Lesson 21: Live Life Like a College Student

It took nearly twenty-nine years for me to feel comfortable in my fluff. And after a weekend of camping in August with all three of my siblings, my little sis and I decided to pay a visit to our baby bro at Indiana University. He’d been begging us to visit since he started almost three years ago. Well, I was knocked up and nursing for the first two years and plan to be knocked up and nursing again real soon, so we decided it’d be better to go sooner than later. One of those deals you do out of sibling obligation, really. Neither of us was too pumped. Long drive. Long nights out. Long hang overs. Hrumph.

Always the optimist, I decided to reframe. Here was my opportunity. My chance to show off my feathery fluff frock of MILFdom. So it took six hours to drive there -- time to catch up with my little sis. So we’d be out until the wee hours of the morning -- good to pretend you’re REALLY young and carefree again. So we’d be hung over -- just an excuse for McDonald’s breakfast with a big bubbly fountain pop to ease the swimmy head.

And off we went.

Got in late that Friday night. Decided to just crash at the hotel since we knew the next day would be a real ringer. Woke up the next day, met our baby bro for breakfast at lunchtime, because that’s when you eat breakfast in college. Sported jeans and fleeces. Not a care in the world. Put everything on Mom’s charge card. (I told you she’s the best.)What to do next? Off to the frat house.

Into the frat and into heaven. Smelled of beer and weed. And stinky socks. Couple of girls walking around in boxers and what can most closely be described (loosely) as blouses. Ahhh…the good old daze. Up to his room to chill out. And by chill out, I mean puff, because that’s what you do on a Saturday afternoon in college. (And by puff, if you don’t know what I mean, then we wouldn’t have been friends in college.)And then the real fun started.

A few tips for any MILFs on a college visit in a frat house:

1.) Pick a seat on the couch with observatory access to the bathroom. So you can watch each and every young man come out of the bathroom after his shower. In just a towel. Smelling squeaky clean. Lookin’ to get dirty later that night.

2.) Bring homemade baked goods. For all the boys looking to get baked. They will flock to you and your fluff.

3.) Let them get you whatever you need. (Orgasms, however, excluded since typically to be a MILF, this requires a DILF, aka your husband.)t them fetch you a beer, a lighter, toilet paper, what have you. And enjoy every minute.

So, after watching ESPN for over and hour and after having seen all showered boys exit the bathroom, it was time to leave. Time to shop. Time to eat. Time to wander aimlessly for the duration of the day because that’s why you do late on a Saturday afternoon in college. A sweatshirt, a silk scarf, and a smorgusbaord of nachos later, it was time to head back to the hotel to get all MILFed out for the evening ahead.


Now before I continue, allow me to introduce my little sister, Em. One of those that wakes up looking ready for the prom. (We’re adopted. I didn’t even look good at prom.) Kind of girl that has guys giving her engraved Tiffany bracelets, even if he’s not her boyfriend. (I got my Tiffany bracelet from my parents.) Always good for a vicarious story that may involve mature firefighters on cruises, paper lantern launches with a Brit in Thailand, and Big Ten quarterback boy toys. (I’ve had two boyfriends…married one of them.) With brains to boot. Thus arises the importance of getting particularly primped for this college evening. She CERTAINLY could pass for college while I, nose ring or not, could not. I had to bring out the big dogs. Tight jeans. Tall shoes. Taut tits -- check, check, check.

Back to the frat we went. Strutted down the street sending out strong MILF messages. “I know I look hot and you can’t have me.” “I know I look old and you still think I look good.” “I know you know that I usually don’t dress like this and I know you know I used to dress like this and I know you know I’ve got tricks your little college co-ed girls don’t even know exist yet.” And alas! A young car full of college co-ed boys picked up my MILF transmissions. Just as we turned into the frat house walkway, a bunch of assholes roll down their window and shout, “MILF!” As they start to giggle, I turned around. I’m sure they were expecting a finger, a foul word, or a fit of sorts. On the contrary, a real MILF keeps them guessing. “Thank you!” I shouted with sincerity and a friendly wave.

Em and I giggled the rest of the way inside. Where we sat and drank beer with a bunch of boys watching football. WTF?!? This was supposed to be some kind of wild weekend. Wild, my ass. I had to pound a Pepsi to stay awake. Eventually, we made it out to the bars. After our little bro (who also wakes up looking ready for the prom) got denied with his lousy fake ID – because that’s what happens to twenty-year-olds in college – we ended up at a cool joint playing Bob Marley, the Bee Gees, and The Beatles. Which lead to my little bro telling me not once, not twice, but FOUR times that he saw a Beatles cover band at this bar, as my little sister got her mack on with any good lookin’ college boy that passed her way. For real. Let me set the scene:

MILF (not over-served) sits in booth with over-served little bro. Em (also over-served) stands in the middle of the bar (which was surprisingly sparse), dancing with herself, awaiting her prey. MILF observes little sis stalk three separate boys in the following manner:

1.) As she sways to songs, she approaches said boy mid-sway and

2.) grabs his arm, pulls him in while she stands tippy-toed (as only tall boys were harmed) and

3.) begins whispering into his ear with a giggle and a hair toss (as hair is approximately two and a half feet of flowing, wavy, auburn locks) and

4.) said boy attempts to resist her grip and

5.) she bats her eyes and flashes a smile and starts whispering into said boy’s ear yet again and WITHOUT FAIL

6.) said boy stays a while to talk.

