I had a very, very full weekend, one that found me out a lot and wearing a strapless bra every day (and interestingly, an airy, floaty dress that probably looked wretched on me). It was then that I realized how much I freaking abhor strapless bras, even this one that I bought duo's of last summer and that I thought would still work this year. Yeah, it kinda works, but it is not comfortable to wear for, say, three days of activity. And when I got up this morning and got out my Liberty of London halter-y (it is not actually a halter, just has a high neck and no shoulders...so it is a? I don't know. It is cute though, I'll tell you that) and realized I just couldn't do it with a regular bra, even though I am covering up with a cardi in office, I gave myself a momentary pity party. One more day of boob squishing. One more day of hiking this thing up every little bit. I resigned myself to it though, because it is hot, and the LoL top was the only thing I could think of putting myself into to any success. Then, I'm putting the bra on, thinking that I will set the convertible strap to halter (or to stun!), and the whole thing just breaks in my hands. Thanks, Victoria's Secret. Awesome. My $50 bra that I bought at the end of last year, EXPRESSLY for the purpose of having a convertible bra at the ready for early summer awesomeness was now in incapable of becoming a halter or anything else convertible. And the strapless-ness is not too great either because the little hook that broke has a remaining piece of metal that is stuck in its holder and keeps stabbing me. I ended up securing it with fashion tape and ignoring the pain. Wanting to be bra-strap free will make you do things like that.
So here's my question for you guys: what kind of strapless do you recommend? I would like to order one online because really, who knows when I'll actually make it to a mall to purchase one and be able to give this the time and care that such a delicate situation calls for. Plus, my options for bras are severely limited by living in the middle of nowhere (thus the fact that this other one came from VS which I really, really do not like). Any ideas? I really want something that is durable because this bra is going to take a licking from me, even if I buy a couple. And let's remember that I have humongo knockers to contend with.
Thank you in advance!
Monday, June 6, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
When Something You Love Doesn't Love You Back
I actually wrote about this topic a long, long time ago (three whole years, which I guess wasn't that long ago, but since it was on the other side of the country, it feels like a different life) on my old blog, and well, I used the same exact title back then. This was not intentional. I'm just not that creative, despite what the years and years of Odyssey of the Mind competitions would have you think. You can go read that post if you want, but I'll summarize it for all you efficient little workerbees out there: Back then, when I was a size 14/16, I loved cardigans. But cardigans made me look like my dad in a pouffy wig. I was sad. But then I was like, "Well, screw it, I'm a gonna do what I want to do! And I'm going to be freaking happy about it because I live in CA and have access to delicious Thai noodles all the damn time!" And I made peace with looking like my father, ordered a few J. Crew Jackie's and called it a day.
Now that I'm a size 4/6/8/10 (depending on which blind paraplegic hobo is doing the sizing at my favorite stores this week), I can definitely rock a cardigan. And it is a good thing too, since when I cleaned out my closet on Memorial Day weekend, I had 16. And that is just for summer, ya'll, and disregarded the ones containing any wool and/or fall/winter coloring. So, as you can see, as my body has changed, I have embraced the cardigan much, much more. Probably a bit too much, truth be told.
But of course, with the old bod changing, so does the the list of things that I used to wear that now make me look horrible. So now, the thing that I love that doesn't love me back is the fluffy, airy, lovely summer dress/skirt. Allow me to give you some examples. Let's see. This makes me look like someone's hippie second grade teacher who has subsisted on a diet of Nestea, ramen and saltine crackers her entire life (and yes, I own it, took the tags off, and wore it on Tuesday). A cute maxi dress that I bought last week makes me look like a Greek goddess who is four months up the stick with a centaur. And a blue Calvin Klein dress that I bought and adore, yes, makes my boobs look AH-MAZ-ING, makes the rest of me look like I could give birth to a burrito at any
moment. Oh, and then there is this:
I bought this dress last year when it was part of the Liberty of London installation at Target. I knew before I went to Target the first time to load up on LoL crap that I wanted this dress. I love the peacock-y print (it looks really awesome in person), and I like the style of it. And truth be told, I rocked it last year. However, I got it out of my closet this morning, put it on, and realized that a year makes a big difference in the way I am carrying my weight. Although I am roughly the same weight now that I was last summer (having managed to lose the 15 or so pounds that I put on around the holidays-grumble, grumble grump), I think I could take this dress up about 3 or 4 inches in the back. I mean, it still works since it is meant to be floaty, but I am really, really tempted to secure it with an office clip. And, let's just be honest, I already would have done that if I didn't have a cramp-y back already today and wouldn't be able to stand the extra issue of having my office chair poke the clip all day.
