NIPPLE-PA-LOOZA PART TWO

Hello friends!  Thanks for coming back to read Part 2 of Nipple-pa-looza!

This blogging gig is really fun!!  I love your comments...especially when you tell me how great I am. But before we go any further with this, I need to know- do people ever write negative comments on blogs??  Let’s not ever do that on Saving Seven, mmmm’kay!  But if it happens, I’ll take negative comments with a grain of salt...and with a large number 3 from McDonalds with a sprite and two BBQ packs.  (I eat my feelings with BBQ sauce, ok people!).  I have to admit...I’m learning a lot as a new blogger.

Lesson #1.  Never promise a Part 2...unless you actually have a part 2 already written.  Because if you don’t have one already written, you may find that when you sit down to actually write Part 2 that it becomes very hard to breath and your chest feels extremely tight.  Your anxiety may be so high that you start to dream about eating pencils at a funeral and weird stuff like that (That was a for real dream I had this week...AC Slater was in it.  Can’t get any weirder than that, right?  Wrong.  He was wearing a diaper and while he fed me the pencils, he was yelling EighLay (My name in Pig Latin...a language that he was oddly enough very fluent in, which may be the weirdest part of that entire dream).  

 I have absolutely no rights to this pic.  You can sue me, Slater, but you won't get much.  I'm a teacher!

I have absolutely no rights to this pic.  You can sue me, Slater, but you won't get much.  I'm a teacher!

WRITING A PART  2 IS TOO MUCH PRESSURE.  Writing a Part 2 is like writing a sequel, and sequels are pretty much the most terrible thing in the world.  Unless it’s Fievel Goes West...that sequel was awesome!

 YMay AvoriteFay OvieMay (That says "My Favorite Movie" in Pig Latin.  Slater taught me that.)

YMay AvoriteFay OvieMay (That says "My Favorite Movie" in Pig Latin.  Slater taught me that.)

So lesson learned.  No Part 2s.  Ever.  Except for this one.  Let’s get down to it…

We left off with Niagara Falls bursting through our living room ceiling, Brett in a nyquil coma, and me jumping out of the bed and running up the stairs to the boys’ room.  Why the boys’ room?   Because when anything is destroyed, clogged, or flooded, it’s the boys’ fault 100% of the time  (FYI when anything is stolen, stained, or lost, it’s the girls’ fault 100% of the time).  

 Hide yo' straightener.  Hide yo' mascara.  Hide yo' razor.  Hide yo' lip gloss.  #thieves

Hide yo' straightener.  Hide yo' mascara.  Hide yo' razor.  Hide yo' lip gloss.  #thieves

So I ran through the house straight to the boys’ room, only pausing once to refuel with a few bite-size Snickers in the kitchen (I was cold and at risk for hypothermia...I needed fuel...that’s Survival 101, people!).  Once I got to the boys' room, I immediately knew the source of the problem- A RUNNING SHOWER.  Somehow the upstairs shower was flooding the living room downstairs while the singing occupant of the shower was totally unaware.  I banged on the door with my frozen fists and hollered, “TURN OFF THE SHOWER!!  TURN OFF THE SHOWER!!”  The occupant responded, “Islands in the stream, that is what we are, sail away with meeeeeeee, to another worrllllddddddd…”  So, I banged on the door again, “TURN OFF THE SHOWER!! TURN OFF THE SHOWER!!”  Nothing.  He never heard me over the running water and his own singing.  I ran down the hall to the top of the stairs, screamed at Brett to help me, ran back to the boys’ bathroom door, screamed at him to turn off the shower.  Ran downstairs to turn our main water off, not having a clue where that might be (But now I can tell you where it’s not- it’s not near the Fuse Box place.  They should put those two things together, if you ask me).  After I couldn’t find the main water-turner-off-er, I ran through the living room flood to yell at Brett again.  Nothing.  I ran back upstairs, banged on the wall, tried to rip the doorknob off.  Nothing.  I stomped, I kicked the door, I screamed some more. Nothing.  That’s when I began to realize the occupant of that shower was one totally committed Kenny Rogers fan.  I knew in the deepest part of my heart that he wasn’t getting out of that shower until that song was over.  I slumped to the ground defeated.  And that’s when the shower miraculously turned off and the bathroom door opened…”Oh, hey Leigh, what’s up?”  I jumped up from the ground and totally had rage blackout.  I am ashamed to admit that I hollered at my stepson like I had never hollered before, I jumped up and down, I threw my arms in the air, I kicked something imaginary in the room...he immediately used both hands to cover his eyes and avoided eye contact with his wicked stepmother..  After I had hollered until I was hoarse, I went back downstairs to smother my sleeping husband with a pillow for sleeping through this crisis.

 He fine.  But he about to get covered & smothered Waffle House style.

He fine.  But he about to get covered & smothered Waffle House style.

I walked through the wet living room, into the bedroom, and Brett popped straight up out of the bed.  He was as alert as a five-year-old on Christmas morning and asked, “What’s going on?”  That’s when I lit into Brett too, and with the biggest grin on his face he said, “Slow down, Janet Jackson.  Relax and just tell me what happened.”

“WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING LIKE A BIG NYQUIL DOPED-UP BABY, THE UPSTAIRS SHOWER FLOODED THE DOWNST---WAIT.   WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?”

“Janet Jackson.”

“WHAT???”

“You know...Janet Jackson...Superbowl nipple.”  

“BRETT!!!  WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT???  OUR HOUSE IS FLOODED!!!”

“Leigh.  Your nipple is hanging out of your shirt.”

Yall. I just stood there silently and let the reality of the situation sink it.  My tank top had shifted and there stood one lone nipple.  I wasn’t sure of the exact moment my nipple got loose that night or how long it had been on the run.   But I began to realize that it was a very big possibility that my stepson did not cover his eyes to hide tears but covered them to protect his retinas from bursting into flames after seeing his stepmom’s business.  I began to recall all of the jumping and shouting, stomping and body flailing I did in front of my stepson during my rage blackout.  You ever seen a mom-nipple in action?  It ain’t pretty, folks.  It ain’t pretty.  I started to think about the consequences of my wardrobe malfunction.  I tried to add up the hours of counseling my stepson would need to reverse the damage of this night if he did indeed see my girl on the run.  It was just too many to count.  So I did the only thing I could think of to do that would make me feel better.  I screamed at Brett.

“You mean to tell me that I hollered in your ear canal for you to wake up, I screamed ‘help’ over and over, I stomped, I jumped, I cried out your name as a waterfall came crashing down in the middle of our living room 15 feet away from this bed, and you NEVER once budged!!!!!! BUT THE MINUTE I WALK INTO THIS ROOM AND YOU CATCH ONE WHIFF OF A LOOSE NIPPLE, YOU CAN POP OUT OF THIS BED WIDE AWAKE SPOUTING OFF SPORT’S TRIVIA!!!!????”

“What can I say, Leigh.  I’m gifted.”

So then I did what any wife would do in that moment.  I tucked my nipple back in, grabbed a book off the nightstand, and threw it at his head.

I say all that to say this...God sure knew what he was doing when he didn’t give me a third nipple all those many years ago when I begged Him and begged Him for one.  Can you imagine a stepson discovering through a wardrobe malfunction that his stepmom had a third nipple?  There’s not a licensed counselor in this world that could have helped him recover from that!  God is good...and he is always Saving Seven.  LC

 Seven people.  14 Nipples.

Seven people.  14 Nipples.

Leigh Chamberlain11 Comments