Mad skills. One wonders if little sis will ever, in fact, be a MILF as she simply has way too good a gift of Grab-and-Gab with boys to waste on one little man in a monogamous relationship. (Just kidding, sis, your knight in sweatshirt armor is out there!)

MILF that I am, I got called a MILF not once, but TWICE in the presence of my prom queen little sis. As she used the old Grab-and-Gab on her last puppy dog prey, his friend, while not chosen as her pick, decided to give the old MILF a try. Now, I’ve never been good at being flirted with. Always gave me the willies. Maybe because most guys that flirted with me either:

1.) turned out to be gay

2.) looked like cartoon characters

3.) or I actually thought they were cute so all I did was worry that they would think I was cute, too, and then we’d end up dating and then what if we got in a fight and I had to break up with him and I really hate break ups since I’ve never been good at confrontation and even ended a long term relationship the phone so maybe it’d be easier us to just be a bitch so he won’t even like me to begin with.

However, as a MILF, one needn’t worry about any of the above as said MILF has already attained handsome husband. And being flirted with suddenly becomes a breeze. Until the conversation suddenly becomes a bit inappropriate as said MILF can suddenly detect said friend has Grab-and-Gab plans all his own. Words of wisdom for all MILFs being flirted with out there: suddenly mention the word “married” or “birth” and all will be well again. Who ever ends up with said friend is getting a real catch. Tall, strapping, David Cook beard, all the essentials. Best of all, as soon as being married was mentioned, he dropped all flirtation and quickly switched to focusing on said MILF’s, in fact, MILF status. Even REALLY pushed the envelope by insisting I must only be twenty-three, twenty-four at the oldest. Sigh.

So by the end of the night, I had my little bro, who had pretty much left us for a booty call. Good for him. I had my little sis, who had pretty much found a guy that wanted a booty call somethin’ fierce from her. Good for her. And I had me, who had pretty much had the best day of her MILF life and if not a committed MILF, would have certainly had a booty call all her own. Good for me.

Ahh, college…life at its best.

Lesson 20: Feel Comfortable in Your Fluff

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

rewind to 2004, pre-DD status...

(Psst! That's your cue to click on Lesson 1. Enjoy!)

Lesson 19: Find Your Knight in Twinkling Armor

So, here you have it. Nineteen previous lessons I have learned in all my years with Nathan. I'm not claiming to be some kind of expert, sexpert, or otherpert. Just sharing. My experiences. My (hopefully) humor. My knowledge. I hope to look back on this years and years down the road and still find my Bad Boy hubbs as sexy as I do now. I hope my intuitive detective skills prove effective with my kids, especially if we have little punks like Nathan was in high school. I hope I can continue to live a little and have...more fun...in bathroom stalls. I hope and plan to ALWAYS wear thongs. I hope to get more diamonds, though be 100% surprised with real ones. I hope to always have a rodent exterminator available, sweat-shirtted or not, within minutes. I hope to breed more new and exciting fruits in the Omick Family...each kid a different kind. I hope the Packers win at least one more superbowl within our lifetime to see if the smile on Nathan's face is bigger than it was on our wedding day. (Okay, and to see him happy.) I hope (really hope) he loves me when I am fat, carrying around his offspring...and I know he will. I hope he will ALWAYS have the Lip Thing. Comes in handy. I hope I will always drive a truck. Yes, I really do. I hope our kids meet their significant others somewhere random, too, like a bowling alley. I do hope, however, that I never have to offer him any kind of quasi, pseudo, or halfsie ultimatum ever again -- but am ready to do so if necessary!

Of course, Nathan is by no means perfect. Can he be a jerk? Yep. Can he be a baby? You bet. Does he say he'll take out the garbage and not do it for four days? Would he be a man if he did otherwise? Did he buy a four hundred dollar canoe with my tax return four months after we got married even after we discussed it and I said I didn't want him to? Sure. (THAT, my friends, is a tale for another time.)

When I was a little girl, I pictured my husband carrying a briefcase (and coming home to me decked out in black lingerie for that matter). I didn't know I'd not only get a briefcase carrying kind of man, but also one with the cute quirkiness of Owen Wilson, the ruggedness of Bear Gryllis, and the charm and smarts of Barack Obama. For you see, as dim-witted as he -- and every man -- can be, he may not shine all the time, but he sure does twinkle. I think a man that shined all the time would get...too bright! Crud, you can't even LOOK at the sun for too long. It'll fry your eyes! The only thing I liked fried is my food. But do you see my point? Look for the twinkles in your man. He may not make dinner, but he rinses the dishes afterwards. He may not bring you flowers, but he tells you you're beautiful every single day. He may not like to buy gifts (and maybe just flat out won't at all for your 25th birthday OR graduation from graduate school), but when he does, he gets you diamonds. He may leave a little trash in your car/truck, but he always keeps the gas tank full. Find the good in him. Little flicks of light. And for those of you still looking for your knight in sweatshirt armor, don't even look for a shining one. Look for a twinkling one. Shiny things lose their luster. Twinkly things save their shine and share it sparingly so it lasts a lifetime. Keep looking, but you can't have mine. He's taken. And still twinkling.

