Tomorrow I will turn 35.

Tomorrow I will also dance in public and show my belly.

That this has potential to be deeply embarrassing has not gone unnoticed by me. In fact, I’m shaking in my flip-flops.

Which is okay, as it turns out, because belly dancing is chock-full of the shimmy-shakes. So even if I just stand there and tremble, I’ll still be getting it partway right.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

To gear up for the event, I painted my belly with henna.

Well, I didn’t paint it myself. I just laid on my back and tried not to breathe, let alone laugh or talk or do anything that would make my tummy jiggle, while my friend Anna Maria free-handed the henna. It took her about two minutes and fourteen seconds because she’s a total whiz.

Then I had to lay flat on my back for an hour while it dried. To get my newly-painted and still-slightly-tacky tummy safely home, I had to hike up my shirt and tuck it into my bra, sit ramrod straight with my tummy sucked in to keep it as flat as possible, position the seat belt most carefully, and drive as gently as possible.

Thank goodness it was dark outside.

Even with all my extreme precautions, my belly still rolled and pooched. (It’s what bellies do after they’ve been blown up with babies. Well, except for Rose, our snaky instructor who has four babies and a six-pack. What woman has a six-pack after birthing four boys, I’d like to know? It’s unnerving.)

So because I had four babies, the henna smeared. As soon as I got home I woke up Mr. Handsome and ordered him to come down and minister to my belly with a toothpick, q-tip, and napkin. He was groggy and confused, but after about fifteen minutes and lots of explaining, he finally caught on.

Then, to help the henna set, I was supposed to apply a mixture of lemon juice and sugar with a cotton ball. We, however, didn’t have any cotton balls, so Mr. Handsome used a panty liner to daintily dip and pat.

I slept on my back that night and by the next morning the henna was dry and crusty. I softened it with some olive oil before pulling it off in bits and pieces, yipping every time one of my tender little belly hairs got stuck.

Bath time is quite the adventure. The stain isn’t supposed to get wet since water can lighten it, so I have to drape my body over the edge of the tub and bathe my body in stages—first the top half and then the bottom half, with the back-washing being outsourced.

Oh, the suffering I go through just to have fun! I should probably get my head examined.

I’d like to pretend that my tummy looks so smooth all the time, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I must confess that these pictures were taken first thing in the morning before I ate breakfast or even drank my coffee. (And I may have sucked my tummy in just a little, too.) Because as soon as I chew and swallow that first bite of food, my belly falls to pieces. It swells and slouches, rolls and puckers, pooches and puffs. It goes hog-wild in its unbridled excitement over being fed.

Therefore, I will not be ingesting anything until after the dance tomorrow.

Yeah right. Like I could go for eight hours without eating. Now that’s funny. I’ll just have to settle for sucking my stomach in extra hard.

So if you come to the dance tomorrow and see a henna-ed bellied woman in a black coin belt with a pained expression, that’ll be me.

Just tap me gently on the shoulder and remind me to breathe, okay? Thanks.

Sincerely,
The One Who Is Baring All

This same time, years previous: Roasted Butternut Squash Salad, cross-dressing, and one hot chica

Fred is five-and-a-half years old. He got ripped off when he bought himself a bicycle (ended up paying $1600 instead of the original $200). He was buying a bicycle because he wanted to wear a bike helmet but thought it would look uncool to wear a helmet without a bike.

Then he dropped a large knife and it went right through his foot. His friends carried him to the hospital, but the doctors and nurses didn’t act fast enough and he ended up losing half his blood. It was the janitor who noticed that there was a pretty big problem (he was mopping up all the blood so it was kind of obvious) and advised the doctor to stick a “two plus two” into his arm, and of course, since two plus two equals four, he was referring to an IV.

I should also mention that Fred is an extremely popular college professor. When he teaches his classes, the room is packed with eager students, as well as journalists, bloggers, TV reporters, and even a sculptor working to capture the moment.

And we love him just as much as everyone else does. He makes us laugh and teaches us math in between giggles.

In case you haven’t already figured this out, Fred isn’t real. He’s just the main character in a series of math books that starts with fractions and goes right up through calculus, statistics, and linear algebra, but boy oh boy, is he ever amazing.

This is my new favorite book and I feel rather evangelical about it. (And no, nobody is passing me big bucks under the table to write all this good stuff about Fred—I just am. BECAUSE I’M SO FREAKIN’ EXCITED.)

My sister-in-law owns the whole series—a bunch of hardback, nonconsumable books, each book ranging in price from $19.00 to $49.00. (When you consider that one year of Saxon math costs around $150, you’ll understand how much of a steal the Fred books are.) I’ve only purchased the first one because I wanted to make sure we liked it, but next time I order I’ll be getting a whole bunch.

We are CRAZY about Fred.

