The Remedy November 29, 2008

With sadness on her face, Vee floats through the house to the kitchen.  “You doin’ okay?” her husband asks her.  She nods yes and walks by.  He knows she’s lying, and she knows she didn’t put forth any effort into the charade.  Vee searches the cupboards for something to eat, then changes her mind and silently returns to the dent she had previously made on the couch.

Vee’s husband sits next to her.  He puts her arm around her and holds her hand.  “It’ll be okay,” he says.  She appreciates the kind words, but isn’t sure if she agrees with him.  A tear comes to her left eye when she thinks about her empty womb and fallen expectations.  She tried to wipe it away before he sees it there, but it was too late, and he sqeezes her closer to him.

In the coming days she will come to realize that everything that lives also dies.  And sometimes when you lose something you never had, you are really only are losing an idea.  Vee tells herself that it’s like not getting the job you really wanted.  It’s like the pie that burned in the oven.  It’s like expecting your friends to come to your party, but nobody comes.  She tells herself this so that she won’t feel so slighted, but it doesn’t really help.  The only thing that really helps is when her husband sits next to her, puts his arm around her, holds her hand and squeezes her close.

A few more doses of that remedy and Vee knows she’ll be okay.

I want this to be a safe neighborhood. September 7, 2008

Someone got shot outside my apartment about 20 minutes ago. There is nothing I can do. The police are already here, they told us all to go back inside, I’m not a doctor, so there’s nothing I can do. So I blog. I don’t know what else I CAN do.

About half an hour ago I woke up to a man shouting. That’s not abnormal for this neighborhood. We have some young art students that get drunk sometimes and shout. But this is different. This exuded sadness and confusion, and a little bit of anger.

“Jehovah is my god! Jehovah is MY god! JEHOVAH! He is my god, and don’t you forget it! DON’T YOU FORGET IT!”

He chanted “Jehovah is my god” over and over. I peered out the window. Tall, black man, white t-shirt, jeans, pacing the street shouting. It seemed like a mantra to him, but like an angry mantra. I wanted to call the police at first because I was afraid something bad might happen to him. But I didn’t. I left him alone and hoped he would tire out and fall asleep in someone’s nice, soft yard. I roll over onto my right side and my husband places his arm around me and squeezes, then lets go. He loves me. Then there were gunshots.

Five. Maybe six. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! My husband holds tight to me and though my body stays in the bed, my mind rolls onto the floor. I squeeze his hand as my eyes pop open wide. Marc. Where is Marc? He’s in his bed on the other side of the house. He’s safe. Man. What about the man?

I run out into the dark living room to find my phone, but by the time it reaches my hand the police have already arrived. I peer out the window once again, nervous of any subsequent gunshots. The police seem to have been here for a few minutes already. Who shot who? Did the police shoot the man, or did the man shoot the police?

Against my husbands protests I venture outside when I see that several other neighbors have done so. As I step outside I breath in burning air. The gunshots had left their perfume behind and it was lingering. Nobody knows anything. The police can’t tell us anything. They rope of our street and put yellow plastic ribbon on the handrail up the stairs to my home. “Go inside”, says one officer. “If they see you they’ll yell at you.” Advice taken.

I check to make sure Marc is still breathing. He is. I contemplate calling the news, but change my mind with worry that news trucks will make things worse. I desperately want to do something. But there’s nothing I can do. So I blog.

I think this might have been a safe neighborhood once. I think it still is, save for one September incident. Will I feel safe tomorrow? And what of the man? Is he still alive? Was anyone else involved? What about the old woman on the corner? She’s so sweet and lent us her dolly when we needed to move a couch. What is her name? God dammit. I don’t remember. I hope she’s okay. The ambulance is directly in front of her house.

I want this to be a safe neighborhood, not a neighborhood with gunshots in the middle of the night

Pickin’ up hitchhikers at the Ozarks. August 19, 2008

Long time, no blog.  I do apologize, but you see, my boyfriend wanted to marry me.  Me!  An awkward tomboy queer girl with a history of mental illness, baby belly fat, debilitating food allergies, and a little extra emotional baggage found love!  It’s because of this love that I found myself getting attacked and picking up hitchhikers at the Ozarks.

