Methodists gone wild

My mom was here a month or two ago. Came to town with my dad, for my mother in law's funeral services. Mom stayed in town for over a week afterward, God love her, to watch the young 'uns whilst we went on our (frantically rescheduled) cruise to Alaska.

Mom's pretty great.

Mom had a few days between when Dad left to go home, and when we left for the frozen tundra, so she kinda hung with us. Did the normal stuff, including going to church. Normal for Mom, cause she's a minister's wife, but not so normal in this case, cause she's a Methodist, and we attend a Presbyterian church. Oh well, she got to see how the other side lives.

Ma is used to having to learn the ropes of a new church, cause those crazy Methodists move all the time. You kind of have to learn the rules at the new church each time. what do people wear, dresses or pants? Who sits where? Is it ok to help in the kitchen, or are you infringing on someone's territory? That kinda stuff.

I personally don't care about the rules at our church, especially cause I haven't regularly attended for quite a while, and I'm not a rules person most days anyway. Hubby, on the other hand, attends at least one service every Sunday, and sometimes two, probably to pray for his wayward wife, but what the heck. I work weekends on a pretty regular basis, so it's not like I can go most of the time anyway. (Yeah, it's an excuse, but whatever.)

So Mom and I show up with the dh. We look at the bulletin and have to laugh, cause this week, the Presbyterians are singin' Methodist. First up was "Holy Holy Holy," which we sang all the time growing up, and which my elder sister always swore was about our socks. Mom didn't think she knew the second song, but I read the music and had to laugh -- the melody was "O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing." Doesn't get more Methodist than a Charles Wesley tune. Afterward, Mom thanked our minister for the tunage after services were over. It gave him a laugh.

So Ma survived the Presbyterians. But now she's gonna have some 'splainin to do, cause we just got a DVD in the mail today, hawking the stewardship campaign at church. Interspersed amongst the fine things people said about the church, are clips of a service. A service where my mother is plainly visible, singing "Holy Holy Holy" with the best of the Presbyterians, whilst the choir marches up the aisle.

Our associate pastor jokes that his mom joined a Methodist church after her Presbyterian minister husband retired, and that she was always looking over her shoulder, worried that the Presbyterian Police would come and revoke his pension. So now I guess Ma better be looking for the Methodist Police.

My mother, I'm sure, will say that every good church needs a Good Methodist. And that it probably will be a more successful stewardship campaign, with the Methodists thrown in the mix.

And you know what? She might just be right.

So today, I had to find something that a Fine Young Methodist would wear, when undercover with the Presbys. Came across this cute Vtg 60s 70s Burgundy RUFFLE Secretary Mini Dress S/M, from Feathered Fawn Vintage, on ebay. Not that Ma could carry it off with her red hair, but if everyone is bowed in reverence, who cares?

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Broncos

DS is at college. Left home in August with the "don't call, don't email, I am fine, I'm not coming home, I'll see you newbs at Thanksgiving" attitude.

He was home two weeks later.

Been home every two weeks or so since. He has only brought his laundry home twice -- and that is because he literally did not have one more thing to wear. The weekend of fall break, he was outside the dorm, talking on his phone when I arrived. He turned around, and I saw he was wearing a pair of khakis, an awful green Tshirt given to him by the school -- probably to identify him as a newbie freshman, cause's it's pretty gaudy. Dress shirt, unbuttoned, OVER the green shirt. Sandals. And socks.

Some fashion plate, my kid.

So he brought home about 1800 lbs of laundry, all of which got washed and folded over the next few days. I don't mind doing it if I have time, cause he's been responsible for his own laundry for several years. I know he knows how to do it. But when left to his own devices, he waits till the last possible pair of boxers before plunging into the laundromat.

So he emails me last night. Said he was down to his last shirt. Did three loads of laundry. Left to go to the bathroom whilst the last one was finishing. And when he came back -- only had one load of laundry.

Yep. They stole his whole wardrobe, lock, stock, and boxers.

He was not a happy camper. I believe that he may've invented some new words in the emails he sent -- especially the second one that mentioned that his Champ Bailey Broncos jersey was amongst the apprehended clothes. Threatening bodily harm to those who have wronged him.

They may want to be afraid.

So now I am faced with the dilemma of how to get his clothes to him. Fortunately, all of his winter clothes are still here, so I guess I'll box 'em up and send them to him, like a third world orphan. Cause that's what us mommies do.