Lesson 18: Sometimes, They ARE Right

It all began in third grade. I was at a sleep over birthday party. Had a scavenger hunt. Played capture the flag until dark. Watched scary movies at night. The whole bit. But the scariest part happened the next day after breakfast. After a feast of pancakes, my friend wanted to show off her pets. We all crowded around a little cage filled with white-furred, pink-eyed mice. They were so cute! Seemed harmless. Feeling adventurous, I asked to hold one. She plopped it in my cupped hands. Kind of tickled. Seemed like a happy little guy, but evidently, had a death wish. He jumped off my hands and onto the floor. But, much to his depressed dismay, landed like a mini cat. Scurried UP MY LEG. No joke. There may not be anything more disgusting and disturbing to feel as little claws quickly climbing up your plump nine-year-old limb. Without even thinking, I began to scream and flail my arms and immediately dropped my Garfield pajama shorts and began jumping around like popcorn. Since then, I have never been the same.

You see, I kind of suffer from what I refer to as "mini panic attacks." DISCLAIMER: Please note, I am in no way, shape, or form ridiculing Panic Disorder or any other mental health diagnosis. As a mental health/social work professional, I am well aware of such disorders, their implications, and seriousness. I justify mocking myself because I realize the un-seriousness of my...phobias.

Anyhoo, glad I got that out of the way! So, it started with a mouse molesting my lower body. Until this day, I am scared of mice. One time, I was visiting Nathan for my senior year spring break in college, choosing the Quad Cities over Cancun, as any normal twenty-one-year-old would do, right? Well, he left for work one day and within minutes, I spied a gross gray mouse exiting the trash can, scuttling down the can, and into the bathroom. I screamed and spent the majority of the day sitting on TOP of the couch, wide-eyed on alert, gripping a broom.

Another run-of-the-mill fear of mine is bridges. Only those over water, though. In high school physics, I recall watching a video about the Tacoma Narrows Bridge in Washington. Something about frequencies matching that literally made the bridge wiggle like a jump rope snake activity from pre-school. Up and down. Rolling waves. Eventually, it snapped!

I realize that since that incident, engineers have learned and adjusted their techniques. However, speaking of engineers, NOTHING makes me more nervous than CONSTRUCTION ON A BRIDGE. What makes them fix stuff anyways? Bolts falling out?!? Concrete chipping away?!? If they don't check the bridge every day, how do they really know everything is in place?!? How do they know that jack hammering all day won't cause the bridge to collapse, right then and there, with cars on it?!?

My first social work internship in the QCA was across the river on the Illinois side. Every day, I had to go over the I-74 bridge. See, I AM able to face my fears to some extent. That is why I classify them as mini panic attacks. Not full blown. Typically a ten minute drive, one minute of bridge action -- white knuckled, looking straight ahead, deep breathing to avoid hyperventilation. Anyhoo, go figure, not only did I have to cross the mighty Mississippi practically every day, but had to SIT in TRAFFIC for FORTY-FIVE minutes because of CONSTRUCTION on the bridge. I'm surprised I could open my hands once arriving at my internship.

Now, you may be asking, why only over water? Allow me to explain. Most of my fears have, I think, completely rational explanations. Okay. So you're driving along in your car. Across a bridge. Over water. And your tire blows out, or whatever, and causes you to swerve and fly over the guard rail that is absolutely not tall enough to guard you from anything; you plummet into cold water, try to open your car door, but not only is it locked, but the pressure surrounding you is too great to open it anyway and you are stuck! Can't break your windows open, sinking quickly, losing your breath even quicker, and you realize this is how you will die. Sinking! Cold! Breathless! And you will be a bloated mess when they pull your dead body from the water! Now, tell me, doesn't a fast smack to the pavement and a fast beating from a truck sound a LITTLE more appealing???

Now, this bridge business would be even worse if over the ocean. Oceans. Serene. Hypnotic. Soothing. Or eerie. Or abysmal. Or creepy. Think of ALL the prickly creatures in the depths, and shallows, of the ocean. LOBSTERS (!) that could latch onto your ear and not let go. CRABS (!) that could grab onto your feet and snip away at your pinkie toe. JELLYFISH (!) that could sting you and then someone would have to pee on you to keep it from stinging. BLOWFISH (!) that feel like cacti when you accidentally bump into them. STARFISH (!) that feel like gravel under your pedicured tootsies. EELS (!) that could wrap around your neck and squeeze until they suffocate you. Or even worse, electrocute you! And don't forget about SHARKS (!!!)!!! Do I even have to explain? And one that people always forget, always fail to mention: DOLPHINS (!)! I am SERIOUS! How could you be afraid of DOLPHINS (!) you ask? Well, LET ME TELL YOU !!!!!! (!!!!!!):

1.) They feel like big erasers. Weird.

