Nice Kicks.

Move over, women. I'm getting in this tub.

I have big feet. Size 10, baby. I don't mess around. Growing up, I was under the misconception that having big feet meant that I would be tall - lies, Mom, lies (I peaked shortly after 5'6"). But in 6th grade, I still thought my lengthy flippers would bring me to great heights, and I didn't mind showing them off. In 1996, I thought it would be best to display them in a brand new pair of sneakers - jet black, Nike Force (swoosh!), men's tennis shoes that made my feet appear about 2 sizes bigger than they actually were.

I thudded my way into Mrs. Jamison's classroom, and some of my fellows genuinely complimented my new kicks. But not Ray. Ray was mean. He made people cry. For such a short, baby-faced little rodent, he certainly knew how to wield an insult. This Napoleonic devil had it out for me that year, and, as he had already announced to the class that I had big ears, my giant feet were a new element for teasing.

We were doing worksheets in English class, and when I passed by Ray's desk to get my sheet, he did a double take. He stared at my shoes and watched them as I walked back to my desk. He turned to the tiny, loud, opinionated girl who sat next to him and whispered something in her ear. She craned her neck around to get a better look at my shoes, which were now firmly planted beneath my desk, and let out an obnoxious chuckle, one of those fake laughs that girls use when they're trying to impress guys in 6th grade.

The duo continued staring at my shoes and giggling as I tried to focus on sentence diagrams. To complete the awesome image of my ensemble, let me just say this: oversized white polo, unflattering, knee-length plaid skirt, braces, curly bangs and, the icing on the cake, huge, hulking man shoes. When I finished my worksheet, I had no choice but to walk by Ray again en route to my teacher's desk.
"Nice shoes," he said.
"Thanks," I said.
I sat back down, delighted that I'd gotten away relatively unscathed. But then, just as I took my seat, Ray leaned toward me:
"Christine," he whispered.
"Huh?" I said. He muttered something but I couldn't hear him. "What?" I said.
"Those shoes are really fuckin ugly," he said. "Your feet are huge."
I wore Sebagos for the rest of the year.

Burst My Bubble

This is a tale about regrets.

Much like how i regret that yesterday Caro tried to make a turkey costume in the tub with construction paper despite her failure the first time. And how I regret that Meredith didn't stop me from eating the rubber ducky when I thought it was a peep. Oh, indigestion and embarassment.

When I was young i liked to think i was cool, but i wasn't.
I was a fat awkward preteen and I was especially nerdy at Hebrew school.
Surprisingly there are cool jews out there, and I was not one of them.

On the day of my Bat Mitzvah, the day I became a woman, I received an offer I refused immediately: I was asked by the dorkiest boy in my Hebrew school class, to dance.

There were 3 reasons why I refused:
1. I couldn't be seen dancing with the dorkiest boy in hebrew school!
2. I was scared of boys, as I still am to this day.
3. I didn't want to hear comments like "is that your boyfriend??" from every member of my very large very jewish family.

So I said "no" and I'm pretty sure I scarred the young impressionable boy for life,
and caused years of pain agony and suffering.

The point of my story is, the dorkiest boy in my hebew school class is now really hot!

You can find me under the suds...

My First Date

These bubbles are getting a little sloppy...and by sloppy I mean hot and phat because we three girls have been chatting about the young boys of teenage days past; specifically, the heart-pumping throbs of Tigerbeat TM magazine and YM magazine. Anywayz, back in the day...say, the day of 6th or 7th grade, i was so enamored by one of these "men" that I believe I had what I still consider to be my "first date".

I saw him in a movie, yet he appeared so...life-like, fragile and masculine all at the same time. He was probably a few years older than me...mature, i guess...dashing, too. Devon Sawa took American pre-teen cinema by storm, i say! He was everywhere, in every magazine, and yet I felt so close to him...so close that I felt our "relationship" deserved some ... alone time.

I had been watching one of his finest features, "Wild America", at a friend's house when my parents came to pick me up. I was a ball of anxiety as I hadn't been able to see the film's climax. I was supposed to be going out to dinner with my parents, but decided I wanted to stay home and rent the movie by myself so as to finish it. My parents were understandably very confused when they asked me why I wanted to stay home alone; the conversation went as follows:

"But why don't you want to come out to dinner, Caroline? Why do you want to stay home by yourself?"

"I don't know...I guess I just want some alone time"

"Caroline, you're an only child"

The atmosphere was blistered with confusion, yet in the end my parents agreed I could stay home. They probably thought I wanted to have boys over, when in reality I wanted one, and only one, boy over...and by "over" I mean "stagnant in front of me on the television".

When I placed the enormous VHS into my VHS eating machine (i mean player) I realized if this was going to be me and Devon Sawa's first date, I couldn't be wearing a sugar-pink warm-up jacket and purple puffy sweat-pants. But I also knew I didn't have anything "Sexy", and as tempting as mom's inappropriate seater vest from the BIG DANCE was, I opted to put on my figure skating "tutu". It was the closest "thing" to neglige and the most unmentionable unmentionable I owned. I also applied very red lip-sick.

