Baby Poop and Business Suits

Buttermilk Pancakes

Usually, during the week, I have to drop Kyra off at preschool at 8:15 a.m. - and so even on my days I don't have to go to work, we are up and rush-rush-rushing around in the morning. But, today, preschool was canceled due to foggy driving conditions... and so, standing there in the kitchen, I looked around, and realized, my god, we actually have time on our hands today. We can wear our pajamas until noon and leisurely go about our morning simply going about our morning!

This is rare.

And you see, it's little things in life like this that just make me downright giddy. This is what it's all about. And so, I opened up the refrigerator. And there it was. A leftover pint of buttermilk from a recipe I made last Sunday. A ha. Today, we shall have real, home made, buttermilk pancakes. I've never made them before, but today, we've got all the time in the world. Bliss!

No need for a super-speed breakfast of rice crispies and yogurt today... No, no, no. I am going to make a real breakfast. We are going to feed our souls.

Now, this simple thought process about a warm, fuzzy, leisurely breakfast leads me to ponder a few things. Do other normal people crave cooking things from scratch and "feeding their souls" like I do? Have I truly gone batty? It seems that many of my friends and moms my age claim they hate to cook; that it's a waste of time. Am I the only one left on this planet that things there is something therapeutic about getting out the kitchen aid mixer, hauling the flour and baking soda from the back of the pantry, cracking some nice brown eggs and goin' to town? Am I alone in my craving to slow the hell down once in a while, and on a cold, snowy, wintry Michigan day just take the time to create something wonderful and basic in the kitchen and feed my family?

Call me crazy, I guess. You wouldn't be the first!

And so we did it. The little munchkins wanted to be part of the project, so we proceeded to fight over counter space and who was going to pour what... and the magic began happening.

I bent over to get a mixing bowl out of a lower cabinet, and Niko, who was standing at the counter, dropped a pancake-mix-laden spatula on my head... Kyra fell off her step-stool and cried... Niko fell off HIS step stool and cried... both kids have colds, so while I cooked the pancakes and yelled "GODDAMMIT, I SAID KEEP YOUR HANDS AWAY FROM THE STOVETOP!!!", I'd wipe their little snotty noses as they cried more and coughed...

... and finally, the pancakes were done. They were PERFECT! We sat down to the table, topped them with butter, blueberry-maple syrup, and sliced bananas. I carefully cut up Niko's whole pancake into baby bite-size pieces, and we were ready to begin!

I took a bite. Better than sex, I tell you. The best damn pancake I've ever had. "Oooooooh, Kyra and Niko! These are so fabulous!!!!" I said, looking from one child to another, waiting for them to experience the orgasm of the mouth that I had.

Niko threw his fork on the floor and said "No no no no no!", picked up a handful of mapley-blueberry-buttery-bite-sized pieces of better-than-sex and also threw them on the floor.

Kyra coughed all over her food, wiped her snot on the back of her hand, and said, "I want yogurt."

So, we sat there, in our snot-smeared pajamas, Kyra eating her yogurt, Niko pitching his food across the room, and me, moaning in therapeutic bliss.

Life is good.

Motherhood makes me do strange things.

Did I mention Niko has the most adorable little curls in the back of his head? And that he is allergic to cats and dogs and dust mites? I cannot cut his hair. I cannot.

I hope you like my new look. I decided it was time for an update.

Why Anti-Depressants Depress Me.

I'd like to take a moment and try to explain the reason why I have gone missing from this blog for the last several months.

My best reason: I have no good reason. I simply cannot explain it.

The fact that I can't explain it frustrates me, because I think about things too much and the more I think about it and can't come up with a good answer, the more frustrated I get.