It’s not just me, either. Earlier this week when I didn’t have much time for homeschooling and told Yo-Yo he could pick a subject and I’d pick another one, he promptly chose Fred. And when Mr. Handsome comes home from work, Yo-Yo sometimes reads him the entire lesson/story just because it’s so stinkin’ entertaining.

The other thing I love about Fred is that we’re (I say “we” because I fully participate in each lesson—I can’t help myself) learning more than just math. There’s also history and grammar, manners and science, and literature and art.

And get this. There are no endless columns of practice problems like you used to have in grade school. There’s simply the lesson and a few problems, of all sorts and all jumbled together, and then you move on to the next lesson. Boredom is not an issue.

When we started the series a month ago, Yo-Yo didn’t really know any math above basic addition, subtraction and simple multiplication (and even that was/is sometimes slow and belabored), and he had never done long division, but we jumped right into Fred’s world and with a bit of extra explaining, he was fine.

Want to read more about Fred? Here’s the website, here’s where you order, here’s an interview with Fred’s creator, and here’s Fred’s creator’s website. Since I ordered our Fred book, two more homeschooling friends have placed their orders, one non-homeschooling mom has ordered, and my father toted the book to school to show to one of the math teachers.

Fred is where it’s at, man. I’m tellin’ you.

This same time, years previous: Greek Pasta Salad, hard knocks (involves blood), retreat (ha!)

I have not fallen off the face of the earth, in case you were wondering. I’ve been fine and dandy. It’s just that life has picked up speed, from a bouncy trot to a canter, with full-out gallop mode looming in the near future.

Well, fine and dandy except for last week’s migraine. That wasn’t fine. That was bad, like hell-in-my-head bad. It knocked me out cold and then traumatized me, to boot. Now whenever I feel the ghost of the knife blade between my eyes, I freak out and pop pills like a full-blown addict. In fact, I believe that today is the first drug-free day I’ve had since that migraine.

Migraines are really, really freaky. They’re not like other illnesses (such as the stomach flu or a cold) where you feel them coming on, endure them for a bit, and then gradually get better. Nope, migraines kick you in the head and knock you out cold. And I mean knock you out cold. (I realize I’ve said that three times now. Sorry.) (But I WAS. I was TOTALLY knocked out cold.)

After losing my vision that fateful Tuesday afternoon (any seasoned migraine victim would’ve known instantly that something big and bad was soon to follow, but not little old naive me—I was completely clueless), I suddenly found myself unable to get up from the sofa, unable to speak above a whisper, and unable to open my eyes—they stayed shut for a full two hours and then mostly shut for another four.

What about the kids, you ask? Who took care of them while I reclined on my bed of pain? They did. They took care of themselves for the couple hours till Mr. Handsome came home from work, and aside from a few minor incidences—one smashed window, a flushed hairbrush, a broken leg, and a dismantled lawnmower—they did just fine. Kids are more capable then they let on.

Okay, so none of the above incidences actually incidented, but the truth isn’t all that exciting and I didn’t want to disappoint. The truth? They played for an hour before catching on that I wasn’t just being lazy and then they proceeded to plague me with lots of love and attention.

Sweetsie (in an eager, breathy whisper): Mama, do you want something to drink?

Me: No.

Sweetsie: Can I get you something to eat?

Me: No. My. Stomach. Hurts.

Sweetsie: Do you want a stomach pill? [Stomach pill = TUM]

Me: No.

Sweetsie: Please, Mama! Let me get you a pill and then you can eat something. Please?

Me: No.

Sweetsie (with a touch of desperation): But I want to make you something!

Me: Rub. My. Feet.

Sweetsie: Can’t I get you a stomach pill? Pleeeeease?

Repeat the above conversation a half dozen times and you’ll get the picture. When Mr. Handsome finally graced us with his presence, I rose on wobbly legs and crept upstairs to my bedroom chambers.

This past weekend was the annual soiree at my aunt’s house, and considering what had happened to me last year and the migraine I had just endured, I was petrified that some strange malady would inflict me the instant I started vacationing, so I took some preventative measures. I increased my pill intake, drank lots of coffee and wine (not that those beverages are necessarily beneficial in the war against migraines, but still), and tried to avoid looking at computer screens (easy, since there weren’t any) and speeding objects (hard, since we had to drive there), and as a result made it through the weekend without incident.

The weekend included, but was not limited to, the following:

Incredible quantities of incredible food.

Countless games of Cornhole.

Entertainment—a professional bellydancer!

Chit-chat and in-depth conversations that covered everything from bodily functions to theology to fashion to food to movies.

The consumption of A Most Exotic Beverage.

Now I am back home, in the thick of studies and grapes, dancing and church meetings, cooking and cleaning, eating and sleeping. There will be much to talk about. I’ll try not to stay away for so long this time.

Peace out, dudes.

This same time, years previous: Coffee Fix Ice Cream, Cornmeal Whole Wheat Waffles (these are totally amazing), Ricotta Cheese, and Pesto Torte