And so, in mourning for Champ Bailey and the Broncos fans who are left wardrobe-less, here's a vintage Broncos shirt, from an ebayer with a really fun name, shirtswithballs, on ebay. Cause it takes a ballsy guy to leave DS naked in the cold.

Excitement, dismay, and heartache

Counting pattern pieces is like therapy. Most of us could use a little therapy, but it can be get your mind off of things, but can also bring out heartache.

Take this vintage 60s Nina Ricci Vogue Paris Original pattern for a mod coat. It is FAB. Reminds me of the blue trenchcoat that Rebecca Romijn was seen in recently. Absolutely fab. I was happy just to look at it. But I've been looking at it for weeks, and all good things must come to an end.

Went to offer it up today, and realized OMG -- there are 56 pattern pieces. 56! I don't think I've ever seen a pattern with that many pieces. I've done jigsaw puzzles with less pieces. Freaked me out. How does one count 56 pieces, without losing count? But it's a fab pattern. Oh well, hubby is watching football tonight, so it's all good. I just was hoping I didn't jump and tear some pieces up when he shouted GO BRONCOS!!!

So I start counting. And ended too soon, because I realized that all of the pattern pieces for that fab coat are MISSING. Gone. Nonexistent.

That made me so sad. I love that coat. I really did have full intention of counting all those pieces, and only about half of them are there. For a cute 60s suit, pictured below. But I still hope to find the coat. Not that I'll look like Rebecca mind you, but ain't it cute?

Random Acts of ROBBERY

More musings on the Catholic faith later..........

Our house was robbed yesterday. OK, maybe the real definition is burglarized, but hey, someone came in our house and took our stuff, so I am mad, and I can call it whatever I want.

I was sitting in the living room the day before, when I heard a little pop. Dog heard it too, cause he immediately freaked out, started rummaging behind the TV, cause he thought it was a mouse. (He had driven himself nuts the day before when he saw our once yearly rodent race across the floorboards.)

Well, whilst he was rodent rummaging, I realized that the TV was off. What in the world? Tried to turn it back on. Several times. No luck. Tried unplugging, replugging, saying some savory words. Nothing. So I tracked down the Best Buy receipt, called and scheduled a (free in home) service call for our three year old TV, and broke the bad news to the hubby.

He took it better than I figured, for a football nut. Only said a few dozen bad words.

Fast forward. Next afternoon, the dd calls me at work. "Where's the TV?" I was a little irritated, cause I was being interrupted at work, and said "I don't know. What are you talking about?" She couldn't find the TV. The 42 inch behemoth that sits in front of our living room window. Like you can MISS a 42 inch TV. I figured dh had moved it, to make room for another TV to watch football on. Whatever. Forgot all about it.

Went home, threw my stuff down, didn't see the TV, again figured he had moved it. Till I noticed, about an hour later, that my laptop was missing too. WTH? Checked with kids: no go. Checked with hub. "I'll be right there." Called the police, cause someone had invaded our space.

Only took the laptop the TV and dh's iPod, but it could've been worse. DS12 was home, upstairs, the entire time the time they were in the house. Fortunately, he didn't come downstairs. Of course, if they had gone upstairs, it would've been a bloodbath, cause the dogs were up there with him, and my mangy mutts would've been more than happy to take a few bites outta them. Heck, I've lost more than one vintage fur to those dogs. But the dogs were closed up in the bedroom and never heard them.

Oye.

So now, I've got to get a new laptop, and we have to find another TV, and with ds at college, dh will have to learn to load up his own iPod. That, in and of itself, is a challenge for my technologically impaired husband.

So, if you want to go cat-burgling yourself, stay outta my hood, unless you're just dressing the part. In that case, try this vintage 80s Spandex catsuit, from Richtig, on ebay. It'll cut down on wind resistance while you're haulin' ass away from my dogs.

It might also calm your crack dealer down when he finds out the bad news -- the flat screen you went to all that trouble for is just like you -- IT DOESN'T WORK.

Going to Hell in a blister pack

One of the hospitals we answer for at work is Methodist Hospital, in Indianapolis. The Methodists believe in freedom of expression, so we can talk pretty freely to our callers. The Catholic hospital I used to work for, on the other hand, probably had me right on the top of the "needs a rosary said for them" list.