Which leads me to the reason that may be the right answer. I am, in general, quite a frustrated person. I spend the majority of my life feeling frustrated about various things, because I want everything to be the best it can be and constantly want things to be better, BETTER, BETTER!. These things include (in no particular order) my job, my home, my dinners, my garden, my community, my country, my children, my friends, myself... which therefore includes (also in no particular order) my fingernails, my floors, my carpet, my pores, my zits, my toenails, my children's toenails, my boss, my friend's relationships, my relationship with my friends, my organization of my email address book, my kid's toy room, my flabby stomach, my choice of paint color  on my walls, my dirty refrigerator and crusty stuff spilled inside it, etc. etc.

You get my drift, I'm sure.

On the surface, I appear happy.  And most the time, I do feel happy. It seems like I've got it pretty good compared to so many others... I was raised in a rather normal home - sure, my parents were hippies - and I do remember some naked skinny dipping stories from my childhood, but, geeze, they didn't beat me or anything... I've never gone hungry... always been clothed and loved...

In my adult life I've got a husband that holds a steady job, brings home the bacon, loves me, as well as does laundry, bakes pies, and grocery shops. I've got two adorable kids - a boy and a girl, who are smart, healthy, have all their limbs and all of their brains. I go to yoga class, eat plenty of fiber, drink lots of water. Aren't I doing everything right!? We are the American DREAM!!! What the hell do I have to bitch about, right? Why would a person like me be frustrated, huh? Middle class life is grand! Hooray! Yippee! Zippidy doo dah!!!

Funny thing is, I, Miss America, am labeled as Depressed. I currently take medication for depression, prescribed by a real, live, Psychiatrist, who I also go and talk to once a month, give or take. Last year, I went a bit mental. I stopped sleeping, stopped eating, and started panicking constantly. I just went a bit nutty.

My explanation? I was overwhelmed with life. I wanted everything to be the way it is supposed to be, but I simply couldn't handle it, and my body freaked out.

So the medication helped. Funny thing though - I noticed when on the medication, I had no desire to write - whereas before medication, I wanted to write all the time. I tried to get off of it a few months ago, and the symptoms started all over, so now I'm on it again - although now it's Cymbalta instead of Zoloft. And I have been wanting to write again, when I can find time when the children are away or napping or I'm not at work, or at home staring at my pores or cleaning the crusty stuff in the refrigerator while wishing I was 20 pounds thinner.

Yes, I, am the American Dream: Tall, blonde, college graduate, married to my handsome high school sweetheart, with a house, children, two cars, one television, with a new computer, iphones, with healthy amount of credit card debt, and a pill I must take each morning to get me through my day so that I feel happy, even though for some reason I am not.

Something about this all just doesn't seem right. Am I the only one out there who thinks the thought of taking anti-depressants is, itself, depressing? And maybe we're all trying to live lives that may not be the right kind of lives to live? Is the American Dream really just... a dream?

Oh shit. Gotta go. Forgot to take my anti-depressant today. Hence, the melancholy post.

Toodles.

Sweet Little Darlings of Mine

And here's the winner of this year's Dutkiewicz sibling Christmas photo contest...

And in case you'd like to feast your eyes on more of my darlings sweetness, I've updated my Flickr photos. I'm even in a few of them (I'm the one wearing lipstick.) Oh, and see if you can spot my new babe-a-licious haircut...

The Shame Spiral

I've been thinking about New Years Eve, and here's what I'd like to say.

I love to drink. Or, I guess, it's not the drinking that I love - I mean, I wouldn't enjoy drinking if I was just sitting at the kitchen table by myself staring at the wall while drinking... I mean, I don't so much love the act of pouring the liquid into my mouth and swallowing it as I do the activity which surrounds the act of drinking alcohol.

Okay, busted. I do enjoy the liquid too.

