I read stuff about the psychology of human behavior, and ingenuity, and ideas.  Sometimes great ideas fill an existing need (MP3 players), and sometimes they revolutionize the status quo (Apple).  Sometimes it takes years of trial and error to put an idea into the mainstream, and sometimes you hit the mark on the first try.  I don’t honestly know the full details of this idea, but I think the ingenuity and relevance of this product make it one for the text books…

You are a fun-loving, outgoing gal who likes going to concerts, parades, and tailgating parties.  You also happen to work for a corrugated manufacturer in Illinois.  At a concert one day, you become absolutely fed up with the lack of “facilities” for women who need to take care of business.  You literally have to go so bad, you’d go in a box if you had one.  Come on, you know you’ve been there.

So, come Monday morning, you express your frustration with this issue to your coworkers who are sympathetic to your plight.  But sympathy just ain’t gonna cut it.   Your bladder can’t take it anymore.  So you start doodling on the white board and pitching your idea to the boss… and voila , the Out and About House is born!  

***

***

Now before you rush to judge, you must consider the convenience of this structure.  It is not meant to withstand high winds or torrential rains.  It’s a box.  With a door.  And if you put a 5 gallon bucket inside, line it with a garbage bag, dump in some kitty litter, and put a seat on top- you’ve got yourself an excellent option to disgusting port-a-potties with staggeringly long lines.  It’s recyclable, light weight, and fits in the trunk of your car.  And it’s cheap!  And wait!  I haven’t even mentioned the best part yet.  THE BEST PART!

It’s pimpable.  That’s right, Pimp Your Potty any old way you like!

***

***

Shut the front door!  Is this awesome or what?  So here’s my advice ladies… get yourself an Out and About House and create your own masterpiece!  Give it some color… a theme… a personality.  Then take some pics for us!

Sisters of the Sun Shack?  

Princess Potty?  

What can you come up with?  

Check them out here.  It’s a pretty hilarious website.  Great job “female associate who conceived the idea” and kudos to the boss who listened.  That simple fact alone impresses me beyond measure.  

Way to think outside the box (hehe)!

*Not a paid endorsement… I just think it’s cool.*

***

The ring on her right finger is shaped like a sun; a pearl center with small diamond petals radiating from it like sparkly sunbeams.  When her mind starts to race, she spins that ring back and forth like a metronome, adjusting her thoughts and her pulse into a coordinated tempo.  Sometimes she covers her hands, to hide the bump in her knuckle or the sunspots on near her wrist.  But mostly they are folded in prayer, as she refills her spirit with goodness and grace that already abundantly overflows the soft edges of her heart.  As she sits beside me, she pats me gently on the knee, and between us passes a warm wave of constancy and a legacy of unconditional love.  I know these hands so well I could swear they were my own.  They belong to someone named Sunny, and I am her daughter.

Her fingernails are frequently dirty and unkempt, and the object of redundant consternation.  Her hands can usually be found cupping her chin, elbows on knees, in clear resignation and signaling her monstrous boredom.  She shields her braces from view with them when she laughs, and fidgets nervously with the zipper of her hoodie when you ask her a question. As she sits beside me, she jams one hand into her pocket and rests the other one on my knee, dirty fingernails in situ, and gently presses her shoulder into mine.  Between us passes a warm wave of constancy and a legacy of unconditional love.  I know these hands so well I could swear they were my own.  They belong to someone named Sunny, and I am her mother.

I live and love in the space between the Sunnys and ping between them like a helpless pinball, bouncing from one life lesson to another. I have felt adored, safe, and cherished, and awed, frightened, and blessed.  I lean on one, while the other leans on me, and together we form a human domino chain, falling into place with intricate precision.  This space has somehow formed me, molded me into a unique shape within the peaks and valleys of their constant presence at my sides… two bookends holding me up on this journey known as motherhood.

The day I became a mother, I was the last one to meet her.  While I was tied up with post-C-section inconveniences, my husband had the good fortune of breaking the news to my mom in the waiting room, where she held her breath in anxious anticipation, until he finally said the words she’d waited nine months to hear, “Sunny’s here”.  

I wanted to tell her first.  I wanted to tell her I had a daughter.  I wanted to be the one to introduce them.  I wanted to carry her namesake into the room, bundled in pink blankets, and proudly present her with the same wide grin I had the day I finished my finger painting project in nursery school; “Look Mommy!  Look what I made!”