We chose the Ozarks for our honeymoon because of the beautiful scenery, romantic secludedness, and the promise of peaceful nature hikes.  Neither of us fish, he doesn’t swim (and I’m a take-it-or-leave-it kind of swimmer), we don’t have a boat, but there’s something about being in nature that makes me feel a little rejuvenated.  I know my new sweet hubby is not really into nature, but in his own words: “I want to be where you are.”  That’s what he said!  Wow!

Before we left I warned him of a few things:

“Bring a pair of jeans so you don’t get ticks,” I said.

“Bring some socks and some tie shoes so you don’t get ticks.”

“I’m packing this long sleeve shirt so I don’t get ticks.”

“Don’t worry about spiders, sweetie, we won’t be going deep enough into the woods to bother the poisonous ones.”

I want all who read this to understand my tick paranoia.  You see, I was sick for a very long time, and while it was not Lyme disease, I had all of the symptoms of Lyme disease.  This is given me a hyper-paranoia about ticks, even in my own back yard.  I think you can see where I’m going with this.

Ticks and spiders and wasps, oh my!

On Tuesday afternoon, New Hubby and I entered the woods at Ozark State Park in Osage Beach.  We held hands, we shared kisses, we took pictures and talked about how peaceful it was away from all the traffic and bustle.  As city folk, we were incredibly appreciative of the silence.  Then we were silent.  We tried to follow the widest path we could so as not to bother the ticks, spiders, and other wildlife.  I have this thing for spiders: I like them.  I do everything I can not to bother their webs so that they can catch those bugs that bite you and help stabilize our ecosystem.  We came to a path that was completely blocked by a spider web, and rather than destroy like your assumed hiker would, we just turned around and took another path.  Spider’s gotta eat.

Halfway down that path a shiny black bug began to buzz.  It circled around us a few times, and I realized it was a wasp.  It was a nasty, black, noisy, mean wasp.  And it was following us.  It flew in between us and sort of dive-bombed us, at which point we turned and ran out of the woods.  We were completely under attack!  Where was that spider at when we needed him?

Once the wasp had suffeciently evicted us from his woods, we headed home for baths and tick checks.  No ticks on hubby.  No ticks on me, at least where I could visibly see.  But there was something: a red, itchy bump on the back of my leg.  That fucking spider bit me.  Okay, maybe not THAT spider, but A spider.  What did I ever do to them?  Seriously?  But I shrugged it off and climbed into the jetted tub provided by our bed and breakfast place.

As I scrubbed my ankles I noticed a freckle-like mark on my leg.  “Funny,” I thought.  “I don’t remember that freckle.”  Because it wasn’t a freckle.  It was a tick.  I checked further on up my leg.  Another freckle-tick.  Mother fucker.  I picked up two little hitchhikers.  I plucked the ticks off and threw them in the toilet, flushing them to their demise.  I’ll be damned if I get Lyme disease, you know!

After I was sure I was tick and disease free, I laid my head back in the jetted tub and enjoyed the hot water.  Really, it was a beautiful honeymoon.  We had the time of our lives, and I still think about it today!  But no one wants to read mushy lovey shit about a beautiful honeymoon, do they?  There are some stories you just don’t tell!

The Four-Time Story July 13, 2008

Part One: The Backstory

I have a friend that moved to China. I would not say that this friend and I were best friends necessarily, and I really only knew her for about a year before she moved. But in that short amount of time the two of us became pretty close, or at least as close as you can get to someone in one short year. I would go to her house and babysit her baby, I would bring her lattes, and we would talk about yoga and Montessori. She would come to my open mics and my shows. We would talk about our respective significant partners. I met her stepdad. One of her cats currently resides in my home in America, and one set of my yoga clothes currently resides in her house in China. Fair trade I’d say. I was pretty sad when I learned that my new friend was moving to China; I have abandonment issues. But I dealt.

When she posted on a social website we both subscribe to that she was coming back to visit America, I was excited! I immediately sent her my phone number and anxiously awaited her call. She called! I promptly made my way to the bar many of us were meeting at, and as soon as I walked in, she grabbed both of my hands and started jumping and dancing, and of course I couldn’t help but join in! We looked like two Woodstock hippies on “something awesome” dancing to “some great band”. The great band was the wonderfully local Kasey Rausch, and I don’t think she, or anyone else, minded.

The drinks had been drunk and it was time to move on, just as a new performer was taking the stage. My expat friend expressed her feelings toward the situation by letting us know that she didn’t want to leave just as the new musician was about to perform as it might be rude, or it might hurt her feelings. I wanted to tell her that was not even a concern.