But what I REALLY, REALLY love (as my sister says), is the carrying on. The "drinking and carrying on" is what it's all about, in my book. My sister, (who is also known for her carrying on and drinking) and I once had quite an elaborate discussion about what exactly it means to "Carry On". Basically, for us, it includes talking loudly and cackling with laughter with other loud, cackling people... telling boys and/or men how cute we think they are, and forcing the cute, quiet ones to get on out on the dance floor with us and shake a tail feather! (and if they try to resist we don't ever take no for an answer). Also included in our carrying on activities is loving pretty much almost EVERYONE we see and telling them how fabulous and wonderful they are... then displaying dance moves that probably wouldn't otherwise be displayed while sober. Also included would be having just ONE MORE beer when any sensible person would call it quits and go home... and then grabbing those boys that we think are cute and giving them a friendly smooch.

Do I have a problem? Hmm, maybe. Do I have fun? Oh, HELL yeah. Do I have a hangover? You betcha.

And then along with the hangover comes The Shame Spiral. This is the feeling that I need to call everybody I was with the night before and apologize for being an ass. "But you WEREN'T an ass, Gerah!", they say. But I don't care. I insist that I am sorry, just because I am. I'm just an ass. I'm in The Shame Spiral.

My sister has recently convinced me to follow The Shame Spiral 24-hour rule:

DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT apologize to anyone for 24 hours after the night of drinking and carrying on. If you feel the need to still call and apologize after the 24 hour period, then have at it. But, still, don't be ashamed (unless you really deserve it.)

So that is that. I know I said I shouldn't apologize, but - I'd like to apologize to the world wide web for acting overly silly and having that extra drink (or five). I'm sorry if I love cute boys and wine and U2 and Prince and laughing really loud.

I hope everyone else also had a new years eve filled with cackling, dancing like an idiot, smooching, and drunken fabulousness. Have no shame.

Cheers!

This Has Gone On WAY Past The Point of Ridiculousness

Ahem.

MeMeMeMeMeMe! Lalalalalalaa. DadadaDAHdadadah!

(Warming up voice)

(Stretching typing fingers)

What I've been wanting to say since last May is:

Yes, I am still alive. It's just that, well, my second child is a bit of a handful you see. SURE, I could blog at night when the children are sleeping, but, it's just that, well, when the little darlings are FINALLY out for the count I just want to flop my big ol tired mom-self on the sofa and stare at the TV set while my husband channel flips. (Has anyone else noticed that the best thing on TV lately is the Target holiday commercials? You know, the ones with the Advent Calendar that has cool people and stuff in it when you open the doors?)

Anywho. I love you and miss you, internet. I really, really do.I promise I'll be back and tell you more soon.

Aaaaaaah...... But where to begin?

Small People of the World, UNITE!!!

Dear Kyra and Nikolai,

Thank you for your recent membership renewal to the Worldwide Alliance of Militant Preschoolers (W.A.M.P.).

As Alliance members, we would like to take this opportunity to remind you of the W.A.M.P. Official Code of Conduct. We would like to stress at this time that the following membership rules, regulations, and guidelines must be followed exactly, with no exceptions. Studies have proven that The Large Ones will try to force you and coerce you to follow what they call "Their Rules", because "They Are Your Parents", and because "They Said So."

Do not, we repeat, do NOT listen to The Large Ones. Ever. They tell you to follow their ways, which are horribly misguided and will result in a life marked by eating of steamed broccoli and using the sofa only for sitting and not jumping. You must, we repeat, you MUST abide by The Alliance Ways - for this will ensure you a life of bed jumping, mud puddle rolling, candy eating, and void of face washing. And now, here it is,

The Militant Preschooler's Official Code of Conduct:

Rule #1 - ALWAYS DISPLAY YOUR ALLEGIANCE TO THE QUEEN.
First off, and most importantly, we would like to remind all Militant Preschoolers the importance of displaying your loyalty to the Alliance's Supreme Monarch, Her Royal Highness, Queen Dora the Explorer. Allegiance can be proven by displaying her image on your clothing, toys, bouncy ball, and yogurt. Her Royal Highness, along with her Chief of Staff, "Boots", must be ever present on any and all television sets present in your home. Follow her instructions from the T.V. sets and NEVER, EVER, NEVER question her commands. When she yells, "Say BACKPACK!!!", you must yell "BACKPACK!" immediately. Same goes for "MAP!", or any other request Her Royal Highness may make. She is your ruler. Worship her.