I probably have at least a dozen nuns praying for me nonstop, even now -- seven years after I left there.

The Catholics believe that birth control is a sin. They don't use it (::wink wink::). We weren't allowed to discuss birth control with our callers, EVER. I think sometimes that they got Protestant callers to call in as mystery shoppers, just to make me sweat. I toed that line so close that my boss would come out of her office, shaking her head saying, "you sure do dance all around it, but you never QUITE break the rules, do you?" I just grinned.

Never really envisioned myself dancing around a pack of birth control pills, but whatever rocks your world. I never got written up.

It was so crazy there that that same Irish Catholic boss, who was, I will say, much admired by yours truly, hated to shut her computer down because it said "aborting operation." Oye. She wouldn't let her kids eat at McDonald's because there was some connection between them and Planned Parenthood. Don't ask me what, cause I didn't want to know, but maybe Ronald was secretly handing out prophylactics with the fries. Brings a whole new meaning to the idea of a Happy Meal, now doesn't it?

But here with the Methodists, I started out yesterday with a call about erectile dysfunction, and ended it with someone who had "rainbow colored bugs flying out of every orifice." And started my day today with someone who wanted "help with conception." What she thought I would be able to do about that, I'll never know, but maybe if she'd called the Catholics......

So yeah, those Catholics are probably still praying for me, but so are some Methodists I know, as well as some Presbyterians, and probably a few others that I don't know about. God knows, I can use all the help I can get.

But underneath it all, we're all the same, so let me show you the way with this Henson Kickernik lavender teddy, from The Ornament Gal, on ebay. Cause if I'm gonna burn in hell, I'm gonna look good doing it!

The not so demon child

I was raised a good Methodist. Yeah, the kids went to Lutheran schools for a bit, and we are members at a Presbyterian church, but you know how the song goes, "I'm a Methodist Till I Die."
DD, on the other hand, is a Presbyterian who has an admiration for the Catholic faith. Never mind the fact that she's never actually attended mass, and has no idea what the pope does, she loves those Catholics.

::Disclaimer:: Continuing reading of this entry may be hazardous to your faith. If you are Catholic, that is. And please keep in mind the Utterly whacky way of life at our house. You've been warned.

DD loves to watch shows on TV about ghosties and possessed people. I don't even know the name of the two shows she watches, but she loves to see those Ghostbusters go flying in with their weird equipment, looking for spirits. There's one show where either the house or its occupants are always possessed by something. Reenactments abound, a la America's Most Wanted or Rescue 911. Things will be flying, crazy things are happening, they get the shaman, the minister, and the kitchen sink to bless the place. Nothing happens. Then dd announces "watch -- this is where they bring in the Catholics."

"Cause them Catholics can get them demons out yo soul."

Yep. That's the dd's ghettospeak for her admiration for the Catholics. Seems like all those priests do is show up, and the demons go running -- maybe toward the Protestants, I don't know. But they definitely do like Elvis and leave the building. I don't think I've seen an episode yet where they can survive the father's blessing. So maybe the dd is onto something -- those demons really CAN get them demons out yo soul.

More ponderings on Catholicism tomorrow. Totally tongue in cheek, mind you.

And meantime, while I am praying for forgiveness, I'll be thinking of these wonderful Sterling Silver and Pink Tourmaline earrings, from Tami's Treasures, on Main Street Mall Online. Holy water not included.

Growing up Cat Lady

The DD is a teenager, so of course, the mind is all on boys. Of course, she is still a polygamist, but she's always looking for someone new.

There's a guy at the junior college she attends who reportedly looks like Orlando Bloom. We call him Orlando Bloom. She's never spoken to him, but she passes him every day in the hall. Probably doesn't have a hot accent though, so it would be a disappointment to actually have a conversation with him.

Her obsession with the opposite sex should not surprise anyone, but her outlook might. She said that she has to get her first kiss this year, or she will grow up to be a Cat Lady.

Cat Lady, as in someone who owns a gazillion cats, all of whom roam freely around the house, until Animal Control comes and takes them away - and commits her. And I guess that every Cat Lady missed out on a first kiss at a tender age, cause The Bratty Gurl is sure that that will be her fate. After that, she said, they will make a movie about her.

It will be titled The 80 Year Old Virgin.