Part Two: The Three-Time Interruption

My friend was so concerned about leaving this man just as he was starting, and I wanted to assure her it would be okay. As a musician myself, I have some experience in this area. I told her never to feel bad, never to worry, musicians understand. The whole incident reminded me of a story of when I was in my band.

“Listen to this story,” I said. “My band and I were playing up at the Brick, and we were the third band to go on. We all sat through the first band, then the second band, who was from L.A–” Then came the first interruption. A question about where to go next maybe? I’m not sure, it was all very fast! A few members of the group lit up their cigarettes. I wanted to tell the story. It was a good story. “Hey lemme finish my story,” I said, with giant, hopeful eyes.

“Oh yeah,” said my visiting friend. “Your band was playing in L.A., and then what?” No. No, that’s not what I said. “No, the second band was FROM L.A., and when they were done playing–” Oh. I thought. “No one’s listening,” I said out loud.  “Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Val,” my friend said. “I want to hear your story, but let’s decide where to go.” Fine. I understand. We cross a street and head down the block, stopping in front of the bar I think we’re going into.

“Okay, this is the third time I’ve tried to tell this story, and it’s a good story. Whoever interrupts, I’ll kick your ass!” I threatened. I didn’t really mean it. I’ve never kicked anyone’s ass in all my life. But part of me wished I meant it. “My band was playing up at the Brick–”

“Is this really where we’re going?” someone asked. “We could just go back to my house, I have beer.”

This is where I realized it was over. No one wanted to hear my story. I thought it was a good story. I’m not too sure of what was going on here, other than maybe everyone was a little too tipsy to pay attention. Maybe it was the group I was with. I was fairly unfamiliar with everyone else in the party except for my American-Chinese friend. This just wasn’t the crowd. I quietly followed the herd back to an apartment for more conversation that didn’t include my party. I had given up.

Now, I don’t want to leave you all with the impression that I had a bad time. I actually had a really fun time. I got to hang and hug and share happiness with my long-lost friend. I had a few margaritas. I smoked a little, laughed a little (okay a LOT), and chilled out. I shared memories and updates, and it I had an all-around fantastic time! But I’ve go this story, and I have to get it out. So here it is…

Part Three: The Four-Time Story

The good thing about blogs is that no one can interrupt, no one can feign interest, and no one can stop me from telling the whole story. For the fourth, and hopefully final, time, here is the story. Let’s cross our fingers and hope that my laptop battery and internet connection doesn’t give out, turning this into the greatest story never told.

My band and I were scheduled to play at the Brick, an interesting bar in Kansas City. We were scheduled to play first, but for some reason got bumped to playing third and last. Sandwiched in between was a band that none of us have ever heard of, Vintage. They were apparently from L.A. The five of us patiently waited through the first band, unhappy that it wasn’t us up there as most of us had to work in the morning. We then patiently waited for the second band to finish.

They were a very glamorous band. They all wore red ascots. The lead singer did a little Mick Jagger dance in between verses. If the sound wasn’t quite right, they stopped the song and let the sound man know exactly how they felt about it. After the final song, the singer announced to the crowd that they were having a party in their hotel room and everyone was invited. Well, if a band from L.A. invited you to a party at their hotel room, what would you do? You’d go, right?

“Wait!” I shouted. “There’s one more band left, don’t go anywhere!” Dirty looks were shot in my direction from many individuals.

“Don’t leave yet guys,” yelled one bartender. It was nice of her to help, but her efforts were wasted. As we set up our gear more and more patrons filtered out of the door. By the time we ran the sound check and were ready for our set, our audience included the sound man, the door man, two bartenders, and a cricket that I swear I heard chirping in the back.

We all looked at each other. I looked at each and every member of our little group, and they looked at me for a decision. “Let’s just have a practice,” I said. So we played through our entire set as if the bar was packed. When it was over, I sauntered up to the bar as if we were a glamorous band from L.A. and asked for our cut of the door. The bartender slid the roll of cash over to me and said “I want to be honest with you, you guys were the best band that played tonight.” She told me the other band were assholes for what they did and they were really sorry this happened.

Apology accepted.

Under the awning of the bar on the street I pulled the cash out of my wallet and counted it, then divvied up amongst the members. Exactly seven dollars for each of us.