Rule #2 - THE PRODUCTS AND CONTENTS OF YOUR NOSE ARE SACRED.
These contents in your nostrils have magical and sometimes healing powers, and the possibility of giving you super-human capabilities such as: flying, unbelievable strength, or underwater breathing. Your own power will be revealed to you at the appropriate time, ONLY if you can deny The Large Ones' attempts to wipe your snot or pick your boogers. The Large Ones frequently attempt to loot those contents and the area surrounding it by means of:

a) wiping with toilet paper or tissue,

b) digging it out with their fingers,

and, the most extreme form of magic power thievery,

c) the nose-sucker-thingie.

Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT allow them to remove or clean your nose contents or products. They are thieves. Cons. They want your magical, healing, super powers from your nose and are not to be trusted.

Rule #3 - WASHING OF THE FACE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
Those truly loyal to The Alliance prove their allegiance by wearing a mask of goo, gunk, or sticky dirt. Bear only the whites of your little eyes. The Large Ones view The Face as a tool of deception - note the time spent by them on the presentation of The Face, including application of products, colors, admiring, plucking, and preening. Do not comply with their attempt to clean and polish your facial area, thus turning you into one of their deceptive tools. When they attempt to wipe your face, you must:

a) screech,

b) cry,

c) cover your face with your hands,

d) release your leg muscles and drop to the earth.

Remember, YOU are in control.

Rule #4 - NEATLY COLLECTED TOYS ARE AGAINST ALLIANCE POLICY.
Do not allow your puppets, legos, kitchen sets, puzzles, and crayons to be neatly organized in bags or containers. Prove your superiority and dominance by the following actions:

a) carry the bags or containers into the center of a toy-less room,

b) lift the bag or container,

c) shake all contents about.

It is an art form, which demonstrates your independence. Leave evidence of your dominance by spreading your toys throughout every room in your living environment. Apply crayons and/or markers to the walls, floors, cabinetry and coffee tables. Rub your face on all windows and stamp  your little hands on all glass surfaces as marks and symbolism representing the alliance. Make a statement. Show no mercy.

Rule #5 - SLEEP IS NOT A NECESSITY, ONLY A SUPERSTITION.
The Large Ones tell you that you must. But, under no circumstances should sleep ever take place. Upon commencement of The Sleep time and/or Story time Ritual, follow these three-step distraction guidelines, and state the following, in order:

a) "I need a drinkie."

b) "I have to go to potty"

and, the most effective sleep-stalling technique,

c) "I didn't each much dinner."

Once you sleep, The Large Ones put on their bathing suits, eat cookies, play with Play Doh, and dance to your Disney soundtracks on the coffee table. They wait all day long for the moment you shut your eyes, and then - The Real Fun begins. For these reasons, this is why:

Rule #6 - BEDS MUST NOT BE TRUSTED.
Display your Anti-Sleep beliefs and mistrust of sleep areas by:

a) jumping on them,

b) tearing the linens, blankets, and pillows off them,

and, when plan (a) and (b) are just not enough

c) pee on them (and therefore yourself). They really hate that.

PLEASE NOTE: THE FOLLOWING SECTION INCLUDES SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS FOR W.A.M.P.'S NON-SPEAKER/NON-WALKER REPRESENTATIVE MEMBER SIR NIKOLAI G DUTKIEWICZ:

• As one of The Alliance's Level One Spies, you are given the responsibility of communicating updates and news to the W.A.M.P. representatives, which are strategically placed inside your home disguised as carpenter ants, and outside as tree squirrels and robins.  These representatives are observing and monitoring your behavior and obedience. They will be waiting for your updates and reports - you must disguise your language and communications by speaking in reverse tongue. For example, when communicating the message "Queen Dora, I refused to fall asleep last night!" encrypt your sentence as, "Thgintsa lpeelsal lafot desufer Iarodnee uq!" The Large Ones think you don't know what you're saying, that you are just a baby, that you do not yet have the gift of speech. Do not let them know the truth: that you are a master of all languages and a top secret alliance agent.