2.) They kind of talk. Talking animals, including Mr. Ed, are weird.

3.) They are mammals, but kind of like fish. Weird.

4.) They are smart. Very smart. Weird.

5.) And just to let you know, the Discover Channel justified my fear. As I flipped through the channels one night, I came across a program bluelighting ocean life. Decided to enjoy those things I fear most from afar on my telly. Lo and behold, they were spotlighting the dangers of dolphins. How they like to pick on other, weaker, less intelligent creatures. How they have little dolphin gangs that circle prey, make feeding a game, make the poor little fish suffer in panic, draw it out, and then gulp them up with one of their little creepy dolphin laughs. Cruel, uncharacteristic some may say, and thus WEIRD.

But the things that get me the most have to do with planning. Organization. That is where the true anxiety, not panic, comes in. And anxiety is actually more of an issue for me. As previously mentioned, I like things in order. In my work bag. In my wallet. In my apartment. In my refrigerator. My shower routine. My workout routine. My grocery shopping routine. I plan every day from start to finish. I use my planner, not PALM PILOT as I do not care much for technology. When something is out of place, when something comes up and I have to change my schedule, I get...antsy. Feel full. Like someone lit a firecracker in my tummy and it is JUST about to explode. I get hot, as in physically warm. And no matter how I try, if the tissue box is our of place in my office, I just can't leave it. When I used to take notes in class, I kept my binder, notebook paper, and appropriate book next to each other, equidistant and parallel. When the dish soap bottle is carelessly placed at the wrong angle (NOT by me, I might add) I HAVE to move it back. Get my drift?

One time, Nathan and I went out to dinner. Dressed all snappy to use a gift certificate to a snazzy place. Thursday night. Figured we didn't need a reservation, that in and of itself was a big step for me, trying to loosen up a bit and all. Walked in. Excited. Forty-five minute wait. Too long! Starving! Would certainly perish if had to wait that long! Left trying to stay cool and not at all firecrackery. Nathan caught on. Wrapped his arm around a curiously quiet me and said, "Aw. My lady had a plan and it didn't work out. Are you okay?"

This is HUGE for Nathan. He doesn't play into all my weird deals. Never excessively babies me when crossing bridges. Never bought into my organization obsession. He always persistently insisted that the only way to get over all my weird deals was to face my fears. PSH! That's what I said to that! However, as much as it pains me to admit it...HE WAS RIGHT.

Concerned for my well-being and starting to loathe my panic feeling, I decided to do a huge paper for my mental health class on Panic Disorder, its diagnosis, and treatment. Turns out I WAS right about one thing: I didn't have Panic Disorder. And it turns out HE was right about another thing: treatment techniques include desensitization and exposure, fancy words for facing your fear. I COULDN'T BELIEVE IT! This seemingly archaic/medieval/barbaric approach was not only used, but effective! Nathan's no nonsense, down to earth outlook won again.

He was right. Who knew???

Lesson 17: Wait Ten Days

There are a few bad things, okay, a lot of bad things, about a fishing trip in Canada with your boy toy's fam:

1.) Fish.

2.) Worms.

3.) Rain.

4.) Bugs.

5.) Peeing on an island, in the woods.

6.) Or off the side of a boat.

7.) Pooping on an island, in the woods.

8.) Sharing a room with your hubbs and thirteen-year-old sister-in-law.

9.) No phones.

10.) No TV.

11.) No sex for ten days.


There are a few good things about a fishing trip in Canada:

1.) Lots of time to read.

2.) Lots of time to write.

3.) Sunshine.

4.) Beautiful scenery.

5.) Pine-fresh air.

6.) Pooping on an island, in the woods.

7.) No phones.

8.) No TV.

9.) No sex for ten days.


Let's explore the bad:

1.) Fish.

Give me the willies. Luckily, Nathan had agreed to handle any fish I caught before we arrived.

2.) Worms.

Also give me the willies. Nathan had also agreed to handle my worms. He also recanted and got...quite bothered that I couldn't handle a disgusting, still-moves-when-you-tear-it-in-half worm. Being the clever girl I am, I therefore utilized your everyday needle-nosed pliers to hook "squirms," as I dubbed them, eliminating any worm-girl contact.

3.) Rain.

Typically do not mind. In fact, quite enjoy a silver, hazy day, provided I'm indoors with a cup of safari spice tea and cozy blanket. Not so much in 50 degrees. On a dingy. In camouflage rain gear. All day. For two and a half days.

4.) Bugs.

Surprisingly don't give me to willies. Just huge, itchy, red welts instead. One day, my mother-in-law and I decided to be "good" on vacation and go for a walk. I geared up, well aware of how many bugs call the Canadian woods home, in long black spandex and a long-sleeved T-shirt. My braver mother-in-law sported just shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. As we walked and talked for forty minutes, I stopped three or four times to swat bugs away from my calves and hamstrings. By the time we got back to the cabin, my legs swelled with at least forty bug bites. Like nothing you've ever seen. None of Nathan's family, all old Canadian fishing trip vets, could believe it. Determined not to be relentlessly teased regarding my city-girl rep, I complained a bit, but kept saying, "It could be worse. I'll survive..." as my legs burned. The worst part was that my mother-in-law had like two bites!