Oye. It's not like she doesn't like anyone. She actually has a thing for someone at church, but he's kinda clueless (big surprise, for a teenaged boy), and hasn't figured out what it's all about yet. And it's not like the mother can intervene and say "c'mon dude, get with the program, or she's gonna be living in my basement as a Cat Lady." So she waits. Till a BOY isn't clueless.

She might be waiting a while.

But while she waits, she might just check out this adorable Malcolm Starr circus animal skirt. With all those big cats, it's perfect for the sweet 16 and never been kissed set. From TheFashionEyeOnline.

Unrequited Love

So yeah, we answer any call that comes in at my job. The answering services say that they hate paging us with some of the whacko stuff that people come up with, but I love the weird ones, cause normally it's a lot of the same stuff: cough, colds, vomiting, that kind of thing. So when someone rattles the cage a little, it keeps things interesting on our end.

Except the real nutjobs. Got a page this week for a guy who was, to paraphrase, having problems completing the job, and had swollen areas in the southern region. Oye. And on the Sabbath too. Why these things come up in the afternoons, I'll never know, but you can pretty much predict that the sex calls and such will happen in the afternoon. Afternoon Delight, I guess.

Called him back, but the dude never answered the phone. Must've figured it out, or found some other hapless victim, but he never called me back, and I didn't return the favor.

And so, for you manly men out there, here's a Ring a Ding Ding Gold Panel Rat Pack Shirt, from Fast Eddie's Retro Rags, on ebay.

Yerrrrrrrrr Outta Here!

I like craigslist. It ranks right up there with freecycle, as far as finding interesting things. I’ve gotten rid of some things through both sites – including a huge oil furnace and a lead sink, both of which had been in our garage, at that point, for over ten years. Listed ‘em and POOF! They were outta there. It was a beautiful thing.

So I keep my eye out on both sites, to see if something fun comes up. Lots of vintage sellers do the same. So imagine the giggle I got when Janet, of
Old and New Yankees Blue fame, posted about an
Umpire Waist Wedding Gown, listed on the a Lincoln Nebraska craigslist.

Seems like those Nebraskans are on to something. When we got married, we got two potpourri pots. I know people who have gotten four toasters, and Lord knows, we all get towels – but at least you always need them. But who in the world would’ve thought that Nebraska would have the foresight to start the newest trend in wedding gifts? Umpires.

What better way to deal with that first fight? There would be no “I’m going home to mother” if everyone received an umpire as a wedding gift. I’ve known several couples would would’ve benefited from their own ruleskeeper. Who needs Dr. Phil? Just hand over the umpire, and he’ll set you straight.

I think it’s a great idea. Though I don’t know that I’d want him there for the first home run. But maybe that’s just me.

So I went looking, to see what cute umpire-ish thing I could find, and what should I come across but this cute little trio of nuns, including an umpire nun. These sisters can hit the ball andsave you from eternal damnation, all at the same time. And they wouldn’t let you get divorced either, so maybe these are real wedding umpires. I must confess, they’re adorable. And who would argue with a nun umpire, anyway? Coming to you from sansav, on ebay.

I rent him out for parties

I love a guy in a tux. Specifically, I love my husband in a tux, cause he looks so darn nice in it. Of course, I realize that most days, he’s in painting clothes that are covered in a number of shades of paint, but it doesn’t matter – the guy looks good in formalwear.

On our Alaska cruise a couple of weeks ago, he wore his tux to formal night. After dinner that night, in the club on deck 12, they had 007 night, complete with revolver shaped ice sculptures and a martini fountain. I never saw the fountain, though I heard tell of it. We were too busy on the dance floor, cause the man also loves to dance, too. He's generally the life of the party. Heck, sometimes he brings the party.

One time, we went to a wedding for someone I worked with. DH and a buddy got into a contest to see who would get the highest stack of empty (beer) cups. About the time his stack hit eye level is when “YMCA” started playing. You know how the song has a trumpet introduction? Well, the dh goes strutting up to the dance floor, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes, and right as the first “Young Man” started in the song, takes his shirt, slams it down in the middle of the floor, drops into the splits, and comes up dancing. To cheers.

Yeah, he’s shy. NOT.

By the end of that wedding, someone else I worked with, but didn’t know very well, came up to me and said “You guys are a lot of fun. I’m getting married in six weeks. If I invite you guys, will you come?” My response?