Because I knew she’d give me that look- that astonished, wide-eyed, jaw-dropping, face-beaming smile that said, “Honey, you are so amazing!  You did a great job.”  And into the outstretched hands of the most competent mother in the world, I would share our treasure.

Instead, she gave me that look the first time Baby Sunny burped on command. And the first time I successfully changed her diaper.  And the first time I calmed her newborn cries.  Yes, my mama was so proud of the mama I was becoming.

And, miraculously, I found myself giving Baby Sunny those same looks, for all of those same accomplishments, and slowly started to recognize the role I was intuitively assuming.  I knew exactly how to smile at her, be astonished by her, and cultivate her character from a place of genuine instinct.  I heard this familiar voice inside of my own- the same coos and tut-tuts, the same singsong speech patterns that had once been music to my ears.  I was delighted to discover the enchanting joy of motherhood, and grateful for the coach in my corner. 

Everything I am, and now everything my children are, is because of her.  It’s because no matter how trivial my struggles, she carries them for me like a hundred pound cross.  It’s because she doesn’t let me doubt myself, and she offers me excuses before I can make my own.  It’s because underneath piles of laundry, tired bones, and weakened self-esteem, I have a mother who champions my effort.  I have a mother who raised seven kids of her own, who has overcome enormous sorrow and loss, and can still say to me with unaffected sincerity and a shake of her head, “I don’t know how you do it.”

Now that Baby Sunny is an adolescent, feeling the barbs and spurs of the world under her tender feet as she walks her own path, I feel an even greater sense of panic and ineptitude.  I now wince at her pains, and find myself shouldering her burdens- anything to take it from her.  I have nearly mastered the smile-while-your-heart-breaks disguise as she realizes that she’s not nearly as perfect as I have led her to believe.  And in these moments of uncertainty, when I discover that I’m not nearly as perfect a mother as I have been led to believe, I turn to my mom with that same quizzical face, and she answers me with a sympathetic smile and a pat on the back. 

Only now I can see the hunch in her shoulders as she loads up my burden once again, and the flicker of sadness behind her smiling eyes.  And as comforting as it is to have her in my life to share my triumphs and my sorrows, I now want to carry my own cross- and hers as well.  On this Mother’s Day, I want her to know that I can do this.  I want her to know that she has succeeded.  I want her to rest easy knowing her that her grandchildren, and my future grandchildren, are in competent hands.  I want her to know I’ve learned how to do this from the best teacher in the world, and she no longer needs to spin the ring on her finger on my behalf.  

But the downside of motherhood is that you never do stop spinning your ring.

I love you so much, Mama.  Happy Mother’s Day.

***

Let us recap the last few months and preface this post with some context.  The Sisters of the Sun is an ilk-minded group of men and women who like to have fun, preferably in the sun.  We also enjoy music and adult beverages.  We may or may not have a crush on a rockstar or two, and certainly don’t mind sacrificing our dignity for the sake of good times.  We have formed this group in the hopes of banding together, holding hands across geographic boundaries, and living out our dreams through each other’s experiences.  It’s a very simple concept.  Can I get a kumbaya?

***

Because we come from a wide range of demographic groups, there are no hard and fast rules on tailgating for the Sisterhood.  From college kids at football games (doing keg stands and the Louisville Chugger), to beer-bellied forty-somethings rocking the corn hole toss at a Buffett concert.. the Sisterhood does not discriminate or promote a single tailgating art form.  However, you are setting the example others will follow.

***

Let’s consider the following Code of Ethics in the spirit of keeping it classy.

1.  No squat-peeing behind a human shield.

2.  No littering, unless it’s glitter.  Be environmentally responsible, but sparkly.

3.  Always carry spare toilet paper to help a sister out.

4.  Be supportive of folks who may have overindulged, overtequilaed, or overstayed their welcome at your classy soiree… we must give people space in their lives to let go and be free… unless it involves unwelcomed nudity or vomit… then tell them to move along.

5.  Don’t drink and drive.  Bring a designated driver and shower them with gifts for their extraordinary tolerance for human depravity.