To make matters worse, I walked out of my room this morning and was playing with my kids. We were asking each other questions about the day, and just about every question got the answer of "YOUR MOM" or "YOUR MOM wants to go on the Bays Mountain field trip next week!" Yeah, it is important to have a level of maturity around your kids, you know? Anyway, I said something to Gabby and she goes, "Well, you look like a big peacock today!" And while I' sure she was just being funny, of course, I was like, "BIG?!?!! I LOOK BIG?!?!?! WTF, WORLD? HAND ME MY CELERY AND LAXATIVE SMOOTHIE!" (Just kidding--healthy weight loss, ya'll. THE MORE YOU KNOW!!!!)
The truth is, I have a very hourglass-y shape. You would think this would be amazing and I would be like Sofia Vergara. HA! Matt wishes! But the thing is, it is not awesome. Not in the least. If I am not wearing something a bit form fitting, I am on a one-way train to Frumpsville. I need structure, I need pencil skirts and sheath dresses, and lined trousers and creased denim and all of that. But here's the thing: you can't wear something form fitting all the time. Especially when you are Queen O'PMS and are retaining more water than the Titanic right about now. And ya'll, it is SUMMER. In Virginia. The last thing I want is to look sexy sexy, yet give myself a heatstroke.
And there's another dimension too: for some reason, Matt adores these things on me. Always has. I don't know why. When most men are turned on by really short stuff, Matt really prefers the look. He was all "WOWZA" this morning, and I thought, "Seriously?" Although when we were on our way to work this morning, he cranked up Elton John's Rocket Man and declared it his "jay-um" so, you know, consider the source.
So, I can't quit you oh airy skirts and dresses. I will be rocking them all summer, and really, I don't give a damn about what anyone says. Here's the other thing--these things are damn fun to wear. I mean, you can TWIRL in them. And when you can twirl in something, you automatically feel a bit better about yourself, despite what you may look like.
What do you love that doesn't love you back? Anything? Please share, and we'll all hold hands and sigh together.
Now that I'm a size 4/6/8/10 (depending on which blind paraplegic hobo is doing the sizing at my favorite stores this week), I can definitely rock a cardigan. And it is a good thing too, since when I cleaned out my closet on Memorial Day weekend, I had 16. And that is just for summer, ya'll, and disregarded the ones containing any wool and/or fall/winter coloring. So, as you can see, as my body has changed, I have embraced the cardigan much, much more. Probably a bit too much, truth be told.
