I want to be buried in a bikini when I die. One of the very first memories I have as a child was wearing a bikini that was given to my mother by her friend who visited Hawaii in the late seventies. At four years old I knew I’d never go back on getting as close to naked as legally possible again. I can sum up my existence in bikinis, as each one has told their story. And I never have fewer than a dozen in my closet at any given time. One never knows when one will be swept away on a twelve-day cruise of the Mediterranean, now, does one?
Today’s blog post is devoted to the bikini and the enjoyment I’ve had in it. I’m calling it “Bikinis, Martinis, Milkshakes and MILFs”… read on and you’ll see why.
Philadelphia, summer of 1976 --- The country’s bicentennial was in full swing in the birthplace of our nation. The city’s most beloved mayor, Frank L. Rizzo, hosted a magnificent celebration that included our nation’s then suck-ass president, Gerald Ford. I was three at the time and on July 4th, 1976, The Palumbos celebrated 200 years of this country’s independence (and my brother Steven’s 9th birthday) by doing what any God-fearing, flag-loving, British rule-hating, apartment-renting family would… we walked to Marrone’s and got water ice and milkshakes.
Now, at the time, I didn’t realize that My Milkshakes Would Bring All the Boys to the Yard, but then again, we didn’t have a yard, did we? We rented. We had a back porch. Did the boys come to the back porch? No. Never. But only because Frank the Greaseball would have shot them because he would have thought that they were trying to get in his tomato plants. But had the little boys known what would have been waiting for them on the back porch in the summer of ’76, they would have taken the risk. Yeah. Uh-huh. Six year old Gino would have been begging for them milkshakes. Yeah. I know das right. ‘Cause I was there on that hot summer day, and I was waitin’ with my fake plastic “Shmarbie” dolls … and I was sportin’ … my bikini…
Paradise Island, Bahamas, summer of 1995 --- “I’m going to throw up.” “Bar, you’re not going to throw up. You wanna half a Valium?” “No, are you f*cking crazy, Nick? I don’t take that shit. I can’t look. Wait, what’s better, should I look? HOLY SHIT WHAT WAS THAT?” “It was the landing gear going up into the plane, you goof. Jesus Christ, this really is your first time on a plane, isn’t it?” “Just hold my hand and don’t talk, please. I’m going to faint.” “What about a drink? You wanna drink?” “Yeah, I wanna drink. Get the girl. Get me a Whiskey Sour or a Martini or some shit.” “Are you serious? You’re not serious, right? What do you think they have top shelf open bar on the back of the plane? This ain’t Egypt nightclub, Bar… it’s a plane. I’ll get you a beer.” “I hate beer. We’ve been dating for four months and you still don’t know that I hate beer?” “I forgot! What the f*ck! I’ll get you a wine then, better?” “Yeah. Whatever. That’s fine. Thanks, Nick. I love ya.” “Yeah. I love you too. Just put that flower bikini on when we get to the hotel and I’ll forgive you for being stupid, goof.” “Fine. But only if they have a pool.” “This conversation isn’t ranking as one of the smarter moments of your life, is it?” “F*ck you, Nick.”
Callaway Gardens, Pine Mountain, GA, spring of 2006 --- For my thirty-third birthday, Todd decided that we would spend a weekend away in a cottage at a little retreat in Georgia called Callaway Gardens. He suggested that I take all of the necessities needed for a romantic but athletic weekend getaway in the hot Georgia springtime: hiking boots, mountain bike, bathing suits, sunscreen, and my OBGYN’s cell number in case my water broke. Oh, did I fail to mention I had been 32 weeks pregnant? Ohhhhhhyeaaaaaaahhhhhhh. Have you ever seen a massively pregnant lady in shorts on a mountain bike? I hope not from the back, and suggest you NOT look if the opportunity arises, because you’ll never be the same again if it happens (shudder.) But oddly enough, when it came time to relax by the pool, I didn’t think twice about donning my bikini. I know that a lot of women out there would never dream of putting themselves in a bikini during their pregnancy, and I can respect that, but for some reason, whether it was the beautiful natural grounds surrounding us, or the heat that was sending me into pre-term labor, I felt like I needed to be as one with nature as possible. Whoever I paid to shoot me in the face if those words ever came out of my mouth just walked up my front steps, I believe. WOW, that’s a large gun. Honestly though, I really did feel beautiful, even with how big I was, and that feeling had tripled when the two early-twenty-something University of Georgia students sitting next to me at the pool went off about how “AH-MAZING” I looked and referred to me as a MILF. Thanks Courtney and Carly. I miss our MySpace talks! Love ya!
Backyard, suburb of Atlanta, GA, today of 2012 --- I don’t really have a story about today. Actually, I really do have a story about today but today’s story is to be shared between a select amount of people and my future therapist. I’ll save it for a post some years down the road and leave it at that.
Today, I am thirty-nine years and two days old. I have had two husbands and two children – in 2006 and in 2010 (the kids, not the husbands) – and I have lived a lot and laughed a lot and loved a whole lot more. And today, all of these years later, I still enjoy putting on a bikini, whether it’s to get a little sun or simply just to piss people off. Today, I think I did it for the latter.
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