• Our satellite images have shown that somewhere in your home, a Queen Breast is hidden in the dark corner of a cabinet. The Queen's location must be revealed, for The Queen has a never ending supply of sweet queen breast milk. She has a nipple as big as your head. Search all cabinetry in the kitchen and bathrooms. Open the cabinet doors and toss aside all towels, blankets, cleaning supplies, bowls, and washcloths. The Queen is waiting for you and the moment of Supreme Let Down. Once she has been found, alert the ants, squirrels and birds. It is your duty.

• Diapers are one of The Large Ones many methods of control. When they attempt to apply one, you must kick and roll, roll and kick. When a Large One fastens the diaper, unfasten it with a stealthy movement of your chubby little hands. You are quicker than they are. You can do it. Never give in to the diaper.

In summary, we would like to thank you again for your membership renewal. If The Large Ones become frustrated, angry, or short-tempered with your actions and obedience to the alliance, you can display your cuteness by requesting to play in safe zones such as The Bathtub, The Sandbox, Mud Puddles, or Playgrounds. You can also win them over and make them forget they don't understand your actions and behavior by stating the following:

a) "Mother, I fink you are so beautiful."

b) Draw an impressive picture of a fish and ocean scene on your magna doodle and say, "Look! What did I made?"

c) After a meal has been prepared and served, compliment The Large One who has prepared that meal and thank them high level of tastiness of the food by sweetly saying, "Good dinner, hun!"

These statements are sure to make The Large Ones turn to butter and tell you how fabulous you are. Questions or concerns? Look to your house cat for guidance and further instruction.

Sincerely,

The World Wide Alliance of Militant Preschoolers Board of Directors Membership Renewal Subcommittee:

The Spirit of Mister Rogers, Chair
Elmo, Vice Chair
Arthur, Secretary
Thomas The Tank Engine, Treasurer

OPERATION: Staircase Mastery

Okay, the verdict is in - I've made my decision on this topic:

Boys REALLY ARE different than girls. No, really, they REALLY ARE. Really.

I didn't believe it until I had one of my own. There is a mischievous look in this baby boy's eyes that my baby girl NEVER had. He opens things, climbs on things and attempts to tip over things that were previously never opened, climbed on, or tipped previously in our household. If we are in the back yard and I bend down to pull a weed or two, I often look up to see a baby halfway down the driveway, crawling toward the street, squealing with glee because there are loud fast moving cars in that direction.

Kyra never thought or cared about CARS. She never crawled down the DRIVEWAY.

I'm not imagining this, darn it. This fella is programmed differently. He even loves breasts more than Kyra ever did. See? The male fascination and bedazzlement with boobs starts at birth! He loves them! He cannot resist them!

Anyway. Check these out:

For some reason I predict trips to the ER and broken bones in the years to come.

The Sweet Scent of Windex on Polished Glass

It seems in my home there is always something to clean. Never, ever, ever ever ever is our living space TOTALLY the way I want it to be. If there aren't dishes to be taken care of there is laundry to be folded. When the laundry is folded there are toys to be picked up. When the toys are picked up there are beds to be made. And so on, and so forth, and once all the so-ons and so-fourths are done, then I should probably sort out my underwear drawer because MY GOD, what if I was struck by lightening or died suddenly or something and people had to sort through my belongings - I envision everyone I know sitting at my funeral whispering to each other about those gigantic maternity undies with elastic threads hanging from them or the thongs with a hole in the front-crotch-area. That's just not how I'd like to be remembered.

I know, I know, I'm not alone when it comes to these thoughts. Or am I? There are hundreds or thousands or hundreds of thousands of other somewhat-obsessive compulsive perfectionist working mom types with giant panties out there that feel the same way as me...