6.  Dance like a fool, always.

7.  Remix, refill, repeat.

8.  Always pack an extra set of flip flops… blow outs are inevitabale.

9.  It is not acceptable to wear a shirt that indicates that you are the Mrs. Chesney, Mrs. McGraw, Mrs. Rock…  You are a sister-wife now.  You are McGraw Sister-wife, or Aldean Sister-wife.  Their real wives will thank you.

10. Always represent the Sisters of the Sun as ambassadors for fun.  Seek out other Sisters and show them the way.

***

The Official Sisters of the Sun Margarita jugs (shown above) are in!  Order yours today- just in time for summer.  32 ounce “Sisterita” recipe included!

Have you not joined the movement yet?  Get your bad self on over here and join The Sisters!

***

Deep within the quilted, patchwork fields of Pennsylvania, threaded with broken, narrow roads that unravel through the hillsides, I reached the proverbial fork and took the road less traveled.

I visit that corner in my mind sometimes, landmarked by the dilapidated silo on the right and the gated patch of tombstones on the left, next to the old brick church built by men in suspendered black pants with long, dusty beards that bloom beneath their sweaty straw brims.

I take that sharp left turn and catch my breath, feeling the familiar push-pull of angst and adventure as the road winds into the trees- the canopy as dark and ominous as a hooded stranger.  I drive ahead, applauding my ignorance, until the shadows fade to light and the land splits open like a rip in the fabric, revealing the shale-covered lane that leads me straight to him.

What if I had lost my nerve?  What if I had burst from the fields, frightened by the drone of the corn header driving through the countryside?  The deer that scampers across the lane in front of me stares at my soul with a look I’ve seen a thousand times in the mirror.  She knows exactly what scares me.

It’s not just the pace- the slower heartbeats, the unhurried clock, the giant popcorn clouds that float across the sky with agonizing leisure, like giant glaciers of air insulating the valleys from distant urban tempos.

I can do slow.

I can downshift into an inert mass of wet sand on a warm coast.  I can lose myself in nature, and dawdle on coastal, bipolar landscapes that are alternately tranquil and ferocious. I can sit on a shoreline and stare at the end of the world until time simply runs out.

But he’d be nowhere to be found.

Our world is flat, like a two-sided coin.  His side is rugged like the quarries and as enduring as a winter storm.  Mine is smooth as hot glass, reflecting light like a laser.  Flipping it would most certainly quash dreams for one of us with an unfortunate thud.  Instead, we spin on the edges and hold on for the ride.

I’m glad I turned left, and I am thankful there is ample room in his arms for my big winter coat.  But still, most days,  I stay outside the snow globe, waving dispassionately to the swaddled country folks huddled beneath the quaint streetlight.   I could join them, but somewhere in the distance is the bellow of a conch shell, beckoning.

***

So I got to wondering the other day… What if The Shell Princess and Kenny Chesney found themselves on the pages of E.L. James’s erotic best seller Fifty Shades of Grey?  

Intriguing question, right?  Here are just a few highlights from the steamy chapters of Forty-Four Shades of Chesney.

***

KENNY:  Oh Miss Princess, my palm is twitchy.  You know what that means, right?

SHELL PRINCESS:  (Gulp) Oh yes indeed sir!  Shall I fetch the riding crop?

KENNY:  Well it would be awfully hard to catch a fish with a riding crop, Miss Princess.  My rod and reel please, and by that I mean my fishing gear.  Geez, is your mind always in the gutter?

***

KENNY:  Oh Miss Princess, you make me so angry!  How can I ever trust you?  I must punish you.

SHELL PRINCESS:  Oh, Mr. Chesney, I’m sure you’ll be able to teach me a lesson in the Red Room of Pain!

KENNY:  Uh, no, I was thinking you should wash my boat, clean the hot tub, and polish my cowboy boots until they each sparkle like new.

SHELL PRINCESS:  Oh how kinky Mr. Chesney, shall I use my tongue?

KENNY:  No, a rag perhaps? Ew, why do you say such gross things?

***

KENNY:  Oh Miss Princess, I love you so much.  I will never stop loving you.  Not ever… never ever!

SHELL PRINCESS:  Oh Mr. Chesney, I love you so much too.  I love you with every fiber in my stick figure body and bulbous head.  I will give you a haircut tonight in the bathroom after I have bathed in super-ridiculously-expensive lavender bath oils from some exotic place I’ve never heard of.