5.) Peeing on an island, in the woods.

Really not that bad unless:

a. You get bug bites on your butt.

b. You slip on muddy, mossy rocks and get mud all over your already soaked pants.

c. You realize that your in-laws have hunted bears on these very islands.

6.) Peeing off the side of a boat.

More appealing than #5. Must be extremely comfortable with other boat passengers.

7.) Pooping on an island, in the woods.

Less appealing than #5 or #6. Particularly if you haven't crapped in five days and run out of TP while wiping.

8.) Sharing a room with your hubbs and thirteen-year-old sister-in-law.

Now, don't get me wrong. A free trip is a free trip. However, a twelve-year age gap can be awkward, particularly when your husband thinks it's okay to grab your boob while spooning under the sheets in your double bed, with your sis-in-law on the top bunk across from us. And, not really appropriate to strip and saunter as one would at home.

9.) No phones.

Almost no phones. Had my cell that worked intermittently. Virtually no contact with friends, family, work, etc.

10.) No TV.

No Oprah. No Dr. Phil. No soaps. No fun.

11.) No sex for ten days.

Ten days! The longest I've ever gone since swiping my V-card is...four weeks, max. Longest I've ever gone since meeting Nathan is...two weeks, max, due to long distance. Longest I've ever gone since marrying Nathan is...six days, max, due to his unfortunate dislike for Aunt Flo. Ten days proved especially difficult, gazing at tanned hubbs all day while on the dingy.


On the other hand, let's explore the good:

1.) Lots of time to read.

So, my in-laws seemed amazed by my apparent speed-reading skills. I finished four and a half books on our trip. One philosophical. One trashy. One story. One scientific. Half a romance.

2.) Lots of time to write.

Finished two lessons of this cute little blog.

3.) Sunshine.

After two and a half days of rain, the sun re-emerged and fueled three bright days with just enough fluffy while cool clouds.

4.) Beautiful scenery.

Crystal water. Lush trees. Bear cub (from a distance). Moose (from a distance). All that Canadian stuff. Post card stuff.

5.) Pine fresh air.

No exhaust fumes. No factory fumes. Just better than Pinesol pine-fresh air that felt cleansing to breathe.

6.) Pooping on an island, in the woods.

Evidently, this fosters true love. Yes, it's true. I had a huge load to drop. Nathan, an experienced woods pooper, offered me some advice: find a log, sit with your bum hanging over the back, work quickly, clean up, call it good. I decided that sitting on a log was gross. So I popped a squat and hung onto a tree for support. Handled my business, and by business, I mean poopin'. Started to "tidy up" and quickly realized that my two or three poop paper portion would not suffice and had a conundrum -- couldn't pull my pants up for obvious reasons, yet didn't want my hubbs to view me hovering over my pile of terds. So I took our relationship to a whole new level. Hobbled down the hill, pants around my ankles, trying to stay somewhat squatted for obvious reasons, and barked, "I need more toilet paper," avoiding eye contact at all costs. "Didn't you bring any?" he asked. "Yes! But I ran out," I barked again, as if he asked the stupidest question of all time. With a giggly grin and head shake, he searched my camo rain gear pockets for what remained of the extra roll. Tossed it to me. Hobbled back up to my make-shift john. Still wasn't much TP, but got the job done. And my heart a-twitter.

7.) No phones.

No friends. No family. No work. No interruptions. No problem.

8.) No TV.

No Oprah. No Dr. Phil. No soaps. Just makes you appreciate it even more when you get home. Distance makes the heart grow finder, you know how it goes.

9.) No sex for ten days.

Ten days. Ten days you have to wait. Ten days you can barely touch each other. Ten days for your mind to play out fantasies while sitting on a stupid boat. Ten days to study him and list all the reasons you find him adorably sexy while sitting on a stupid boat. Ten days for those tingles to marinate. TEN DAYS. But, like Oprah, such a lapse just makes you appreciate it even more when you get home. And unload the truck. Have a shower. Together. Followed by squeaky clean, down and dirty, good old fashioned humpin'.

But the best part of the trip wasn't even the wait ten days sex when we got home. The best part happened on one of the last days of the trip. For those of you who have never been on a bona-fide fishing trip, there's a bit of a hassle involved in the boat launch, if you ask me. Him backing the truck and trailer onto the launching pad. Me taking over the driver's seat while he hops out and into the boat. Him undoing the trailer straps. Him giving me the signal (a waving hand) to let off the brake slowly and another (a raised fist) to quickly brake, thus ejecting the boat from the trailer/launch. Him driving beside the dock and typically me then parking the truck and trailer and returning to the boat on foot to begin fishing. (WHEW!)