But of course, with the old bod changing, so does the the list of things that I used to wear that now make me look horrible. So now, the thing that I love that doesn't love me back is the fluffy, airy, lovely summer dress/skirt. Allow me to give you some examples. Let's see. This makes me look like someone's hippie second grade teacher who has subsisted on a diet of Nestea, ramen and saltine crackers her entire life (and yes, I own it, took the tags off, and wore it on Tuesday). A cute maxi dress that I bought last week makes me look like a Greek goddess who is four months up the stick with a centaur. And a blue Calvin Klein dress that I bought and adore, yes, makes my boobs look AH-MAZ-ING, makes the rest of me look like I could give birth to a burrito at any
moment. Oh, and then there is this:I bought this dress last year when it was part of the Liberty of London installation at Target. I knew before I went to Target the first time to load up on LoL crap that I wanted this dress. I love the peacock-y print (it looks really awesome in person), and I like the style of it. And truth be told, I rocked it last year. However, I got it out of my closet this morning, put it on, and realized that a year makes a big difference in the way I am carrying my weight. Although I am roughly the same weight now that I was last summer (having managed to lose the 15 or so pounds that I put on around the holidays-grumble, grumble grump), I think I could take this dress up about 3 or 4 inches in the back. I mean, it still works since it is meant to be floaty, but I am really, really tempted to secure it with an office clip. And, let's just be honest, I already would have done that if I didn't have a cramp-y back already today and wouldn't be able to stand the extra issue of having my office chair poke the clip all day.
To make matters worse, I walked out of my room this morning and was playing with my kids. We were asking each other questions about the day, and just about every question got the answer of "YOUR MOM" or "YOUR MOM wants to go on the Bays Mountain field trip next week!" Yeah, it is important to have a level of maturity around your kids, you know? Anyway, I said something to Gabby and she goes, "Well, you look like a big peacock today!" And while I' sure she was just being funny, of course, I was like, "BIG?!?!! I LOOK BIG?!?!?! WTF, WORLD? HAND ME MY CELERY AND LAXATIVE SMOOTHIE!" (Just kidding--healthy weight loss, ya'll. THE MORE YOU KNOW!!!!)
The truth is, I have a very hourglass-y shape. You would think this would be amazing and I would be like Sofia Vergara. HA! Matt wishes! But the thing is, it is not awesome. Not in the least. If I am not wearing something a bit form fitting, I am on a one-way train to Frumpsville. I need structure, I need pencil skirts and sheath dresses, and lined trousers and creased denim and all of that. But here's the thing: you can't wear something form fitting all the time. Especially when you are Queen O'PMS and are retaining more water than the Titanic right about now. And ya'll, it is SUMMER. In Virginia. The last thing I want is to look sexy sexy, yet give myself a heatstroke.
And there's another dimension too: for some reason, Matt adores these things on me. Always has. I don't know why. When most men are turned on by really short stuff, Matt really prefers the look. He was all "WOWZA" this morning, and I thought, "Seriously?" Although when we were on our way to work this morning, he cranked up Elton John's Rocket Man and declared it his "jay-um" so, you know, consider the source.
So, I can't quit you oh airy skirts and dresses. I will be rocking them all summer, and really, I don't give a damn about what anyone says. Here's the other thing--these things are damn fun to wear. I mean, you can TWIRL in them. And when you can twirl in something, you automatically feel a bit better about yourself, despite what you may look like.
What do you love that doesn't love you back? Anything? Please share, and we'll all hold hands and sigh together.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Lifetime Movieness: A Crime of Passion
Menstrual cycles are not something that I talk about a whole lot. Well, ok, none. Ladies at my work--well, that's a different story. They will tell you just about anything that you could ever even conceive of asking about their monthly friends, no matter how gross or strange or odd. And of course, I just stand in the corner of the office bathroom, like the kid at camp whose boobs haven't come in yet, and hope that they do not notice that I'm not contributing to the conversation at all.
However, I will tell you that every month or so, I become the biggest stereotypical girly girl that has ever been spawned. Not that I'm some big genderless blob the rest of the time (I think you know that since I spend a good deal of time being all OMG LIPGLOSS!), but during this short time period (usually 1-2 days), I'm a big oozing well of estrogen. Got a romantic comedy starring Katherine Heigl you've been dying to see? LET'S GO. I will not make one snarky comment, and we can do an over/under on whether I will cry or not. Want to eat an entire Vermonster and talk about how fat we are? AWESOME. I've got my lucky spoon! Want to sit on the couch and watch an entire season of Grey's Anatomy/Sex and the City? SURE. Yeah, I've watched about two of each of those shows in my life, and yes, my eyes hurt from all the rolling, but on that day, I will do it, and once again, I'll probably cry. Or hulk smash something. But that's just the estrogen talking!
