millions of questions. "Why, mama? Why does da duck have da brwoken wing?" "Why do you go on da grween wight?" "Why do we have skewatens in our bodies?" "Why is da sky bwue?"

You find yourself having to stop and contemplate things you'd probably not thought of in years...at least since you were 3 or 4.

It's as though during this phase that some unseen mechanism is tripped in the small child's brain which renders even the most diligent of parents absolutely helpless to control what their child will blurt out next.

And why is it that the more embarrassing a question, the louder the voice it's asked in?

It doesn't help if you happen to have a child who is overly observant, noticing things that many other children would be completely oblivious to. "Dat man has a doggie in da store!" "Wook, mama, dat wady's haiow is hot pink!"

When these things happen in the general public, like say in Wal*mart, it's usually not so bad. You might cringe for a moment, and perhaps even apologize to the party to whom he was referring, but some of the edge is taken off of the initial embarrassment by virtue of the fact you will likely never see those people again.

It's when these things happen in smaller pockets of the community, places like doctors offices, changing rooms, a persons home or among friends and family that you cringe most, wishing for the floor to open and swallow you and your son.

Like the other day when a dear old gentleman from church met up for lunch with Judah, myself and two teen girls from church.

We were all having a great time, laughing and carrying on, when Judah spilled his drink. I went to the little area in that restaurant where napkins are kept and had just returned to the table when Judah lifted his hand, points, and says loudly enough for even the cook in the back of the restaurant to hear, "Why does Mr. 'Peer have hair grwoween in his ears?"

Mr. 'Peer and the others at the table heard this and thought it hysterically funny, and enjoyed the fact that I turned twenty shades of red.

Which happened because I'd have to see Mr. 'Peer again. It's unavoidable...he's a dear friend and he attends our church!

Judah, of course, thought he was a comedian (having garnered all those laughs) and repeats, "Ha ha...he has hair in his ears!" emphasis placed on certain words for the sake of the girls across the table, before dissolving into totally overdone laughter.

At which point I noticed that the businessmen seated behind us had also heard and were chuckling at my chagrin.

As I always do in such circumstances, I wondered what on earth would prompt such an outburst? And why was he looking at our friends ears, anyway?

My mind rolodexed through every possible thing that might have sparked such an observation...and hit upon what I think might be the culprit.

Judah recently brought home a drinking cup from AWANA with some dirt and seeds in it. We put it in the kitchen window sill, watered it every couple of days and watched with childish delight as the seeds sprouted and grew all the way out of the top of the cup.

How could I have missed the fact that he kept remarking over the fact that plants were 'grwoeen' in a cup (as opposed to in the garden)? "Why, mama? Why are da pwants grwoween in da cup?"

Now I see that he had been trying to make sense of why something that should be growing in the garden was growing in a place so odd as a drinking cup.

And somehow, his knack for never missing even the smallest detail had now picked up on yet another oddity...hair growing in unusual locations.

I fear I shall never stop cringing.

Thanks a lot, Judah. You couldn't have saved that little gem for some random old guy at Lowe's?

Just wanted to let y'all know I'm still here.

And to let you all know that all my medical tests came back normal. No worries, praise the Lord! Thank you all so much for your prayers.

The ordinary chest x-ray I had before the Upper GI was what revealed that I have a small peptic ulcer.

So glad to know I had to suffer needlessly through that wretched Upper GI procedure when if the doc at that lab had just looked at that x-ray first, I and my insurance company could have been saved the discomfort and expense.

It's amazing the discomfort a "small ulcer" can cause a person.

Not to mention wondering how in the world I would wind up getting an ulcer? I'm a SAHM, for pity's sake! The most 'stress' I generally have in my day is trying to remember to thaw something out to make for dinner and remembering to get my son's cross country uniform washed for his meet the next day sometime before midnight.

Unless, of course, you count the anxiety I sometimes experience having a precocious little boy that is prone to do things like unlock the front door at midnight from his upturned toybox hoping to wander the neighborhood by the light of the moon...or running full-speed towards an aquarium shark tank (which was old-school and had no safety gates in place) where he very nearly fell in the drink.

Or the nightmares I have about such things as said little boy crawling into the families homemade helium balloon tethered in the yard and floating up into the wild blue yonder...causing the local authorities to have divert air traffic and scramble to find a way to get a renegade weather balloon down to earth with the child still inside...

