Tag Archive | Date Coaching

Who Won?

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

Well, let’s just suffice it to say that I had to spray a lot of perfume on this morning. There was no time to shower, much less mascara my eyelashes. This game was just too dang early…

 I’m not happy to admit this, and so I am not formally admitting this… but my husband informs me that I may not be a “morning person.”

Huh?

What does he know?

He is off riding the mountainsides in Utah right now.

He may or may not be right. I don’t have the freaking patience to find out at this early hour, but I did have a hard time waking up this morning.

Go figure.

My only incentives being:

A. To see my son play

B. To see my son play well

C. To see my son play well against “dickhead.”

Now, I am not one to hold any grudges.

Like, I have almost forgiven that little bitch in high school… almost.

I don’t use the voodoo doll on her anymore… well, only semi-annually.

Heck, I have other things to do than live in the past.

And, that neighbor that I used to have living near me, emphasis on used to (and no, nothing mysterious happened to her… much to my regret. She just moved… how common, right?)

Let’s just say that when the book came out, The Devil Wears Prada, I thought it was about my neighbor.

Bee-atch, with a small ass and rock-hard boobs.

Yikes. I remember the first time she hugged me. I was bruised for a week from her plastic surgery stone tits.

Well, I am still in therapy over all of that neighborhood nonsense stuff. 

No one here misses her dropping her garbage into other people’s cans.

Yeah baby, you can keep your dirty diapers to yourself.

Schtinky.

My dog misses them though. Evidently, there is something attractive with the scent of toddler diarrhea rolled in a Pampers disposables…

Eeeeeeuuuuw.

So, like I said I’m not one to keep grudges. So the fact that we are facing up dickhead and his team this morning is double-edged.

First off, I had to drive all the way back to my house because I forgot my chair.

I knew this was not going to be a good sign.

My sweet little sugar-coated ass would melt on the beauty of the morning dew if I were to sit on the ground. We can’t be having any of that wet dew sinking into my “down there” now can we?

Right.

So, I drove back to get my chair.

Gosh.

Secondly, I can’t help it that I express myself verbally.

Calling a kid dickhead seemed and still seems appropriate, and if the conditions arise again… and I feel the need to express myself in these and other matters, then I am bound by the “Mother Bear” Codes of Conduct to protect my little cub.

Regardless.

And… I am going to disregard the coaches messages left on my cell phone informing me of various muzzle supply shops.

A muzzle?

For who?

Dickhead?

That might be a little extreme for a 15-year-old, but I picked one up for him just in case.

I do understand the mouths of these babes, because I live with two teenagers and I could see how it could come in handy.

Like… everyday.

So, I bought him an extra-large.

Because he has an extra-large dickhead.

Du-u-uh.

I learned that from my kids… that “duh” thing.

Doesn’t it just make you feel good all over?

….

Well, right now… we are knee-deep in the second half and the score is one-to-one.

The kids are dripping with sweated competitiveness. Licking their teenaged chops for this victory that is due them. The tension hovers over the parents around me.

And me… well, I am in a catatonic stare… they are all navy colored enemies against our white shirted boys, and now those 15-year-old little penile wannabes threaten our good Saturday.

They have kicked two of our guys in the balls.

Hard.

One of their players received a red card.

And if that is not enough, they have tackled my son to the point where he was lying on the ground for literally two minutes.

Just lying there.

Unmoving.

And, I was not allowed to go on the field.

Mama bear does not like this part.

And, I’m going to tell you that two minutes is a very long time when your son is in pain, on the ground and not moving.

….

I would like to say that we won the game, but we did not.

We played a hard fight, but a clean one.

I left my comments until after the three tweets of the whistles were heard, signaling the end of the game.

Then I let a few “explicatives” fly…

A tough loss for all…

For us…

For other dickheads across the world…

And… for the world…

I don’t think that I am over exaggerating here, when I say that this IS a tough loss for the entire world…

Tragic.

And then of course, we all went to CoCo’s for breakfast.

:-)

Hug, hug, kiss, kiss, Y’all — Even you with hard boobies — Still love ya! xoxo

 

The is the final to: 

If you don’t know who dickhead is … ***** Then Click Here *****  

A must read story.

A follow-up story with pictures is ***** Here*****

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
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Vegas, Baby, Vegas!… (w/ pic)

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

My chicks and I go way three times a year.

