I am a creature of habit. Heck, I’m a stalker’s delight. I like to do the same things, in the same order, every day. If something throws my routine off, I tend to fold my arms over my chest and start rocking back and forth in the nearest dark corner while humming like the twit I am as though my life depends on it.

My friends, like Cowboy and his wife, know this about me and laugh. When they’re not rolling their eyes. My husband has been exasperated by me on more than one occasion. My kids, well, they just chalk it up to having the bad luck to have been birthed by a crazy woman.

(Side note: Cowboy’s squished eyeball is healing nicely and although I’m thankful I don’t have to stare too deeply into the scarred and reddened eyeball of his, he reports he can see. Not well, but then, either can I. So thanks for all the well wishes and prayers. Feel free to toss more in his direction, maybe we can make him prettier while we’re at it.)

I can’t help myself. I have no excuses other than the fact that I’m bat shit crazy. Really. The psychiatrist said so.

One of my slightly nutty habits is how I get dressed and ready for the day. I have my shower, wherein I proceed to wash myself in the exact same order, towel off, lotion up, etc. By the time I’ve brushed my teeth I’m sweating. Good grooming is hard work. So I do what I always do. I put on my underwear (yes, I do occasionally wear them…you know, when I know the paparazzi is hanging around) and then go back to the bathroom to slap on my war paint and do my hair.

With my boobs hanging out. I know, I’m a freak. But with the added weight I’ve gained this past year, I actually have guns. Nice guns. And it charms me to no end to ogle them while I’m peering at myself in the mirror trying to tame the wildebeest I generally look like. Weird, I know.

It’s not until I’m coiffed and looking like the supermodel I am in my mind slightly presentable that I bother getting dressed. My kids know to stay the hell away from my bathroom as I groom unless they want an eyeful of mom’s titties to scar them for life.

It’s generally pretty safe to do this. The hubs works out of town most days so he’s not going to sneak up behind me and try and cup the girls when he’s looking for a little action and I live out in the sticks. Literally. I’m surrounded by trees. And while I do have a handful of neighbours, they are so far away from my house and we are so sheltered by trees I feel safe enough to wander about in the nude. I’ll even swim in the pool buck naked or garden topless. (Aren’t I painting you a pretty picture?)

 
 

 

See? Sticks. Lots and lots of sticks. 

 
 

 

My closest neighbour. Boy did I give him an eyeful. 

You might say, I’m comfortable in my own body and truth be told, I want my kids to be comfortable in theirs. After all, it is the only body we get and we may as well be at peace with it, even if your boobs resemble beaver tails and flap down around your belly button.

In our long Canadian winter months, the only time I can really let loose and be free nude is after I shower. It’s not like I’m going to go streaking through the snow banks while buck nekkid hollering out my pledge of allegiance to the queen.

Well, okay, I may have done that once or twice on a dare, but in my defense, there was alcohol involved and the kids were in bed.

For the most part, my naked fetish has never been a problem. Other than the time I was breast feeding and an old family friend of Boo’s walked in while I was sitting on the couch with my girls hanging out spraying milk all over the place.

Then there was the time I was heavily pregnant in the summer and it was freaking hot out. I was sitting in the shade with my top off and I fell asleep in the chair. I didn’t hear my brother in-law drive up our long driveway and only awoke when he slammed his truck door shut. You might say he got more than he bargained on. To this day, I’m still his favorite sister in-law.

I have learned from these delightful moments to keep a shirt nearby to toss on, if the need arises. I am a quick learner after all.

But I may have to rethink this whole privacy out in the bushes thing, now that the kids are older. This weekend, as the kids were outside trying to shove each other’s faces in the mounds of snow piled near the house, I was in my bathroom happily minding my own business, hanging out (literally), getting ready for a family get together. I had my stereo blasting and I was singing along to the tunes, sounding like a cat in heat.

Unbeknownst to me, one of the neighbour’s kids decided to come over and see what Fric and Frac were up to. By this time, Fric and Frac had migrated further into the bush in their attempts to kill one another and their socially challenged friend didn’t see them when he trudged up our driveway. Being the social delinquent he is, he heard the music and thought there was a party going on. So he just walked in. No knocking, no yelling “Hello? Anyone home?” He just entered my private little oasis as though he owned the joint.

There I was, in my bathroom, blow-drying my hair as my eighties rock music blared on the stereo, completely oblivious to this strange child wandering through my home, looking for Fric and Frac. Once my hair was dried, I decided I could use a drink so I wandered into the kitchen. Wearing only my pretty pink panties.

 
 

 

At least I shaved my legs… 

Do you see where this is going?

Meanwhile, the intruding child wandered out of Fric and Frac’s room, scratching his head wondering where in the hell everyone was. Just as he entered the kitchen from one direction, I entered it from the other.

Time stopped. Everything happened in slow motion. At the exact same time he saw my boob rings glinting in the morning sun, I saw him. We made eye contact. I screamed. He screamed and then I think he jumped so high he narrowly missed having his head lopped off by the ceiling fan.

As my face turned eight shades of red, I turned around and hi-tailed it to my bedroom to seek shelter grab my robe, while wishing the earth would swallow me whole. I muttered something about the kids being outside and he muttered something about this being his lucky day.

From my bedroom I yelled that the kids were outside and for him to go and find them. I briefly considered murdering someone, but after quickly realizing I couldn’t walk around naked in the joint, I reconsidered.

The socially inept child had the good graces not to follow me into my bedroom, (although I do think he briefly considered it) and yelled out his apologies as he scrambled to put his boots back on.

I yelled back, while rocking back and forth behind my locked bedroom door not to worry about it but maybe take this as a lesson to learn how to knock. (Although, as an after thought, I wouldn’t have heard the knocking over my caterwauling about Cherry Pie.)

I hurriedly got dressed and wandered out onto the deck to yell for Fric and Frac to let them know they had a guest. Turned out, the socially inept kid had already found who he was looking for.

As I turned to go back in the house and bang my head against the wall, I heard him tell Frac, “Your mom is HOT! I’m coming over more often!”

Remind me to start locking my doors.

I’ll never be able to make eye contact with anyone in the neighbourhood again, because as I learned when my kids came home from school on Monday, he has told EVERYONE. Even the school bus driver and the mailman.

It’s official. I’m a dumbass famous. My poor kids.