So my mom picked my kids up this morning to give me some alone time. And do you think I savored truffles while reclining in a bubble bath listening to something that wasn't named Baby Something or Something Rhymes? No I certainly did not. I worked from home for two hours, gathered up peed-on sheets along with other heaps of dirty laundry, sorted them, and THEN...

... I windexed all the mini-hand prints and smudges off the glass doors, and just admired them for a few moments. Clean glass. Smudge-less windows.

A small dose of perfection.

I continued about my business of tidying this and that. But then I'd stop, quickly run over to the glass windows, and admire them some more. A little piece of heaven, right there. But only for a short time - the children would be home soon.

God bless the little darlings. We all know I love them. But a few hours of silence and (ahem) "ME" time allowing me to sniff cleaning products and admire shiny things seems to be one of life's greatest simple pleasures.

Well, I'd better go - I've got fifteen minutes until the kids come home and a hot date with a perfectly tucked in sofa cover.

What the Doo-kev-itch-ez are up to AKA my blog post for March AKA Gerah's Brain Stew AKA Lots of links

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. It feels good to be at the keyboard again.

"I read your February blog post," my dad told me recently.

"My what?" I asked.

"About the low rise jeans. February."

Aha. I only average one blog post a month these days. Got it. (Oh, the guilt. Refer to January blog post.) Eh, whaduyado.

I have an announcement! I am the last person on this planet of Earth to create my MySpace account!!!

I have a second announcement! I am declaring WAR on the person that took www.myspace.com/gerah I AM GERAH! NOT YOU!!!

Kidding. Did you look at backslash gerah's myspace page? Is gerah holding a gun? I don't think I want to mess with gerah. Yikes. gerah's mom should have hugged him more....

But, anyway, back to The Real Gerah. (That would be me.) You can now find The Real Gerah at www.myspace.com/gerahspace. Now for a bit of history:

Up until last week I had REFUSED to jump on the MySpace bandwagon, since, I am a blogger. I have no need for MySpace, right? Until I tried to view my darling Jeremy's new band's MySpace page. Apparently, to leave comments, view private MySpace pages, etc. etc., you have to have a MySpace account. And of course I can't just create an account and call it good. I've got to go whole hog. So that's that. Since we're on the topic, go check out Jeremy's new band and tell them how talented and cool they are and how famous they are going to be. By the way, I took the photos of the band, so you can also feel free to tell me how cool I am. I'll save your kind comments so that when I am a worn out, wrinkled old band hag, I'll have these fond memories to look back at...

What else, what else... Oh! Kyra loves honey, and I never realized how often I call her "honey". She's a bit obsessed with it, the eating of the honey. I have to hide it in the highest-out-of-reach cupboard way in the back behind the expired cans of vegetables because I've been catching her sneaking the honey and sucking honey right out of the honey bear. I allow her honey on her breakfast, and catch myself saying things like,

"Honey, that's enough honey, Honey."

"Kyra honey, you only need a little honey!"

"Honey, you already put honey on that, honey!"

Honey is one of those words, that when you look at it for a long time or write it many times, you start to wonder if you spelled it correctly. Honey starts to look like Horney or Homey. I write it and begin to doubt myself and wonder, "Should it be spelled hunny? Are my eyes going crossed?"

Oooh! Ooooh! Before I forget, I need a moment to, well, um, I guess it would be brag:

If you happen to be reading the April edition of Pregnancy magazine, you will be reading along and find a quote in an article by The Real Gerah. Yes, that would be me. I was contacted by a writer who found this very blog, she was working on an article about issues that couples encounter during pregnancy and asked if she could ask me a few questions... I honestly have not seen the article, but was phoned by a pregnant friend who was reading along and voila! she saw my name. So there you go. A blip of fame. I thought it was neat.