Palm Springs spa weekend.

Mammoth Lakes ski weekend.

And, Vegas, Baby, Vegas weekend.

Yeah, we’ve been trippin’ for a long time now.

For the last 10 years. Yeah, Ba-bay!

WE HAVE GOT IT DOWN.

Our so-called weekend getaways have now stretched into five night minimum stays.

We know where we are going to eat… who serves the strongest mai tais… where the “I Dream of Jeanie” (Oooooh Master!) slot machines are… and where we can laugh the loudest not get thrown out of the place.

You might say, that after all these years, we could be professional partiers.

You might be right.

But, alas… we are just moms that have maneuvered a tri-annual ESCAPE for the last decade.

Admit it now, you’re jealous.

It’s okay, we understand jealousy.

These are required outings for we, the core four.

Since my girlfriends would have a coronary if I actually named them, I’ll just give you our names that we developed one year when we watched “Malibu’s Most Wanted.”  Since we are all Mom’s and can’t seem to get out of the freaking kitchen . . . you may sense a theme here.

I am “White Top” AKA Wonder Bread, Sunbeam, Goya Loaf. They seem to think that I have lead a conservative life . . . I let them think what they want as I spread my three fingers and bang it on my chest like I am a “bro in the hood.”

Bang, bang, bang (three fingers) “White Bread, yo?”

Yeah, that, popping a couple of my “Move Free” glucosamine/chondroitin pills and my hair spray makes it all very convincing…

Then there is “Cinnabon.” As you can imagine she’s a beautifully tanned mother of two, and makes her hand into “C” shape and whacks it on her chest. “Cinnabon, Buya!” 

Then of course, we can’t forget “Bagel.” She hysterically tries to form a “B” shape with her fingers to bang on her chest.  And, then groans, “Bagel. You guys, I got a crummy name.”

“Oy! Such is life Heidi Goldbaum,” not really her name, “You be Bagel, and don’t give us any shen-agle!”

And, then lastly . . . There is “Buttertop.”  She doesn’t have to make any hand signals at all, because frankly there’s no room left on her chest. She has the most beautiful store-bought breasts any woman (or man) could hope for.  So yes, she is “Buttertop.” And she doesn’t have to do a thing to just stand there with that perfectly shaped shelf of breasts.

You could put a plate of sandwiches on those breasts…

So, it’s basically us four — White Bread, Cinnabon, Bagel and Buttertop, and we try our best to terrorize Vegas within an inch of it’s questionable life.

Yo.

Yo Momma.

Me Momma?

You Momma.

We da Mommas.

We da Ho’s.

Well, I guess you can see what we “think” we are accomplishing here…

But really, life is too short to be Mommies all the time.

Sometimes . . . we have to be just girls.

Girls gone wild!

Girls gone wild…

With cellulite…

And baby-tummy.

And, thyroid conditions, and children’s college tuitions to pay.

And . . . And . . . Well, 40-ish Girls gone half-mad might be a better description.

But, ALL, and I mean ALL of Vegas knows that we have a good time!  It take the city a whole year to recover from us.

Yeah, we DO know how to play…

Our husbands wish so desperately to be flies on the wall…

“No, no, no, Joe.”

“Just fo the Ho’s. You get to stay home and play Mommy, mo-fo!”

But, remember . . . most people say, “What Happened in Vegas, Stays in Vegas!”

However, OUR mantra is . . . “What Happened in Vegas . . . Never Happened!”

So, you want to go to Vegas, baby?

Yeah, I could show you the town!

  

Some of the Crew

Some of the Crew

The Core Four - White Bread, Bagel, Buttertop & Cinnabon

The Core Four - White Bread, Bagel, Buttertop & Cinnabon

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book
& the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
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S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker

Mountain Biking in Mammoth

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

I have to tell you that today was one of the most beautiful days.

It started out being a little testy. I was a little nervous. I hadn’t gone out for a while.

I was afraid that I had lost my edge.

The only way to learn this time in the saddle, and I have been away from my saddle for quite a while.

But, like everything else in life that starts with the first step . . . the first pedal.

Taking it slow. Climb the hill. Enjoy the show of the trees in all their wildness.

And, before I knew it . . . I was flying.

Stones, drops, roots, logs.

No problem.

My momentum back.

I wish you could have been there.