Oh, wait. That wasn't us.

But it could have been. Judah very well could have been Balloon Boy.

Which is exactly why we don't have a large helium balloon tethered in our back yard.

Movies like Up and that crazy dude who rigged up his lawn chair to enormous bundles of helium balloons and was seen by pilots in a nearby airspace give impressionable young children ideas, after all.

Hearing about such worst-case-scenarios in the news keeps moms like me awake at night.

On second thought, I suppose there could be sufficient cause for an ulcer. And more than a few gray hairs.

Anyway, the doctor has me on an over the counter medicine that has, after just a few days, stopped most of the misery that has plagued me for much too long.

I feel like a new woman.

Or would if it weren't for the fact that I had to visit the doctor again yesterday about a spider bite on my leg which I got while visiting some friends who live way out in the middle of the desert.

It left a hard, shiny 'bullseye' on my leg which was about the diameter of a drinking glass and had what appeared to be two spider sized fang punctures at the center.

The doctor assured me it was not Lyme Disease, but that any number of bug bites could have caused such a reaction.

I'm on antibiotics now as a precaution against potential infection.

Before I even went in, I read in one of my homeopathic medical reference books that Lavender essential oil put on a venomous spider bite should help dissipate the effects of the venom. I figured it wouldn't hurt to give it a shot, and wonder of wonders I actually had some Lavender essential oil on hand.

I do believe it took down the swelling before the antibiotic even had a chance to start working.

So, now that I'm done worrying about death-by-gangrenous-brown recluse-bite and have no storm chaser helium balloons out back to tempt my son, I think it's safe to let down my hair a bit.

I'm going to put the boy down for an early nap and then take my own self off to finish the sleep that began about 2 am but woke from after only four hours.

If sleep is what one can call it when they wake at every little sound.

Though I'll admit I'd rather do that then have to worry about my four year old boy hanging out of a balloon basket miles above terra firma.

For a while now, I've suffered with some strange stomach ailment that seems to line up with the symptoms of a hiatal hernia, GERD or a stomach ulcer, but could also be somehow related to my c-section of four years ago.

Any which way...no fun.

All of this has been the bane of my existence in recent weeks.

Apparently the diet Jeff and I adhered to so rigorously for the latter part of last school year and most of the summer can set in motion an internal 'cleansing' where the body begins to slough off bad stuff which can result in problems with kidney stones or even gallbladder attacks. Concerns about such things were what first convinced me to go to the doctor. Well, that and worrying that I might still have a sponge or scalpel or other surgical instrument still in my body after all this time. Stranger things have happened.

My journey began by reading up on some alternative therapies and things that could be done in some books from my local health food store. Cleansing fasts and the like.

However, I wanted a definite diagnosis before I began just to be sure I was addressing the right issues from the inside out and not putting a band-aid on the symptoms. Or overlooking something major.

SOOoooo, I went to the doctor. Who sent me in for several lab tests...all of which I needed to have done before my appointment on October 15th.

I've been in for all the blood drawing, the urinalysis and such and yesterday had to wrap things up with an x-ray and 'the biggie'...the Upper GI imaging test.

My lovely day began yesterday morning as I got Judah ready and then dropped him off at Grandmas (I didn't need him pushing all the buttons or otherwise wreaking havoc in the lab).

Naturally there was a detour on the way to the lab that morning, which resulted in my needing to make a third call to the lab in 10 minutes time. The first was to make sure I was headed for the right office (they have several), and the second was to be sure I had to fast because if I didn't have to, I was going to stop off at Starbucks.

It was after hours on Satrday when I'd thought to call and ask and because I couldn't get through to anyone had fasted as a precaution. It was a good thing I had.

Anyway, after three calls in so short a time span, I was beginning to feel like a nag, sure that the nice office lady Myra recognized my voice by now.

Finally, I arrived and Myra gave me sheaf of paperwork to fill out.

Is it just me or does every mom freak out just a little when going in for an x-ray procedure? Something about seeing the "Please inform the staff if you suspect you might be pregnant" warning signs always make me second-guess myself and the evidence to the contrary.

When I finished filling everything out, I was escorted to a bank of changing cubicles with accordian-fold doors as the only view.