But on one occasion, after docking, I took over as captain while Nathan parked the truck and trailer. I just held onto the dock awaiting his return and hoping I wouldn't lose my grip and float away and, being motor-operating challenged, have to paddle back. As he walked from parking to pier, I noted an exchange between him and his mom, who awaited her own launch. Nathan walked toward the S.S. Omick, piled in, and as we scooted along, he casually and a bit bashfully said he just told his mom something nice about me. I pleaded for details. He hesitated. I begged. He dished. Went like this:

Ruggedly cute pig-tailed hat-wearing city-girl, aka the skipper, awaited upon the S.S. Omick for the captain. Mother-in-law admired girl from shore and felt happy for ruggedly cute son.

Mother-in-law: You've got a good girl there.

Nathan: Yep. There's not too many guys who are 100% sure they married the right girl.

And he twinkled. Internationally to boot.

Lesson 16: Don't Hang Your Big Unds Out to Dry

When I really think about it, Nathan truly brings out the best in me. And when I really, really think about it, I don't give him the credit he deserves. I have come a long way. (Haven't we all?) Let's visit my favorite age. Nineteen. Hot babe. Smokin' bod. Big unds.

Yes, I wore granny panties. Prim. Proper. Practical. In high school, I toted run-of-the-mill cotton panties. Usually all one color. That my mom bought. Got it? Then, nearing the end of my bone-dry boyfriend days of high school, I acquired the at-the-time-boyfriend. Seemed as though at the age of seventeen, with hormones a-ragin', run-of-the-mill cotton panties needed to run off a cliff. So, I did what any girl would do: ran to Victoria's Secret. Sans mom.

I had one goal in mind: patterns. It was time to move away from plain old panties and toward exciting stripes, polka dots, and plaids. I also had to have unds that matched the bras I already had. (Please recall my obsession with matching. To think about wearing non-coordinating bra and panties sets just about makes my teeth itch.) My bra drawer housed braziers in the following hues:

1.) Red

2.) Green

3.) White

About as much as I adore matching, I adore efficiency. Getting the most out of something. Including unds. As I perused the mountains of muff covers at Victoria's Secret, I quickly became privy to the idea of buying one pair of unds that would potentially coordinate with my three bra colors, thus creating three different options...how I LOVE efficiency! As luck would have it, it was Christmastime, so finding unds with even just a hint of green or red or white was no problem. Five pair for twenty dollars. Gray must have been big that season, because that was the next most common color theme. And THAT was a prob. I didn't have a gray bra. But five pair of new unds was certainly not enough to keep the at-the-time-boyfriend guessing. Desperate, I splurged. Fifty buck, a bra, ten pair of (still big) panties later, I felt my first rush of womanly femininity. Its power. Its potential. Its passion.

I liked my new fancy panties. And so did the at-the-time-boyfriend. So I got more. This time, I got really wild and went for tropical colors. I waited for the semi-annual sale, of course, and came home with a sea of aqua, coral, and lemon colored don't-tell-your-mom high-cut-briefs. Evidently, I could have told every mom because they were wearing the same thing. The worthless dryer in my college apartment revealed this horrific truth. As I washed my very dirty fancy panties one day, I soon discovered the dryer didn't, well, dry. No big whoop. I opted to hang my apparently big unds out to dry on the second floor lost banister in our apartment. That year, I lived with five girlfriends, none of which wore big unds. As they came in from class during the day, they were greeted with bright hellos from my panties. And the panties were greeted with bold bellows of laughter from my friends. I had no idea my favorite unds could be so facetious! The at-the-time-boyfriend flat out thought they were "hot." (Turns out he didn't know so much anyways.) Leave it to me to let them hang out to dry.

But that's how I used to be. My love life was an open book. Sharing my bug unds and other dirty laundry with God and country. I've always been a talker. Story teller. Communicator. Most thoughts in my brain make it to my mouth. In all regards. Opinions, jokes, feelings - what have you. So when anything went wrong with Nathan, I explained it in deep detail, to each girlfriend and sorority sister willing to hear as opposed to the more logical approach of talking to the boyfriend. It felt good to share. It felt good to have someone to listen. It felt good to get revenge...if he messed up, if he pissed me off, I'd let EVERYONE know about it to make him look as dumb as possible. In reality, all the complaining made me look dumb. About as dumb as my huge underwear. Think about it: if he really was that dumb -- and he really wasn't -- why would I want everyone to know I picked a dud? The answer: insecurity and immaturity. Afraid I'd lose him if I pissed him off by letting him know that he pissed me off and worried he'd dump me and get another girlfriend and when I'd see them out together I'd get pissed and worried I'd never date again! I was pissed-worried. I needed the Pissed-Worrieds to piss off.

And alas, my inspiration for this lesson emerges. One of my size-four skinny friends who likes to eat like I do (okay, not THAT much) never hangs her big unds out to dry. And while never discussed, judging by her reaction to my big unds, never had big unds to begin with. Sweet Sarah. Porcelain skin. Bright eyes. Soft spoken (until a few cocktails). Among her many desirable traits, one stands tall: privacy. She has an open-door listening policy for friends. Very attentive. But knock on HER door of relationship issues, and she, with nonchalant cunning, slips her "do not disturb" sign on the knob. And after years of shoving my big unds about Nathan in all my friends' faces, I decided to follow suit with Sarah and make the switch from practical to private.