Mom and Dad came home within the hour to find me wearing a translucent ice skating costume and bright red lip-smackers lip gloss, sitting in solitude watching Devon Sawa run around shirt-less.

Il est temps pour une Bath de Bulle

Bonjour mes amis. So, in her last post, my life partner and bathtime confidant Caroline Paster brought to light the magical world of "The Tudors." This land where hot British men roam free in pantaloons, drinking tea, jousting, scheming with hot European royalty, and engaging in many a frisky romp is quite possibly, the most beautiful and ideal thing I could ever ever imagine. Now, one of these extremely pumptastic male specimens, as Ms. Paster mentioned, is the King of France - Francois, or King Francis 1 for you history buffs. The name Francois takes me on a journey back in time- unfortunately not to the time where Francois and Henry wrestled all nekkid like in Episode 5 of the Tudors ( so hott. seriously.) - but to my fifth grade year- aka 'The Year of Francois.'
So, when I was in fifth grade, I became involved in program called "French Back to Back." Essentially this allowed for young fifth grade kids like myself to take lessons in the language and culture of France, to be followed by a 3 week stay by a snotty Parisian kid in your home, and then you in their home. As you may have gathered, I was paired with a boy by the name of Francois. Now, this turned out to be quite an interesting social experiment for the following reasons:
I am from Ohio, we don't get Frenchies there too often. And I was paired with...a boy!! The girl/boy pairs were rare and a BIG DEAL. Now here is what was interesting...Francois was, well, Tres Chic. Not only was he popular, HOT (at the time, I'm not into fifth graders sicko!!!), smart, rich (houses in Paris, Switzerland and the French countryside), he owned/raced/jumped horses, AND was an all-star soccer player. Overachiever much?
Me on the other hand - I took awkward to the extreme. I was chubby (I'm sugarcoating), I had these huge crazy-old-lady glasses that were blue with red and yellow spray paint (thanks mom), big messed up teeth with braces that I decked out in the color/order of the French flag, and my wardrobe consisted mainly of Andrew Lloyd Webber musical t-shirts and jeans/stirrup pants of every color of the rainbow. During my time in France, I wore a large assortment of American Flag t-shirts/button-ups and fanny packs. Seriously.
Our interactions mainly consisted of him challenging me in any and every sport, which ineviteably ended in my loss, tears and embarassment, him making fun of me in French (you KNOW when you are getting made fun of, language is irrelevant), him using me as a hurdle (literally. he thought it was hilarious to jump over me while I was standing up. I still have no idea how he did that), him drinking my dads beer, and him giving me indian rug burns. Every day with the indian rug burns. There are only so many indian rug burns you can get before you JUST SNAP you know???
Now, what was especially traumatizing about this period in my life - is that all of my friends didn't want to be friends with me any more, they just wanted to get in the shadow of Francois' luminous french glow. So, by the time my French exchange had come to an end, all of my friends were entirely uninterested in me sans Francois, and I missed the opportunity to be in the school production (and rap version) of Little Red Riding Hood. Arriving back to school on the day of the play, i was cast as the "French Tree." So, I overcompensated for this feeling of betrayal and immediately set plans to and married Michael Cox on the playground. This is obviously what has directly led to my bad habit of marrying people when I feel lonely, insecure and betrayed.
Sigh.
I often think about Francois, as we lost touch many years ago. I bet he looks even better now than he did 10 years ago. I sometimes contemplate sending a Christmas card with a picture of a hot girl and be like look at me now!!!! Maybe we can have a reunion on Montel or something.

Jeremy Northam's Bum, what?

I must apologize for my lack of bubble postings lately. However, my procrastination was not in vain. I have been swept away into the juicy world of The Tudors - for those of you who are unfamiliar, it is a seductive and addictive mini-series on show time about King Henry the VIII. How hott is that? All bathtime pursuits have been put on hold as myself and meredith (miriam to join shortly) have indulged ourselves in not licorice flavored bath bubbles but in the sensual bodies of Sir Thomas Moore, Cromwell, The King of France (conevniently named "Francoise") and Thomas Wyatt. What's that you say? Middled Aged men do it for you? Yes, yes...they do.

Anyways, back to reality...

One time in the second grade I picked my nose during choir practice for The Wizard of Oz...I came to school the next day and had few, if any, friends. Was that tough and tenderly lodged booger really worth it? Although my toils and labor lasted an intense 3 minutes, in the end the awkwardness I experienced during the remainder of prodcution for The Wizard of Oz was crippling.

Dunk Me

Remember Dunkaroos?
How good were those?
This bathtime crew - we are kind of are like dunkaroos. Only, isntead of chocolate goo, its scented bubbly bath water. And instead of cookies or graham crackers or whatever, its ladies. In bathing suits. Or footie pajamas. Whatever. We're dunking. And also Delicious. But we are not Australian. Unfortunately.