I was being generous in saying cubicle, as it was roughly the size of an old telephone booth. Barely enough room to turn around in, let alone to try and put on the glorified paper towel clothing they now give you.

Whatever happened to cloth gowns? Seems such a thing would be a tad 'greener' and a means of recycling where they can, since for sanitary and biohazard reasons they can only use certain other numerous items at those places only once before properly disposing of them. And whilst I'm complaining, why on earth don't they make the split down the backside of hospital gowns off center a few inches? So that it's not gaping open at the worst possible place?

So I'm changing into my paper-towel garment and the tech says through the door, "Go ahead and just relax in there for a few minutes until I call you in for your first x-ray."



Funny, that. Somehow, sitting in skimpy paper clothing in a claustrophobically tight little booth with a folding tan door separating my scantily clad self from the general public wasn't exactly my idea of relaxation.

She finally calls me back into that cold sterile room with the greenish cast of flourescent lighting, and has me take a seat on a formica platform beneath the big x-ray contraption.

Germophobe that I am, I couldn't help but think about how other people's exposed backsides might have touched that very same surface. Ewww! Lucky me, they'd thought to also issue me some disposable paper towel shorts, too. I could only trust they'd offered the same courtesy to the others that had been there before me.

After that x-ray, she has me get off the table and proceeds to tilt the whole table and machine vertically and instructs me to step onto it for standing 'before' photo.

She hands me this sterile little packet she'd opened before giving it to me. It resembled the packets that moist towelettes come in at a local ribs restaurant.

Into my other hand, she places a very heavy beverage in a plastic cup roughly the size of a soda can. The dense, heavy white liquid inside resembled white primer paint or whitewash.

In fact, I'm still not convinced that it wasn't.

Suddenly, the doc comes in. "You are first going to put ze crystals on your tongue...and zen you weel follow weeth ze barium."

"You will feel like you need to belch. Do not! We need ze gahs in zhere to get a good image."

So I put 'ze crystals' on my tongue, and suddenly he's yelling, "Drink ze barium! Drink ze barium. Wash down ze crystals!"

Under that kind of pressure, I did it just as fast as one can chug such thick, goopy stuff...and, as promised, it was instant, miserable gas to the enth degree.

That barium was the grossest thing to ever cross my lips. I would even venture to say that even sour milk tastes better.

He was right. 'Ze gahs' caused a horrible pain high up in my stomach, and I wanted to belch in the worst way.

Then, the x-ray table I was standing in began to move me back to a diagonal position...belchy-pukey feeling and all.

Another x-ray.

Then it moved me until I was flat on my back. I thought I was going to lose it, that thick chalky barium spewing all over the machine above me.

By the looks of things it had happened before, though it must've been from another angle for whomever was responsible, as the barium apparently leaked through a screw hole on the machine and dribbled onto the backside of the glass where they couldn't clean it off. Ewww...gross.

Byt his time, I was barely holding it all in.

Then, all at once, the tech was there moving the machinery and helping me to sit up, and the doctor was gone.

"Okay, you're free to belch now" she said.

And as unladylike as it was, I couldn't not, for to do so was the fastest route to relief...something I desperately needed at that moment.

I let loose with a humdinger, and then threw in a few more for good measure, but felt only slightly relieved.

It's amazing how much gas those little pop-rocks can put in a stomach. I think I now believe the stories of the kid who swallowed them with soda back in the 1970's and died. Because I was feelin' the pain and misery.

The tech handed me another large cup of that whitewash stuff and told me to go 'relax' in my cubicle and guzzle the rest down as quickly as I could. After I was done, she'd be back for me in 15 minutes for another image.

I sat in my little booth and gulped it down obediently, employing the plug-my-nose-so-I-can't-taste-it technique from childhood. I peeked out the folding door to notify her I was done.

It as then I noticed that the cubicles flanked the hallway between the waiting room and the x-ray and other lab rooms, and that all foot traffic passed by that cubicle. So there I was in my not-so-private booth trying very hard to belch quietly and in a ladylike manner.

Which really made it sound more like a frog croaking.

There is no such thing as a silent belch. It's all or nothing, with perhaps only a slight differentiation in volume.

I sat there for 25 minutes, croaking, until they finally remembered me and came to get me for my next x-ray.