This happened to me last night. I found myself footloose and fancy free at 8:00, as Alice had passed out because she didn't take a nap earlier in the day, Sam and Matt were playing a rather animated game of Risk, and Gabby was in her room plotting sixth grade domination. And I'm sitting on the couch, thinking about how much I would enjoy a plate of brownies topped with a full pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and wearing a leopard print snuggie and a pair of cropped yoga pants from Old Navy. I'm getting ready to turn on the Cardinals/Giants game when I think, "You know, I would much rather watch this Lifetime movie on LMN called 'A Crime of Passion' starring none other than Tracey Gold." And so that's what I did.
Now, I may have seen bits and pieces of A Crime of Passion before, or it could be because A Crime of Passion is a big ole stereotype of a Lifetime movie in itself. Basically, here's the plot: Widowed doctor meets stripper with a heart of gold (heretofore known as SWAHOG). Widowed doctor's daughter, a failing pre-med student (Tracey Gold) does not approve. Widowed doctor marries SWAHOG in Vegas. Widowed doctor realizes strippers do not automatically turn into Lil' Suzy Housewife the moment someone puts a ring on their (dirty) fingers. Widowed doctor asks for a divorce. Widowed doctor is murdered whilst clutching his coin collection. Daughter (Tracey Gold) is suspected of his murder. BUT YOU KNOW IT WAS THE STRIPPER! My lord in heaven, ya'll! SHE WAS A STRIPPER! Being a stripper at any time in one's life means that your hobbies will always be having abortions, getting your nails done, and KILLING DOCTORS. No matter what element your heart is made of.
Now, the plot is pretty stupid, I'll give you that. But there are a couple of things that make this movie totally fucking awesome. First is this: let's imagine for a bit that you are a 50 year old man. A red-blooded American 50 year old man, not some foppish dandy who spends his time following Kate Middleton's sartorial choices and eating vegetables. You're laying in your big old four poster bed, reading at night. And your new bride, who worked a pole for 10 years, so you know, has some moves, comes out in the black meshy thing and starts gyrating on a bed pole. Something tells me you'd put down the book and enjoy the show for a bit and probably do some things that are illegal in the state of VA. You know? I mean, you're the guy that married the STRIPPER. Might as well reap the benefits of that choice. But not this guy. He sits there and has the AUDACITY to look exasperated. Like, "WTF, YO? You're the woman I married, not someone who I want to have sex with?!?! Now go put in a casserole, darn my socks and make yourself useful."
That's when I knew that when he died, I wouldn't be a bit sad.
And he does. SWAHOG is (rightfully) embarassed by the whole ignoring the sexy dance event, and runs back off to the strip club where she erases her sorrow by making out in the parking lot with her golf instructor. IT'S ALWAYS THE GOLF INSTRUCTOR, AMIRITE? And OF COURSE one of Mr. This-Book-of-Tax-Codes-is-Way-More-Interesting-Than-Blow-Jobs's country club crones just happens to be driving by at that moment (probably because he got lost on the way back from the Stereotypical Old White Man Emporium) and reports her, so SWAHOG is given the boot. Thus the whole shit tornado that eventually ends in murder is birthed.
And all he would have had to do to avoid this is to watch his sexy wife do a striptease. THE HORROR.