So, Jeremy's a rock star again, Kyra likes sweets, I'm famous for the month of April. But let's not forget Niko. First of all, I just updated the Flickr photos. He has two teeth on the bottom and is currently getting FOUR MORE all at the same time up top in front. I can't tell if the four teeth at once are cute or hideous. They look a bit awkward, yet adorable, of course. Besides the teeth and the freaky-cuteness, I have some ***BREAKING NEWS*** regarding baby Niko.

Friday night, as I was rocking him before bed, I decided to try a bit of yoga speak on him. In a verrrry soothing, caaaaalm voice, in dimmmm light, while nursing him and rocking him gently, this is what I said (or something like it):

"Now Niko. I think tonight should be the night you sleep alllllll night.... there's no reason to wake up in the middle of the night... no... no reason at all... be a good boy for your momma... momma needs her sleep... momma wants to sleep alllll night loooooong... and so do you, right? Just go to sleep... and don't wake up till' morning... what a good boy you'd be... yes, a good boy for your momma..."

And holy f***ing s**t. I put him in his crib at 8 p.m., and didn't hear a thing from him again until 7 a.m. the next morning. The first time EVER. God Bless America.

I won't hold my breath waiting for a reply.

Dear Low Rise Jeans,

We need to talk, because frankly, I've had it with you. I don't know whose idea it was to sell you to women over 105 pounds, but to that person or person(s) who came up with that idea, I must say, THE IDEA WAS BAD. BAD BAD BAD.

Here's the thing: Women are not shaped like men. Okay, the freakishly skinny ones are, but the rest of us, we are a bit more squooshy in the mid-section. Especially those of us that have given birth to human babies, which, last time I checked, was A LOT OF US, since, us women happen to have the uterus.

Maybe you're not familiar with the pregnancy process. I'll explain. What happens is, a women's abdomen grows larger and larger because there is a small person growing in aforementioned uterus. The baby continues to grow and the woman's skin stretches and expands around said baby, until the baby comes out of the woman, and then she is left with a fair amount of extra skin around her mid-section. Yeah, it's kind of gross to think about, and freaked me out at first, (and certainly ain't pretty), but hey, it's a fact of the life of a female. And as long as women continuing having the babies, it's going to be this way.

So where do you get off thinking these kind of women can wear you? I'm begging you - explain yourself! Yes, I can understand the skinny teens looking hot in you, but what about the rest of us? Come ON!

I would suggest to you, to put a large red tag on yourself when hanging on the racks in the department stores that says something like, (preferably in big bold letters, probably including an exclamation mark) "ONLY BUY ME IF YOU LIKE SHOWING OFF YOUR BACK FAT AND BUTT CRACK!" because, you see, that's what happens when normal women with hips wear you. I don't know why consumers can't figure it out on their own... You would think they could connect the dots... But apparently they can't, so, that's why I'm suggesting the red tag.   

It's just not fair to the general public. I don't think a person should have to look at butt crack unless they really really want to. Hence, I'm a bit frustrated with you, because when women wear you, innocent bystanders get flashed with crack and underwear right and left. There they are minding their own business, maybe having a conversation or whatnot, and WHAM! Butt crack shot! They didn't ask for it, and it's just not fair! And let's think about the meaning of the name "Underwear".

Under. Wear.

Meant for under.

To wear under.

Under clothing.

You're ruined the whole concept.

I hope I've made myself clear; I do feel much better now. I hope you can grasp where I'm coming from. Really. It's not YOU. It's me. Sometimes you're great - seriously - you look awesome in a size 0, 2, or maybe 4, but pretty much anything beyond that is offensive.

Let's remain friends, if possible. Of course I'll never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever be wearing you because I was stretched and deflated and then stretched and deflated again, plus, I am the poster child for Pear Shaped.

Thanks for your time, and thanks for listening. I know you've got a busy schedule, holding up all that back fat and airing out all those butt cracks all day long...

Sincerely,

Gerah

P.S. - Tell your friends Express and The Limited if they'd bring back their size 14's I'll be visiting them again. Until then, I think they are jerks and I don't like them, either.