“Yeah, I rent him out for parties.”

We went to her wedding and had a blast too.

Fast forward several years. I’m dropping my dd off at preschool, and was introduced to a woman who had the same name as the bride in wedding #1. I said “isn’t that funny, because I know someone with that same name,” which, I might add, is not a common name. She said, “oh yeah, my sister in law has the same name, because the two brothers both married Kims.” Then she looked at me really funny and said “were you at their wedding?” I just sighed and said yes. “OMG,” she said, you guys are a blast!”

So yeah, I rent him out for parties. And he will wear a tux, if the occasion calls for it. And he will look mighty fine in it, too. So, in honor of the old guy in the penguin suit, here’s a cute tuxedo inspired yellow plaid vintage dress, coming to you from Capricorn Vintage, on ebay.
Cause sometimes the tux isn't the only thing you have to rent for a party.

A brain is a terrible thing to waste

Most of you know that my main job is as a nurse, taking calls on an advice line. It can get pretty monotonous in flu season: coughs, colds, vomiting, blah blah blah, but you know, people need help, so there I am. I love it. It can be pretty entertaining at times, too. But sometimes when you answer calls, you just have to wonder what in the world people are thinking. Or if they ARE thinking. Or if they have the CAPABILITY to think. The other day, I got the most stupid call possibly of my lifetime. I may never have another one like this.

Answered live. In the afternoon, which usually means it's a sex call (see Gettin' Jiggy With It..). But this was a "settle the argument" call. I'm used to settling arguments and bets with our callers. I used to get a lot of these when we answered for a hospital near the college in town. Like the time one of the frat boys asked me to settle a bet -- "what is a herpetologist? A person who studies snakes, or a specialist in herpes?" I don't know if there was beer involved in winning, but for the record, it's a person who studies snakes.

Mom and Dad's tuition money, at hard work. Yep.

So here's the basic gist of the call I got the other day. Ring in if you know the right answer before this chick.

“My mom, my sister and I have been having a discussion, and we need you to settle the argument.”

“Sure, what can I help you with?”

"Are the boogers in your nose brain tissue?”

::insert LONG, incredulous pause::

“No.”

“Really? Then what are they?”

“Mucus.”

“What’s mucus?”

::insert long discussion about mucus, sinuses and such::

::pause::

“So you mean that when I blow my nose, it’s not brain matter?”

::insert cartoon style balloon over nurse's head::
Honey, in your case, I doubt it, cause you have to have brain matter to begin with, and if you do, let’s HOPE it’s not flying out your nose.

And so, in honor of those who do or don't have gray matter, here's a fabulous Shaheen skirt, in all matter of gray and white, with some black and charcoal thrown in, for good measure. For the intelligent shopper, from Cats Vintage and Designer Clothing, on ebay.

B-I-N-G-O

Just FYI: this is Customer Service Appreciation Week. We've had balloons, Dairy Queen, raffles, and more. They even gave away little calendars for 2008 -- and the illustration on my birth month is perfect for me. I even emailed the director and thanked him for personalizing it just for me. Cause you know, being the baby, nothing was ever made for me. The baby gets hand me downs. So I'm special.

Special, that is, till we played email bingo today. Yep, we played bingo, via email, at the office. Now, I don't know if you've ever played bingo, but bingo players are serious. Wildly serious. On our cruise a couple of weeks ago, those ladies got downright mean, the more numbers that were pulled. It was crazy. The tension in a bingo hall is something like a 40 year old waiting for the pregnancy test to finish. Serious, serious stuff. So I don't know why I thought email bingo would be different. Heck, they're probably giving away luggage tags or swim wallets, for all I know, but these ladies are nuts.

After the second number, I emailed the "caller" and said "what do you think would happen if I yelled Bingo right now. Really loud? Cause we all know that I can do loud." She emailed back "I'm almost prepared to dare you." The boss emailed back that she was afraid what would happen. Well, I never got the chance, cause three numbers later, someone emailed BINGO and the game was over. Yeah -- five numbers pulled and that chick won a prize. Emails shot back and forth about how Radiology was taking over the afternoon wins, and we have been warned, to which the winner yelled "don't be hatin'".