So you see, four people walking out of an acoustic show in the early evening is nothing compared to what some bands go through.

Part Four: The Moral(s) of the Story

Not every audience is interested in hearing a good story. Likewise, not every audience is interested in hearing a local Kansas City band. Maybe someday we’ll travel to L.A. and we’ll be that band from Kansas City, we’ll invite the audience back to our hotel for a party, and we’ll demand they wait until the final band has played before they can come. Then we’ll be someone else’s story.

Meditation on Coffee July 7, 2008

Get it? Get the irony? Meditation? Coffee? Right? Ha ha! I crack myself up!

My fiance and I are currently living at my ex husband’s house. We will probably be living there for one to two more days. We had some issues with the sewer line that left our home disgusting and inhabitable, and as a result, we are displaced citizens of the world. Fortunately, I get along with my ex husband well enough that he’s letting us stay at his apartment while he and my son are out of town. But what does this all have to do with coffee?

Well, for starters, EVERYTHING has to do with coffee in one way or another.

I don’t use your traditional coffee pot. I’ve switched to a french press coffee maker that turns coffee into liquid awesome. I had packed up my coffee making supplies and taken them to my ex husband’s house with me so that I might enjoy some awesomeness in the midst of all this chaos. But I found out that his stove CAN’T BOIL WATER. What up with that?

Point of the story, all I wanted was a cup of coffee. Simple, right? Nopes. While I was waiting for the water to boil (which seemed to be taking about twice as long as it would have on my stove, no offense, Steve), I had time to think about all that went into making a cup of coffee.

First, you have to boil some water. While that’s boiling, you grind the beans. But you can’t just mash up some beans, oh no. The beans have to be ground to the correct consistency so that the brew is still delicious but you don’t have grounds in your teeth when you drink it. I do about 6-7 seconds on my grinder. Then, if you can get the water to boil, which I did eventually, you gently pour the hot water into the coffee maker and stir it lightly, finally placing the un-plunged plunger onto the top. Then you wait. About four or five minutes does the job. And then comes my son’s favorite part, plunging. Perfect every time.

Okay, I know I sound like a crazy lady who ruminates on her coffee way too often. Well, you’re right! But the point of the story here is that even the simplest thing, such as making a cup of coffee, can sometimes be one of the most complicated things to do. And since I like to relate shit like this to real life, I feel sometimes like I can take very simple things in my life and blow them up into very complicated things. It shouldn’t be that complicated to brush your teeth or put on your underwear or make a grilled cheese sandwich or pay your bills on time or fixing the sewer or finding a place to live while they fix your sewer.

Things can be complicated if you want them to be.

Things can be simple. If you want them to be.

Vee’s Guide to Riding the Bus July 3, 2008

I have been riding the bus for several years now. Granted, at first, I was a little nervous. I had to learn through experience how to ring the bell for my stop, how to let others off before you get on, how to exit at the back, and how to use the little bike racks they have cleverly attached to the front of the busses. I had to learn how to read a bus schedule, and how to estimate when the bus would be at my stop based on when it was scheduled to arrive at my stop. I didn’t know what a transfer was, I didn’t know where to buy a bus pass, and I didn’t know how rude people could be to handicapped folks. Let’s face it! Kansas City public transit is confusing as hell!

I was at the bus stop with my son the other day, and man was sitting on the bench, waiting. He seemed nervous, and kept looking at his watch. “Excuse me,” he says. “Do you know when this bus is supposed to be here?” Now, I don’t claim to be psychic, but I’ve been doing this a long time, and this man smelled like a bus newbie. It’s all good. I was a bus newbie once too! I tried to explain that should be at the main stop at this certain time, which meant it would be there in around 2-5 minutes after that. This is all assuming, of course, that it’s running on time.

We sit and wait for the bus, it finally shows, and to the man’s horror, he needed to have gotten on the bus at the other corner that had passed by just moments before!

I thought to myself “the Kansas City Area Transportation Authority really needs to put out a guide on how to ride the bus.” Now, when I started riding the bus, some well meaning friends made me feel like any moron should be able to figure out how to ride the Kansas City bus. But not this moron, oh no. I had to get off at the wrong stop first. I had to not have enough change. I had to miss my bus several times before I learned just what in the hell was going on. Basically what I’m saying is, you really need to know your shit.