Back to the lingerie store. Wanted change. Wanted it fast. Wanted less unds, more skin. Needed silky. Needed small. Needed sexy. Found ones. Bought ones. Tossed the old ones. Came home with satin, bikini-cut, age appropriate panties. The kinds with the "sticks" on the sides. Leaving the department store, I felt my feminine power bloom anew. I made a promise to worship privacy, and satin panties were my golden calf.

Immediately, I fell into comfort in my satin panties and more into security with the boy toy. Loved my new unds. They made me feel powerful. Like I had a hold on my man, myself, and my life. As our lover scuffles nevertheless ebbed and waned, I shared when necessary, i.e. when I felt I would literally burst if I didn't, but more selectively. First, with non-judgemental girlfriends. Who knew Nathan a little better than others, outside of Maggie-and-Nathan. I also shared when necessary, i.e REALLY REALLY felt like I would literally burst if I didn't, but even more selectively and secondly with Nathan. I needed to take the next step. Towards true privacy. True commitment. True mature womanhood.

Thongs.

Back again to the lingerie department. A plethora of colors, fabrics, and styles to keep him guessing. I even added some (coordinating, of course) push-up bras. Thong after thong after thong. Va va va voom!

RELATED TANGENT: While I enjoy identifying the symbolic relationship between my unds and privacy with my Nathan, I also quite fancy just plain wearing them. It's like a fabulous prank. Like at work, I appear all focused and such in business attire. Little do they know, I'm actually quite frisky. For beneath the turtlenecks and trousers, behold the power of femininity, in all its seductive potential.

Anyhoo, with my last undergarment transition, my communication approach transformed. As our lover scuffles continue to ebb and wane, I've decided on a radical approach: direct discussion with my lover. I know, I know. Sounds risky and rash. I've also decided on another radical approach: share what's good about Nathan with anyone willing (or unwilling!) to hear. In doing so, I am reminded why I am lucky, why I'm in love.

I don't even HAVE big unds anymore. And let me tell you, not only does he appreciate open discussion one-on-one, Nathan really appreciates open access to my luscious bum. Which typically ignites one-on-one activity all its own. I save my secrets and my sexiness for my man. And I tumble dry those thongs on low heat.

Lesson 15: Don't Underestimate the Freedom of Dependence

The key to a healthy relationship requires the balance of independence, dependence, and interdependence. Nathan and I have been historically good at interdependence. On Team Omick, I'm the Offensive Coordinator. I keep the ball moving. Fetch groceries. Pay bills. Clean house. Nathan's the Defensive Coordinator. Nathan keeps the competition in check and protects our offensive gains. Maintains our beloved vehicles, wiggles our way out of overdraft fees, that kind of thing.

Independence has been good, too. By nature, Nathan radiates independence. Left home at eighteen for a world trip on an air craft carrier. Select true blue friends. Likes at least an hour of alone time a day. I'm not gonna lie, independence was inside me, just buried...deep. Hiding. Don't get me wrong. I'm the first to admit my outspokenness. And my possibly stringent daily plans. And my liking for having things my way (simply, by the way, because they make the most sense). But true independence didn't find me until after we got married. Before then, the main thing I had passion for was, well, Nathan. My theory: for one to have independence, one needs passion. For anything. Something yours. That you do with just you. That feels right and natural.

Before I found independence in social work, in writing, in cooking, in these and other untapped resources, I was, well, rather clingy. Just wanted to do what he was doing. Be where he was. Saw what he saw. On occasion, would even get The Sads or The Crabbies when he'd leave for a night out with the boys. Even maybe somehow would convince myself it was so totally okay to be annoyed/pissed/depressed when he had to study. The studying thing really did me over. A little advice for any significant other of a chiropractic student: makes friends outside the chiro circle. If you don't you end up alone:

1.) While they have to study for finals,

2.) While they all have to go to seminars and other stuff like that and,

3.) While they all have to study for four national board exams.

And it is here, that the fun story begins. Rewind to a murky March evening in 2003. Nathan and all his "doctor friends" were at the library studying for the most difficult test of their academic careers: Spinal Anatomy. (Doesn't the sound of that just make you dry heave?) Since pretty much anyone I associated with was at Palmer Chiropractic College, I turned to my three closest friends, Me, Myself, and I, in hopes they knew where independence lived in my bod. Started from scratch contemplating things I enjoyed. Like shopping, but had like no money. Like travelling, but still had like no money. Like primping, and had like a TON of that stuff. Tweezers, facial kits, nail poilsh. If there's one thing I knew how to do, it was how to make myself feel pretty. Especially after looking like a drowned rat sinking in I Have No Friends In Iowa Besides Stupid To Be Doctors And I'm So Lonely Poor Me Lake. But alas! I spied a raft! Pink, shiny, Maybelline.