This time, I had to lay on my stomach, with paper towel clothing gaping open in all the places as to make me feel very uncomfortable in light of the fact that this time around the tech was male.

I tried to comfort myelf with the fact that he'd probably seen much, much worse in his line of work, in the same room where barium enemas and colonoscopies were also apparently performed.

It wasn't working. I cringed and cringed some more, my humiliation utterly complete. If I'd had a paper bag handy, I would have covered my head with it.

Finally, I was told to go 'relax' again for another 15 minues.

I sat in my little home-away-from-home once again, croaking as quietly as a post pop-rocks/barium drinker can.

That was when I heard a teen girl come in for the same procedure.

I heard her stirring in her changing room beside mine after she'd returned from her own torture-by-pop rocks procedure.

She was supposed to be relaxing, but instead moaned to her mother outside the folding doors, "Mo-oo-oo-oom...I feel like I'm going to puke."

I wanted to call out, "Just burp, honey...you'll feel SO much better", but at the last second realized just how odd that would sound coming from the cubicle next door. I mean, it's places like that and public restrooms where you just don't strike up friendly conversation with others, you know? It's just too wierd.

So I kept my advice to myself.

Momentarily I heard a long, deep belch.

Her mom called tentatively through the door, "Honey? You okay?"

"Yeah, mom...burping makes me feel better."

Finally, I was summoned to the x-ray room for what I hoped would be my last image.

I gathered the back of my paper towel shut, and backed along the wall and into the room with as much dignity as such situations allow.

The tech informed me that this might be my last image. "It varies from person to person, depending on how long their transit time is", but that I was "ahead of schedule so far."

He said all this like good transit time was something to be proud of.

All I wanted was to be 'in transit' home, where I could relax in the comfort of my own bed, in my comfy pjs and soft socks.

This time, my image had to be taken with a prism shaped pillow shoved under my right ribcage, while lying flat on my stomach. How comfy.

After checking that x-ray, he told me I was free to go.

And I went, croaking all the way.

I must say, I'm sufficiently recovered today, though a tad traumatized. Somehow the idea of a long cleansing fast followed by a long juicing fast sounds much, much better than having to endure that kind of indignity ever again!

For the past few years, I've had some creative projects ruminating on the back burners of my mind. Things which I hoped might result in generating some extra income by nature of my making and then selling things from home, while at the same time beneficial to my personal wardrobe in that I could finally use up some of the fabric and patterns I've squirrelled away by making myself some new dress clothes.

These past 3 or 4 years, whenever my very considerate husband has asked me in advance for a list of ideas for gifts for Birthdays, Christmas or anniversaries...I've usually included a certain thing which I knew existed, but wasn't even sure what it was called, I'd just seen them at the fabric store.

I think I may have written down something along the lines of, "One of those mannequin things that you can adjust to your exact measurements and shape, drape clothes on them and then be able to achieve a custom tailored fit and perfect hems without having to try the clothes on twenty times."

Which is probably why I never got one. Jeff doesn't even like to ask for help finding the Artichoke Hearts in the grocery store...I can hardly imagine him putting himself out there like that in a fabric store full of ladies.

Well, there was that and the steep price tag.

The only ones I'd ever seen were in the $250-$350 dollar range.

This past Spring, I came very close to purchasing a full-size, wrought iron armature from Pier 1.


It was on sale for $90, which I believe was half off the normal price.

It also had decorative red chandelier pendants wired into it, and I'm nothing if not a sucker for bling. Especially old-fashioned, Victorian era looking 'bling'.

Which would have looked stunning in the corner of my bedroom, which at that time was decorated in a beautiful red-velvet and white color scheme complimented with red transfer-ware plates, matching roses and a few little black wrought iron touches.

My goal had been to add in a beautiful bargain priced Persian rug in my color scheme and keep things that way for years...until someone dashed my vision to pieces by saying things looked vintage and romantic, alright...in a rather boudoir, 1860's brothel kind of way.

I suppose the 'Old Timey' Photo collection of ourselves on the walls in there only added to their perception. Can I help it that those studios never seem to have proper ladies costumes?

Needless to say the Pier 1 version of that mannequin was adorable, and within reach price-wise, but still wasn't wasn't exactly what I'd been looking for.