Standing high, then pulling back on the reigns of my bike. My weight turning me instead of my handle bar.

Yes. Back in the groove.

Yes, me, my husband and this glorious mountain.

I will ride you again tomorrow.

Until then, rest until I torture you again, dear hillside. You are mine, and you are smitten.

Hitting the Trail

Hitting the Trail

 

The Bike and I

The Bike and I

 

Jim & I in Mammoth

Jim & I in Mammoth

Mammoth Full Access Mountain Biking Pass

Mammoth Full Access Mountain Biking Pass

—–

Y’all come back now, Y’hear?

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book
& the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
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S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker

HELLO?

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So, it goes like this . . .

Hello . . .

Uh, Checking . . .

One, two, three . . .

Is this frigging thing ON? (Bang, bang, bang)

Where’s the God-dang button here, kids?

Crap.

What in tarnations?

(Don’t even ask me to explain THAT word. You’re just going to have to accept that it’s just a Southern explicative. Don’t know what else to tell you. You could add it to your word building exercises for the day if you are planning a trip to Alabama, or thereabouts. Otherwise . . . hmmm . . . no.)

I hate technology sometimes.

Okay . . . Everybody, I am just going to have to YELL.

HELLO?

Hey, Y'all!

Hey, Y'all!

—-
Y’all come back now, Y’hear?

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book
& the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
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S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker

Things have gotten worse . . .

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

Things have gotten worse.

The other day, I woke up sounding like Demi Moore. 

Scratchy. Sexy . . . with a bit of a Southern Accent.

That was nice.

Made me sound naughty. Though, I have no intention of moving in on Ashton. They are adorable together.

Another score for the Cougars!

Go! Cougars! Go!

Aaaaaah . . .

Yes . . . the memories of Cougar catching the fine young chicken meat . . .

Hmmm . . . I get all warm just thinking about it.

But, I digress.

However . . .

Yesterday, I woke up sounding like Demi Moore’s mother.

Don’t quote me, but I don’t think they “get along.”  Something about alcohol and . . . well, that might put a damper on the old relationship thing.

Yeah, not good.

And, today . . .

Well, today I have woken up sounding like Demi Moore’s Uncle Crank. A distant chain-smoking, pain-in-the-ass pseudo-relative that is bent on trying to break up her and Ashton’s May-September romance.

He’s probably an ass.

So, it’s no compliment, to me . . . Moi . . . I . . . Belle, that I sound like her mother . . .  or worse yet, scary old pseudo-Uncle Crank.

Sounding like Demi Moore with a southern accent was fun . . . for a day or so, until it disintegrated into “weird Uncle Crank.”

No. This is entirely NOT GOOD.

I guess I am going into the doctor on Monday.

Bummer.

I wonder if I am going to need a shot?

I’ve probably done something to deserve it.

Something.

Double Bummer.

Be well, and I am frigging determined to get better!

I don’t want to sound like ANY of the Demi Moore Klan anymore.

I want to be me, I tell you.  I want to be me!

;-)

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book
& the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
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S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker

A Little Touch Up, Perhaps? Massage Anyone?

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

So I’m sitting at the spa, disrobing in the locker room.

Showing everybody my age via the slight little sag (and I am really not going to admit this sag thing) in my heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi derriere . . .

Yeah boys, relax now, I was in the ladies locker room at my gym.

I say Spa, because it makes it sound really nifty and special, however the fact is is that it’s just an offshoot of my gym. So yeah, I am surrounded by aging sweaty female bodies that just got out of a “Body Blast”ing 50 minute core bending, arm-pit stinking, boob bouncing meltdown class. 

Yeeaaaa…uh…ugh…hmmm.

No.

Just try to envision this, there are women all around me that are “dropping-trou” and flopping breasts, with relaxed waists and cellulite butts.  Sweatin’ with the oldies . . .

Hey, as I look around and compare my (like I said my heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi) derriere . . .

Against the other sweaty or pre-sweated asses . . .

I think to myself, I say . . .

(Come on, say it . . . if  I am thinking to myself, and I say something . . . come on . . . God, have I got to do everything here?)

Holy crap, okay . . .

And, I think to myself, I say . . . “Self . . .”

(See how easy that was?)

I digress.

I do that a lot.

So, as I look around at all of those younger and older “Sit Upons” I say to myself, I say, “Self — Hey! I’m feeling pretty good about myself! My ass is looking pretty fine!”