The other awesomely awesome thing about this movie is the fashion. Holy high waisted jeans, Batman!!! But more importantly, rather, the way fashion is used to show that whole Madonna/Whore dichotomy that we women, try as we might, can never fully extricate ourselves from. Tracey Gold is a 1st year med student in the movie, and her wardrobe consists of marled sweaters, sensible shoes, and these godawful highwaisted, wide leg, stonewashed jeans that I'm pretty sure were marketed only to fathers as the poor man's chastity belt. Holy lord. They were horrible. And Tracey is a perfectly lovely girl--there was no need for that. By the same token, SWAHOG is given a wardrobe, and I'm pretty sure the wardrobe person took one look at it and goes, "Well, she's a stripper, so let's uh...just cut about 2 inches off of every hem! For authenticity!!!" As she continues down her path of destruction, it just gets worse and worse. By the end of the movie, she's basically just wearing a corset with a lacy bra sticking out of the top in every scene. Going to the DMV? I used to be a stripper, ya'll!!! Funeral? BOOBS AHOY. Career day? Did you forget what I used to do for a living? Here's a nipple to remind you.
So on the scale of Lifetime movies, 1 being those horrible inspirational schlock fests they show at Christmas and always feature a sad-eyed child with dirt on its face, and 5 being The Two Mr. Kissels, this is a solid 3.5 or 4. Watch and be amazed the next time your estrogen is soaring.
However, I will tell you that every month or so, I become the biggest stereotypical girly girl that has ever been spawned. Not that I'm some big genderless blob the rest of the time (I think you know that since I spend a good deal of time being all OMG LIPGLOSS!), but during this short time period (usually 1-2 days), I'm a big oozing well of estrogen. Got a romantic comedy starring Katherine Heigl you've been dying to see? LET'S GO. I will not make one snarky comment, and we can do an over/under on whether I will cry or not. Want to eat an entire Vermonster and talk about how fat we are? AWESOME. I've got my lucky spoon! Want to sit on the couch and watch an entire season of Grey's Anatomy/Sex and the City? SURE. Yeah, I've watched about two of each of those shows in my life, and yes, my eyes hurt from all the rolling, but on that day, I will do it, and once again, I'll probably cry. Or hulk smash something. But that's just the estrogen talking!
This happened to me last night. I found myself footloose and fancy free at 8:00, as Alice had passed out because she didn't take a nap earlier in the day, Sam and Matt were playing a rather animated game of Risk, and Gabby was in her room plotting sixth grade domination. And I'm sitting on the couch, thinking about how much I would enjoy a plate of brownies topped with a full pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and wearing a leopard print snuggie and a pair of cropped yoga pants from Old Navy. I'm getting ready to turn on the Cardinals/Giants game when I think, "You know, I would much rather watch this Lifetime movie on LMN called 'A Crime of Passion' starring none other than Tracey Gold." And so that's what I did.
Now, I may have seen bits and pieces of A Crime of Passion before, or it could be because A Crime of Passion is a big ole stereotype of a Lifetime movie in itself. Basically, here's the plot: Widowed doctor meets stripper with a heart of gold (heretofore known as SWAHOG). Widowed doctor's daughter, a failing pre-med student (Tracey Gold) does not approve. Widowed doctor marries SWAHOG in Vegas. Widowed doctor realizes strippers do not automatically turn into Lil' Suzy Housewife the moment someone puts a ring on their (dirty) fingers. Widowed doctor asks for a divorce. Widowed doctor is murdered whilst clutching his coin collection. Daughter (Tracey Gold) is suspected of his murder. BUT YOU KNOW IT WAS THE STRIPPER! My lord in heaven, ya'll! SHE WAS A STRIPPER! Being a stripper at any time in one's life means that your hobbies will always be having abortions, getting your nails done, and KILLING DOCTORS. No matter what element your heart is made of.
Now, the plot is pretty stupid, I'll give you that. But there are a couple of things that make this movie totally fucking awesome. First is this: let's imagine for a bit that you are a 50 year old man. A red-blooded American 50 year old man, not some foppish dandy who spends his time following Kate Middleton's sartorial choices and eating vegetables. You're laying in your big old four poster bed, reading at night. And your new bride, who worked a pole for 10 years, so you know, has some moves, comes out in the black meshy thing and starts gyrating on a bed pole. Something tells me you'd put down the book and enjoy the show for a bit and probably do some things that are illegal in the state of VA. You know? I mean, you're the guy that married the STRIPPER. Might as well reap the benefits of that choice. But not this guy. He sits there and has the AUDACITY to look exasperated. Like, "WTF, YO? You're the woman I married, not someone who I want to have sex with?!?! Now go put in a casserole, darn my socks and make yourself useful."