So here it is folks! If you’ve never ridden the bus before, here’s my guide, with a few tips and tricks! Hope you enjoy it!

A. Make sure you have enough change. Currently, the fare for the KC Metro is $1.25. The bus WILL take nickels, dimes, and quarters. It will NOT take pennies. If all you have is a $5 bill, the driver will issue you a change card that you can use on your next bus trip. The bus driver, however, will NOT lend you a quarter. If you’re short a coin or two, you can ask the passengers if they have any change to spare, but it’s likely that they’ll yell at you or ignore you, or, if you find that rare woman in the green dress that my fiance like to call the “Green Dress Lady”, you’ll just get told to shut the fuck up. If this happens, the bus driver will likely take pity on you and let you ride for free. Or not. Depends on how cute you are.

B. Find a seat. Sometimes this is easy, but other times it can be a challenge. If the bus empty, avoid sitting in the seats reserved for handicapped and the elderly, unless you are prepared to move when they board. If the bus is full, there are some nice little strappy handles to hold on to should you need to stand. However, understand that you will likely be shoving your armpit in someone else’s face. Likewise, if you are sitting and someone else is standing, you may be the recipient of said armpit in the face. Should this happen, please refrain from making comments such as “oh lordy!” or “use some deoderant!” It’s rude.

C. Let the handicapped, elderly, pregnant ladies, and moms or dads carrying small children have the seat at the front. It’s not only polite, it’s the law! True story: I was on a crowded bus when a little old man with a cane came on the bus. The bus driver asked someone to let him sit down. I asked someone to let him sit down. Nobody would. As a result, the bus driver refused to leave the stop until someone let the man sit down. Don’t fuck with the handicapped, or you’ll make it harder on the rest of us!

D. Watch for your stop. Nobody else is going to watch it for you! You know those little blue signs on the side of the road? Those are the stops! If you pull the yellow cord about a block from your stop, the bus driver will stop for you, and you won’t have to ride all the way downtown and back. While this may result in some great sightseeing of the city, you’ll also make it harder on yourself to get where you’re going.

E. Transfers. These are good for two hours on any bus in the city. They are free.

F. Be polite. Okay, this is really a rule for the Green Dress Lady. When someone is being nice to you, don’t tell them to shut the fuck up! It’s not nice! And yes, even though the last time I saw you, Green Dress Lady, was last year, I’m still annoyed that you would do this to everyone on the bus.

Little known fact. If you are out by yourself and you run into trouble, like if you are mugged, or attacked, or you fear you are being stalked, flag down a bus! The bus driver has a direct link to the police, and the bus is also considered a safe space!

I hope this little guide has proven informational. Feel free to comment if you have any questions!

New Humans June 30, 2008

Ever since I turned thirty I’ve been a little sensitive about getting older. I’m not in my twenties anymore. People in their twenties go out to clubs, and they drink a lot and sleep around. Okay, well, at least that’s what I did. In my twenties I got carded at liquor stores and hit on at bars. I got crazy looks from folks on the bus when people overheard my young son refer to me as “mom” rather than “big sister”, because I pretty much looked like a teenager.

But now that I’m thirty, it’s like the world instantly knows I’m an adult. No one questions the fact that I have a son going into first grade. No one cards me when I try to buy liquor. And I haven’t been getting hit on, like, at all. Some dude at the bus stop the other day asked me if I had a man and I just ate that shit up! I even called my fiance to brag. Yeah. That’s how I roll.

Thirty just doesn’t have what twenty had for some reason. I’ve actually been forced to come to grips with the fact that I am not immortal, I am going to pay for all those good times with wrinkles on my face, and I will grow beautiful gray streaks in my hair. Possibly soon. Now I do understand that I am nowhere near close to old age, or even middle age. I’m only thirty. But something happens at thirty. I’ve become…aware of myself.

So tonight we rented two movies. One was Spiderwick Chronicles for my son, though I highly suggest you watch it even if you’re not six. The other was 10,000 B.C. As a history major minoring in Classical studies I have been dying to see this movie, regardless of the fact that the term is “B.C.E.”, not “B.C.”. Yeah, I know. Semantics. I haven’t watched it yet because I wanted to type this blog.

My son saw the DVD case laying out on the coffee table and asked if we were going to watch it after he went to bed. “Yeah,” I said. “Why, do you want to watch it?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I saw the commercials and it doesn’t look that scary.”