KENNY:  A haircut?  Is that supposed to be funny?  I don’t love you anymore.

***

KENNY:  Miss Princess, I need to you to go to Home Depot and buy rope, clamps, and plugs.  And take security with you.

SHELL PRINCESS:  Mr. Chesney, crap you are bossy.  Holy crap, you are so bossy.  Geez.  Double crap.  And if I refuse to obey you, Mr. Chesney?

KENNY:  Then the boat will float away and sink.  Why do I love you so much when you won’t even help maintain the boat that takes you to every island of your dreams?  Fine, I’ll go myself.  I’m taking the chopper.

***

KENNY:  Oh Miss Princess, I am not worthy of your love.  I love you so much it hurts.  Wait!  Don’t!  Don’t… touch… me.

SHELL PRINCESS:  Oh Forty-Four, shall I page Dr. Flynn?

KENNY:  No you incorrigible busybody whom I love so much, I’m just sunburned.  Don’t touch me.

***

KENNY:  Miss Princess, gather my hooks and sinkers at once!

SHELL PRINCESS:  Oh Mr. Chesney, you are so dirty.  Have I misbehaved again?  Would you like to handcuff me to the bow of the boat and sacrifice me like a bare-chested mermaid?

KENNY:  Well, my Princess, it will be awfully hard to cast a line with your hands tied up.  And it’s probably in violation of the Maritime Safety Code.  Why are you biting your bottom lip?  Too much salt on the margarita glass again?  

KENNY’S SUBCONSCIOUS:  Did she say bare-chested?  hahahahahaha… can’t….. stop…. laughing

***

KENNY:  Miss Princess who is the only person allowed to touch my sunburn scars, you have such a dirty mouth.

SHELL PRINCESS:  Oh Forty-Four, are you going to take me over your knee?

KENNY:  No my Princess, all around your mouth is dirty from you relentlessly stuffing it with guacamole.  And I don’t think I can even take you over my knee until you’ve laid off the nachos for a bit.  Shall I call the trainer?

SHELL PRINCESS:  Oh my little control freak!  My supercilious, petulant little control freak!  You send a frisson through my bones, aptly and deftly.  It is pain, but it is also pleasure.  Oh Forty-Four, I am so sated!

KENNY:  You are a loquacious nutball, Miss Princess.  And don’t call me little.

***

My dad… poor guy.

He is a smart man.  He is witty and philosophical and insightful, and painfully disconnected from my illusory desires.

We recently had a discussion about the Haydon collider, Higgs particles, majorana fermions- which are their own anti-particles- and the fact that he started a new church called the Royal College of Dark Matter Physics (don’t worry, this is an example of his sense of humor which is hilarious to about four people on the planet). 

At the age of 81, he is learning all kinds of things about particle physics.  He is also still practicing medicine.  He plays tennis everyday.  He is quite a capable human being.

But my crush on Kenny Chesney?  And Kid Rock?  And Bret Michaels? And what role these imaginary relationships play in my marriage, my career, and my parenting skills… well he just can’t expand his mind around the concept.  He gives me the blankest of stares.  Yes, even he has his limitations.

There is a large population of women in the world who have an innate understanding of the science of rockstar crushes, much like you were either born with a numbers-brain or you weren’t.  I have never had to dissect the equation and plot the points on a graph.  There probably should be a periodic table of rockstar elements (butt, guitar, adolescent behavior…) that breaks down the science to the molecular level, and explains the process of how the molecules bond together (wink, wink).  I guess we just never thought it was necessary.  Who knew we were gifted?

At the most elementary level, it is safe to say that A + B = C.

Reality + Delusions = Happy Woman

Happy Woman – Reality = Delusions

Happy Woman – Delusions = Reality

Exponentially magnifying this equation, like the Pythagorean theorem, also holds true.

But before my dad and others can advance to the next level of understanding, we’ll need to define a few terms.

Happy Woman= balanced, appreciated, pretty, adored, fun, free, lucky, desired, strong, pampered, capable, intelligent, wise, and hot.

Reality= dirty dishes, man on couch, piles of laundry, needy children, job demands, lack of money, love handles, cellulite, grey hair, wrinkles, age spots, seasonal affective mood disorder, dinner every blessed night.