I passed it up, and when I returned later that day having had second thoughts, it was gone, the decision made for me.


I've made my peace with that my bedroom decor now. It's no longer red velvet but a brand new color scheme.

Anyway, having met that dead-end in my search for a dressmakers form, I went online looking for rock-bottom prices, scouring e-bay and Craig's List. They didn't have what I was looking for either. Unless I wanted a 1950's model with uber-small waist, flat behind and rather pointed bosom.

In my search, I did happen upon some instructions for a "DIY Body Double" tutorial.

It involved stripping oneself down to just a bra and panties and then dressing in a large plastic garbage bag (sticking your head and arms out of precut holes) and then having your friends or family assist in wrapping you very snugly in 3 layers of duct tape. When done, they very carefully cut you out out of it, and then you retape it and can stuff the 'mold' until it holds it's shape well enough for sewing purposes.

While the concept was a good one and would make for a very accurate casting of ones figure, I simply could not imagine subjecting myself to such torture a process for a number of reasons:

1. I am ultra-modest. I was the girl in high school swim class who wore a t-shirt over her swimsuit while showering, then scurried off to a restroom stall to change into my clothes.

2. I am horribly claustrophobic.

I wasn't even aware of this about myself until after my very first asthma attack. That makes a person feel extra-smothery real quick, especially in tight quarters. I can't even sleep in a sleeping bag while camping anymore because I feel too bound up. As much as I loved the look of my leather dress boots with jeans a few of seasons ago, the second I'd get into them, I'd start feeling that panicky fluttery feeling and have to take them off. For me, being taped up in duct tape and plastic would be akin to a straight-jacket.

3. I just can't imagine asking the form-making assistance of a.) my friends, b.) my family, or c.) some stranger off the street.

I still die-a-thousand-deaths remembering the time when, as a goofy 10 year old, my folks had a nice couple from church over for dinner. They stayed late enough that my folks eventually told us kids to go get ready for bed. After changing into my pj's (which was one of my dad's comfy old worn t-shirts which hung to about mid-thigh on my 10 year old self) we'd just crawled into our beds when my dad called us all back downstairs for goodnight hugs...and forgetting completely what I was wearing I ran to obey...and passed right in front of the couple that had been visiting...WITHOUT ANY PAJAMA PANTS ON. **blushes** It's a side of myself that I'd rather not share with friends and family, lol.

4. The face-casting project during my college sculpting class scarred me beyond repair. Smearing ones face with petroleum jelly, inserting straws into nose and mouth and having someone else pile on globs of freshly mixed plaster whilst laying in a reclining position and needing to remain still for a half hour while the plaster set...is a surefire recipe for possible asphyxiation and/or panic attacks. Not to mention that the chemical reaction taking place in freshly mixed plaster makes it extremely hot. As in scalding on your already slicked up face.

However, the same Lord that knows our needs and desires and all of the goofy little idiosyncrasies that are unique to my situation knew that I still desired one of those silly mannequins for that plan that had been a-brewin'.

Whenever I'd finally save up enough to go get a brand new one from the fabric store, I would end up standing there behind the pattern section looking longingly up at the display, but always ended up talking myself out of it. I'd walk away empty-handed because I just couldn't justify the expense.

Looking back now, I see that was simply the Lord's leading, because today...all that changed.

I had some mad money allotted for my little monthly thrift store 'route'. While I wasn't looking specifically for the mannequin, I was passing by my favorite thrift store on my side of town. I popped inside and found a couple of goodies for my walls, then headed for it's sister store across town where I needed to go for some of my other errands.

Judah and I walked into the Salvation Army Thrift Store **cue Hallelujah Chorus** and behold...there it was!

Not the hot pink busty/petite sized mannequin...not the average girl version in blue...but the big-n-busty-girl version in gray that was juuuuust right for my purposes.



"It was my twin!"

And it was only $50!

So, in honor of the One who blessed me with this wonderful find, I will give 'her' a Biblical name.

I think I shall call her...Esther.

For she is lovely in form and features. (Esther 2:7b) **winks**



Now if only I'd quit 'startling' every time I walk in the craft room and see an unexpected humanly figure in the corner.

Then again, the only thing worse than that would be a humanly figure in a closet!

"Every good and perfect gift is from above..."
~James 1:17