That's when I knew that when he died, I wouldn't be a bit sad.
And he does. SWAHOG is (rightfully) embarassed by the whole ignoring the sexy dance event, and runs back off to the strip club where she erases her sorrow by making out in the parking lot with her golf instructor. IT'S ALWAYS THE GOLF INSTRUCTOR, AMIRITE? And OF COURSE one of Mr. This-Book-of-Tax-Codes-is-Way-More-Interesting-Than-Blow-Jobs's country club crones just happens to be driving by at that moment (probably because he got lost on the way back from the Stereotypical Old White Man Emporium) and reports her, so SWAHOG is given the boot. Thus the whole shit tornado that eventually ends in murder is birthed.
And all he would have had to do to avoid this is to watch his sexy wife do a striptease. THE HORROR.
The other awesomely awesome thing about this movie is the fashion. Holy high waisted jeans, Batman!!! But more importantly, rather, the way fashion is used to show that whole Madonna/Whore dichotomy that we women, try as we might, can never fully extricate ourselves from. Tracey Gold is a 1st year med student in the movie, and her wardrobe consists of marled sweaters, sensible shoes, and these godawful highwaisted, wide leg, stonewashed jeans that I'm pretty sure were marketed only to fathers as the poor man's chastity belt. Holy lord. They were horrible. And Tracey is a perfectly lovely girl--there was no need for that. By the same token, SWAHOG is given a wardrobe, and I'm pretty sure the wardrobe person took one look at it and goes, "Well, she's a stripper, so let's uh...just cut about 2 inches off of every hem! For authenticity!!!" As she continues down her path of destruction, it just gets worse and worse. By the end of the movie, she's basically just wearing a corset with a lacy bra sticking out of the top in every scene. Going to the DMV? I used to be a stripper, ya'll!!! Funeral? BOOBS AHOY. Career day? Did you forget what I used to do for a living? Here's a nipple to remind you.
So on the scale of Lifetime movies, 1 being those horrible inspirational schlock fests they show at Christmas and always feature a sad-eyed child with dirt on its face, and 5 being The Two Mr. Kissels, this is a solid 3.5 or 4. Watch and be amazed the next time your estrogen is soaring.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
SAHMishness
I am very, very lucky to have a flexible job and one that respects its employees and their family demands. I'll say that first of all. With everything that I struggle to maintain (schooling, family, housecleaning, trying to make sure Alice isn't out roaming the neighborhood looking for dogs), I am truly blessed, and I recognize that and that a lot of women don't have that. They have to work, and sometimes for some not very understanding employers. So when I talk about struggling with being a SAHM, please know that I'm not sharing some smug, white lady problems.
Because of my understanding employer, and well, because it is summer and all of the courses we offer are now online (as opposed to hybrid, which is what we offer during the Fall/Spring semesters), I have been cleared to start working in office three days a week. Technically, that is what I'm supposed to do all year round, armed with my laptop. However, because of other demands on my time, as well as the fact that I can just get more done while sitting in an office, this does not often happen.
Last week was my first week with the new schedule. On Wednesday morning, I woke up early, got the kids dressed, put on a pair of shorts and a striped top and prepared. When Alice woke up, I fixed her a nice breakfast and then took her to the park. FAIL. Even though it was bright, sunny, and nearly painfully hot, I had forgotten about the hard rain we had had the night before. The park was surrounded by a lake. We walked around with Alice pointing at the "war-dee", rode the merry-go-round a couple of times and then I promised to take her to the lake in town to see the ducks. However, when we got there, we didn't see one damn duck (despite the fact that when I am there running, about 50 of them try to nip at me on a daily basis. I figure my legs look too much like white bread), only a big goose who was paddling in the middle of the lake. Yet again, FAIL. Alice and I walked about half a mile (and yes, I had forgotten her stroller in the other car) before she discovered the wooden walkway leading to the bathrooms and walked up and down it three times. We left when a recent parollee started yelling at his pregnant girlfriend over a lunch from Burger King at an adjacent picnic table.