Delusions= he is hot but not out of my league, if he met me he’d be smitten too, only he gets me, I could sing back up, going on tour is a viable option, he thinks I look good in this tank top, what saddlebags?, money is no object,  I am well acquainted with both the US and British Virgin Islands, I am a good dancer.

With just this basic lesson, it is clear that women do not want to exist solely in the delusional state.  Happy Woman requires both reality and delusions to be a true statement.  Delusion is a nice place to visit, but without reality, we’d never know “balanced, appreciated…” due to lack of comparison.

Are you following me, dad?

I’m sure I could apply some relativity and dark matter theory here, but let’s keep you out of your comfort zone.

Rockstar science is not exclusively about musicians either.  Variables could include athletes, politicians, moguls, and orthodontists.   Happy woman is not necessarily married with children.   Reality is not exclusively domestic in nature.  I know, I just blew your mind.

***

I realize that it’s hard to be comfortable with concepts you cannot understand.  It’s called blind faith.  Besides, there is a protective mechanism designed by Mother Nature in that should the delusional side become a force that causes the equation to unbalance, the personality can actually split off and form other, fake personas.  But don’t worry, Dad.  I’m a long way from that.

***

Really, what’s not to get?

It’s a chilly, overcast Saturday in April and the neighbors ask us to watch their adorable 10-week-old puppy, Karma, for the morning.  As we head out to the ball field, kids and puppy clambering into the minivan, we see a dark funnel of smoke blooming over a neighborhood near the field.

The puppy is treated like royalty among the throngs of little girls who rush to pet her.  I stand by the dugout with my girlfriend, soberly watching the boys’ baseball game and the dissipating smoke beyond the field, and we discuss the heartache that must be losing your home in the blink of an eye.  This leads to discussions about the fragility of life in general- freak accidents, teenagers headed to prom, aging parents, husbands having heart attacks, sisters with cancer- and we are instantly teary with our hands tied.

As we continue to exchange our troubling vicissitudes, more voices join in our lamenting, and we are a mass of hung heads and sagging shoulders wallowing in doleful communion.   Collectively, we ask the universe, “Why does this stuff happen?”

In the midst of this conversation, my little one runs over and slams into me, hugging me firmly around my thighs.  She peers up at me with bright blue eyes that sparkle with the sweetest sincerity, and dances around with earnest excitement.  She stretches her mouth into a wide grin, rises up on her toes, and twirls around with a magnificent flourish.  The others raise their heads, distracted momentarily by the light of her joy, as she shrieks with perfect comedic timing,  

“Karma pooped!”

For me, there has never been another moment of such extraordinary unbounded consciousness, when the answer comes, with glaring clarity, directly from the mouths of babes.

What a startling revelation… Karma poops.

***

I know this is super cute, right?

But it hurts me, a little.  

My conscience keeps gnawing on my dignity,  nibbling away at my opportunistic entitlement.  

Good Sense and Who Cares are playing tennis back and forth across the right and left hemispheres of my brain, bantering volleys and lobbing shots that land just inside the lines.

Collectively, they’ve formed an argument.  I think they’re both full of crap.

Good Sense argues that this shirt infringes on a certain celebrity’s good name, without his express permission.  Who Cares counters that the same shirt is generic enough so as not to specifically identify a certain celebrity that the shirt’s creator openly adores.  This argument, if it was ever to be had in, say, a courtroom, could be very expensive to the admirer-slash-infringer.  And neither Good Sense or Who Cares, for all their trash-talking condescension,  have a penny to their names.  

Moreover and most importantly, the shirt’s creator does not want to be a classless, coat-tail-riding schmuck, nor does she want to offend the admired.

What it comes down to: this shirt needs a new slogan.

In fact, The Sisters of the Sun will create the slogan.

The Sister who comes up with the winning slogan will receive a new shirt FREE.  Winner to be chosen by moi, but I’d really like your input too.  And we go ahead and give your suggestions for color and style of the shirt itself.  Blue tank?  Pink tee?

So let’s hear it!!!

And here are some suggestions to get you started…

“Peace, Love, and Wonderbuns”

“Dreaming of The Sleeveless Wonder”

Let’s give this til Sunday.  But get cracking!  Concert season is almost here… yippee!