However, after comparing my goods to those others in the locker room . . . well, let’s just admit that maybe a thong shouldn’t be sold to women that could qualify for AARP.

I think that just about draws the line there, and even in semipublic situations a thong on women that age is just a whole bowl of throng wrong.

Should I have to be subjected to such sights? I ask you?

I . . . Mois . . . Me . . . Belle . . . don’t even wear a thong when I am going to gym. When I know that I might be viewed by someone else, even though as I said before, I do have the heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi) . . .  

I think there should be standards set.

I have eyes don’t I?

I am not an animal!

I can discern objects that are scary to me!

Well, so I finally get my robe on in preparation for my massage. I finally hide the hide and resume coverage of my heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi.

Ah . . . the comfort of a loose fitting robe. It hides all the demons, doesn’t it?

Well, like I said, they do treatments at my spa.

When I say treatments, I say and mean “Fluff Facials” (meaning we’re not going to be digging out those huge ugly pores on your face, Darling! You will have to go somewhere else for that) and some pretty exceptional massages.

They only service ladies at my gym, boys. So, you’re not going to be able to apply for a masseuse position.

Sorry. (Wink. Wink.)

So, let’s be frank here — I only go for the massages.

However you want to look at it, I am paying a professional to touch me all over my body . . .

Nice, right?

Hmmmmm . . . sounds naughty, doesn’t it?

Well, I guess if I were switching teams, then it would be . . . naughty.

 But, you boys dig that whole girl touching girl thing, don’t you?

Hate to burst your proverbial bubble heads . . . but, I just go there to be manipulated . . . uh, my muscles, that is.

My kids have the other manipulation thing down, man.

Let’s face it, I am here to escape. 

So, this is just a touch me, I need to be frigging touched and de-stressed, and know that I am not going to wind up have sex at the end of it . . .

Just relax . . . no energy . . .

I go in the “Relaxation Room.”

Where, I might add, everyone has a Goddamn robe on, thank you very much.

How can I relax if someone’s thong-split cheeks were sticking to the fricking chair I want to sit in?

No. Holy crap, right?

Thank you dear God, everyone’s got a nice little “spa” robe and and everyone is hidingthere questionable little asses . . . just like mine, my heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi, is safely snuggled below the confines of the loose-fitting robe.

Aaaaaah.

Yes.

A little hot tea, perhaps?

Well, I don’t mind if I do!

A little dried apricot or almonds to quell that scant bit of hunger?

Well Darling, how thoughtful . . .

Okay, who the hell am I talking to?

These are the conversations that go on in my cornered little brain . . .

Hot tea, apricot, almonds. How charming, thank you!

Chomp. Sip. Swallow. Almond. Crunch. Swallow. Choke. Wrong Pipe. Hacking . . .  coughing. . . choking. . . Help! Goddammit! Stop frigging relaxing and hit me on the back . . . finally. Down. Swallow. Breathe. Aaaaah. Sip. Swallow. No more frigging almonds. Aaaaah. Hot tea. Sip. This is the life. No?

Relax . . .

Ottoman?

Well, sure!

Nice. Reclined. Sip.

“Belle . . .” she calls to me.

Karen?

Yes, my dear, Karen. Yes, it is she that is calling me . . .

Save me. Touch me. Thank you, my dear Karen.

I nod.

Slowly, and with reverence, I walk to the massage room.

She is my angel for the next 50 minutes. And, I will show her my appreciation at the end with a very large tip.

Insignificant to what she has given me. An hour of . . . bliss?

Yes, I walk slowly to the room . . . and take off my robe . . .

The next 50 minutes are mine . . . I paid good money for it. So, let me shut the door and get on with it!

Jeeze.

So, Y’all come back now, Y’hear?

Zen,

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book
& the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
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S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker

Widow Rings

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

When I became a widow five years ago, I too, was very confused.  After a long while, I decided to wear my ring around my neck on a thin black ribbon.  The ribbon was from a present that my kids gave me from a packaged candle “to help me light the way.” 

Poetic.

Then after another long while, I took the ring off entirely.  When that time came, it sort of released me.  And at that time it felt good. Someday it will feel good for you, too.

Breathe out.  Breathe In. Take one step. Then, another.

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book
& the popular Twitter-Belle - all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in! Add to Technorati Favorites

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