“Well, maybe we’ll watch it tonight and I’ll tell you how it is, then maybe you and I can watch it tomorrow?” That suggestion seemed acceptable. But he wanted an explanation as to what it was about. Oh man. I’m not sure how to explain the passing of millennia to a six year old. But I tried. I tried to explain how this is 2008, and he was born in 2001, and I was born in 1977, and you keep backing down to 0. This is when you go from the common era, C.E., back into before the common era, B.C.E. And if you back up far enough, you reach 10,000 B.C.E.

Okay, this didn’t make much sense to him. So then I reminded him of the whole “we used to be apes” thing. After apes came humans, and then came civilizations. The first humans like us started cities and raised their families in them in 10,000 B.C.E. Mesopotamia, now the Middle East. Right? Does this make sense? This is when the movie takes place.

I don’t think my son quite understands the passing of years yet, or the impact it has on our lives.

“Were you there in 10,000 B.C.?” he asked. Oh, no! No no! I wasn’t there, and I told him I wasn’t. I made it quite clear that I’m only thirty. I’m only thirty! Got it?

I told him no, that I’m only thirty and there have been humans for 10,000 years.

“Was I there?” he asked.

I told him no. He’s only six. I told him he’s one of the new humans.

“Yeah!” he said. “I’m a new human!” He was so delighted! “Like you! You’re a new human too! Cuz you’re only thirty!”

Ahh. Hell’s yeah. I’m only thirty! I’m a new human! Humans have been on this planet for 10,000 years, and I’ve only been here for thirty of them. Rock on with me, new humans! Rock on!

I heart my belly fat, and why I’m showing it off at work today. June 25, 2008

I have this belly fat. It’s like a jello-y bulge that makes itself known in every shirt I have. It’s noticeable enough that I occasionally get asked if I am pregnant. My answer: “No, just fat.” Or: “I had my baby six years ago, this is just his leaving-the-womb present.” Or: “Yeah, I’m pregnant to a six-pack of tacos and too many margaritas.” I’m not offended by people saying this. It’s totally alright. I have skinny arms, skinny legs, I’m tall, and I have this protruding belly. So I just do my best to come up with witty one-liners. Sometimes I do wish I could wear some of those cute tops that show your belly button, but trust me, no one wants to see that.

Which brings us to the yard sale up the street. Some woman has been sitting on the front steps of her apartment building with a clothes rack and a jumble of shoes. Every time I ride by on my bike she shouts at me: “Come check out some of these clothes.” Well, I took pity on her the other day. She looked lonely, and I was also a little tired of getting yelled at, to be quite honest. When I approached her, she smelled like vodka, and she looked at me like vodka. She picked up this very cute plum-colored shirt and said “Here this’ll look nice on you. You like this, right?”

I looked at the tag only to find a giant S emblazoned on it. “Oh, this is small, I’m a medium to large at least. It’ll never fit.”

She looked me up and down like a tailor. “Oh it’ll fit, here take it. Two dollars.”

Well, now, how can I argue with that logic? I gave her a couple bills and walked on home. The tiny purple shirt sat on my bedroom floor for a few days until I decided to wash it. Today it made itself apparent to me in my drawer. I had completely forgotten about it. “Hey,” I thought. “There’s that drunk lady’s shirt.” I pulled and stretched it on, and walked out into the living room to show it off to Mitch.

“Do you think this is too tight?” I asked, knowing he would give me the answer that was the truth rather than the one he thought I would want to hear. His response, “I dunno. Looks fine to me.” Well, at least I know that was exactly what he thought.

In the car, the bottom edge of the shirt surprisingly popped up and there was belly fat, stretch marks and all. “See, it is too small, isn’t it?” Mitch only shrugged. He didn’t really care, I could tell. I’m sure my concern confuses him.

When Mitch dropped me off at work, I would estimate that I pulled down the bottom of my shirt close to ten times before I actually got to my desk. And now, here I am, at my desk, typing this blog with my baby belly fat hanging out to the world.

Yes, the shirt is too tight. Not so tight that I can’t get by, however. I think if I was in slightly better shape it would fit just fine. But for the moment, my belly’s exposed. And it’s alright. My son gave me that fat, therefore I love it! And that is why, if you see me today, I’m probably flashing you. I hope you enjoy it!