I, being me, emailed a strike sign that said "Strike! Unfair Labor Practices." Cause our department never wins anything. Mainly cause we're never here when anything goes on, but hey, let's bingo at night for a change. To the point where I had to swipe the boss' cards, cause they didn't give me any -- cause we're never here when anything happens. And hey, the boss is a Jehovah's Witness, so she can't gamble anyway.

Other than the gamble she takes, working with me, that is.

And so, in honor of Customer Service week, and the bingo hall atmosphere -- where sometimes the sounds go like this: "B7, Code Blue, O73, Call the transplant team, be quiet, I only have one number left call the priest on call BINGO" -- here's a cute vintage Bingo shirt coming to you straight from drob50spurs, on ebay. Bingo winnings not included.

Could this be the magic?

I have a magic butt. Yep, that's right. I have maximized my gluteii.

Most women have this magic too, but maybe they don't know it, so I'm spreading the word. It doesn't happen until one gets married, and exponentiates greatly upon the birth of children.

Case in point, the morning magic butt: I lay in bed for a while after I wake up. I hate mornings, so I delay vertical movement for as long as possible. This means that I delay it until my bladder, sagging a bit from the birth of three children plus some extra luggage, screams for mercy. Not a creature is stirring in the house. The place is like a morgue. Like a morgue, that is, until my magic butt decides to get up, at which point I will be lucky to make it to the bathroom without swimming. At the exact point at which vertical movement begins, someone (and it doesn't matter who) runs into the bathroom, locks the door, and starts showering. Or the husband magically appears out of nowhere with the newspaper, which means that I'm not getting in that bathroom till I'm floating.

Another case in point: the evening magic butt. I am sitting on the couch, watching TV. Maybe I've watched half a football game (ok, well, I'm not WATCHING the football game, but it's on, cause I'm a supportive wife who pretends to watch the game while hubby fumes about the score), and I suddenly decide to get up to answer nature's call. The magic butt strikes again, because the minute I start to get up to go to the bathroom, again, someone flies in there and starts running the bathwater.

And you know, I'm sorry, but when the 13yo ds decides to take a bath, it's a miracle. And I don't interfere with miracles.

But I can't take long baths like the teenaged son, because the magic butt intervenes. This is one that every mother can relate to. The family is calm. Hubby's half asleep in front of the TV. Boys are playing video games, and dd is chatting it up with her friends. What better time to take a nice bath, one would think? Yeah, right.

The minute my naked butt hits that tub, the knocking on the door starts. I have learned, over the course of time, to lock the door, to keep them at bay, but that doesn't stop the high octane knocking. "What are you doing in there? I need to pee. When are you gonna be outta there? Is my brush in there?" The list goes on and on, but let's just say that there isn't so much family togetherness since Christmas morning as when my butt hits the tub.

The bedtime magic butt is different. Say I've been "watching" the game with the husband. Say that the husband has been asleep since the third quarter. Say that I have a good book to read, so I decide that I'm going to go read in bed. I go in, brush my teeth, get jammies on, turn the lamp over the bed on, and magically, when my butt hits the bed, the hubby shows up, crawls in the bed and says "when are you gonna turn that light out? I'm trying to sleep."

Every time. Without fail.

And so, in honor of my magical bootiness, here's a couple of pretties, to show off the magic, from some of my favorite sellers:

This lace 20s confection is droolworthy, and comes to you from Dorothea's Closet. I've loved this one since I first laid eyes on it -- and may've even blogged about it before but tough, you have to look at it, because I love it. No way my magic will fit in it, so someone buy it -- it's luscious! And whilst you are visiting her website, look at that Ceil Chapman on the homepage. It deserves a blog of its own.

The wonderful purple Sarah Whitworth corset dress at the top of the page is from Vintage A-Peel , who has all that's fabulous in vintage on the other side of the big pond. Here's her take on this one, when I asked her to show me something that makes a butt look great: "Great is probably a matter of opinion, whether you're trying to maximise or minimise, but personally I love this dress for celebrating the posterior by decorating it with a big ol' ruffle waterfall!"

And not to be outdone, here's a great 50s bubble dress from
Fast Eddie's Retro Rags. When Kim showed up with her reasons on why this was great, I had to include it. I have a similar one in my store, in green (with no bow), but never thought of it like Kim did: "It has a HUGE butt bow and full circle bubble skirt-- Nothing more flattering to an ass, than to completely hide it!"
That is, unless your ass is magical. Like mine.