It was settled. As I gathered up my pedicure supplies in my very first apartment, I couldn't help but feel proud of myself. Doing my own thing while Nathan did his. Just trusty old Brett and I, watching Moulin Rouge while rouging up my nails. I plopped my plump bottom on my caved-in charcoal gray love seat. Pulled my black fake-wood mini coffee table in front of me. Laid out all the goodies: big bowl brimming with warm suds, pumice stone, exfoliating peppermint foot scrub, orange stick, cuticle trimmers, nail clippers, nail buffer, nail file, peppermint cooling gel, base coat, polish, top coat, quick dry, finishing oil. And lit candles. Then I soaked. I scrubbed. I primed. I polished. And then, I panicked.

Heard a-rustlin' in the kitchen. Brett's a-perkin' ears did, too. Thought it was the wind, leaves, etc. outside. Rustled again. Hmm. With new found independence on my side, I decided to handle this curiosity on my own, though the phone practically screamed, "Hide in the closet and call Nathan!" I told myself it must just be a bird. Luckily and randomly, I had some bird experience during my college job. One got in the candy shop I worked in (and I wonder why I am tainted as a Weight Watchers drop-out) and my boss and I led it out swooshing a broom up in the air toward the door. Even though I had a mini panic attack that whole time, I survived and decided I would survive again. With my wet toes and Brett's wet nose, we headed toward the kitchen to sniff out the situ. Didn't see a thing. Thought, "Awww...it's a cute little baby birdie scared and hiding without his mama." Before I could start seeking, the rustling re-emerged with an eight-inch wing span. And ears. And fangs.

My bird was an f-ing bat. My scream was a bona-fide horror movie shriek. I bolted back into the makeshift spa/living room. Heart pounding. Vomit coming. Eyes bulging. HAD to get out ASAP. HAD to rescue my dog from rabies and all. And then I wondered, hey, where is my dog? I tip-wet-toed toward the makeshift bat cave/kitchen, peeked around the corner to find Brett completely still, not blinking, staring up toward the key hook to the right of the door. Perched upside down above my key hook, and consequently, my keys, hung Benny (I named him). Taking a snooze. Or more likely planning his attack. I quickly recoiled back around the corner, panting, and as you can imagine, muttering profanities. Brett didn't move. We were trapped!

Don't know how I did it. Sacrificed my yet wet pedicure for my safety. Still winter, I had to put on shoes AND socks. Managed to skip on the jacket, though. Didn't even grab my purse. Now, for the keys, I developed a plan:

1.) Unlock my car doors through the living room window using my remote opener.

2.) Unlock the kitchen/front door.

3.) Grab the keys.

4.) Call Brett while sprinting down two flights of stairs, hoping he would follow and Benny wouldn't.

5.) Pile into my car.

6.) Speed to the library.

7.) Find Nathan.

8.) Send him home with instructions to kill.

Did #1. Did #2. And then for #3, the riskiest step. I hoped for the best, but realized:

1.) Benny could latch onto my hand, suck my blood, give me rabies, and I would die.

2.) Benny could fly into my hair causing a severe panic attack which would induce fatal hyperventilation.

3.) Benny could fly away.

4.) Benny could be a sound sleeper.

Hoping for #4, I took a deep breath, grabbed they keys, flung open the door, called Brett and ran down the stairs, got into my car, and got the hell out of there.

In the two minutes it took me to get to the library, I managed to use every cuss word I'd ever heard at least twice. Parked my ride, jetted into the libes. I could feel my socks sticking to my polished and mushed toenails. Frantically scanned the study cubicles on the second floor. No Nathan. More profanities. Third floor. Passed familiar Palmer faces, blurred with fury. Heard and ignored, "Hey, Maggie's." On a mission. Located target. Debriefed Agent Omick. Others listened on, jaws opening wider as the story unfolded. Nathan, sporting his typical studying gear, khaki cargos and and old black hoodie, sat stunned. He looked at me and said, "The bad news is..." and flipped up his hood, "I hate bats." Didn't matter. He was much braver than I. He hunts. He bungee jumps. He's a boy for Pete's sake! I depended on him to handle scary situations. And bats were WAY scarier than Spinal Anatomy.

We trekked back to the Bat Cave. Decided I'd had my fair share of Benny. Sent my boys up to save me while I smoked at least seven ciggs in the safety of my car. Brett didn't miss a beat and beat Nathan upstairs, ready to kick some bat ass. I kissed my brave boy toy potentially good-bye. I waited. I watched. Saw a hooded silhouette through the living room window holding a broom. Heard barking. Heard battling, as in the broom, not Benny. Saw a hooded knight coming down the outside steps. Gave me the go-ahead to come in.

The inside story goes as follows: Brett had gone right to Benny's key location only to find him gone! Then his wet nose led him to Benny's new locale -- the blinds of the living room window. Brett guarded the new Bat Cave as Nathan rounded up the broom, his weapon of choice. Having a panic attack all his own, he wound up with all his might, and in one fell swoop, squished Benny to smitherines. So there you have it: Agent Omick, with the broom stick, in the living room.

Benny lives on, his blood on the blinds, a constant reminder of his time spent in my very first apartment. Benny taught me a lot. Interdependence can be comforting. Reassuring. Independence can be scary. And also refreshing. Dependence can be tricky. It can be clingy. But, in my case, freeing. Besides, isn't there just something incredibly sexy about a knight in sweatshirt armor?