I get home, fix Alice her pesto pasta lunch, strip her down and let her eat it herself, armed with a big, adult spoon cause I'm cool like that. And I'm watching her, and she's having a really fantastic time but I'm thinking that a real SAHM would have known the park would be flooded and the ducks gone. Because she would have been there all along, not venturing out for the first time in a good while, trying on the SAHM status like a cape. And that ole working mom guilt flooded me and I felt pretty icky for a solid half hour or so. My house is disorganized, there is a constant flood of unwashed dishes in the vicinity of our sink, my poor little tomato and banana pepper plants (the only garden I managed this year) are vastly in need of some love and some Miracle Gro. I put Alice down for her nap and moped on the couch with an old Law and Order: SVU rerun.
Yesterday, I had planned to to actually send Alice up to my MIL's despite having the day off. Matt had also taken the day off, and we were planning on reorganizing our garage. However, we had just started taking some outgrown kids stuff out there when Matt started puking. And, like clockwork, the phone rang, and the nurse summoned me to the school to pick up Gabby, who was suffering the same fate. I decided it was a sign for me to keep Al with me and SAHM it again. We stayed home with our "patients" and made a day of improptu dance parties, chicken soup preparation and cupcake icing. At the end of the day, Alice had had to have two baths, and was laying across her Dora couch, clutching a stuffed dog and looking dazed and happy.
And it was then that I knew. No matter where I have spent my time over the past little bit, no matter where noon each day finds me, Alice and I are linked. And we are happy together. Giddily so, in fact. We understand each other--each one of my children and I share a distinct and lovely understanding. Alice and I are two that play hard, almost to the point of exhaustion, and then throw ourselves in a heap and sleep that way. Seeing her there, laid out on her couch like three week's wash, I was happy with being a working mom, part-time, full-time or otherwise. I was happy with my decision and my family and all of it. And, as I'm sure any mom (working or SAH) can attest, having that moment guilt-free was pretty sublime.
Because of my understanding employer, and well, because it is summer and all of the courses we offer are now online (as opposed to hybrid, which is what we offer during the Fall/Spring semesters), I have been cleared to start working in office three days a week. Technically, that is what I'm supposed to do all year round, armed with my laptop. However, because of other demands on my time, as well as the fact that I can just get more done while sitting in an office, this does not often happen.
Last week was my first week with the new schedule. On Wednesday morning, I woke up early, got the kids dressed, put on a pair of shorts and a striped top and prepared. When Alice woke up, I fixed her a nice breakfast and then took her to the park. FAIL. Even though it was bright, sunny, and nearly painfully hot, I had forgotten about the hard rain we had had the night before. The park was surrounded by a lake. We walked around with Alice pointing at the "war-dee", rode the merry-go-round a couple of times and then I promised to take her to the lake in town to see the ducks. However, when we got there, we didn't see one damn duck (despite the fact that when I am there running, about 50 of them try to nip at me on a daily basis. I figure my legs look too much like white bread), only a big goose who was paddling in the middle of the lake. Yet again, FAIL. Alice and I walked about half a mile (and yes, I had forgotten her stroller in the other car) before she discovered the wooden walkway leading to the bathrooms and walked up and down it three times. We left when a recent parollee started yelling at his pregnant girlfriend over a lunch from Burger King at an adjacent picnic table.
I get home, fix Alice her pesto pasta lunch, strip her down and let her eat it herself, armed with a big, adult spoon cause I'm cool like that. And I'm watching her, and she's having a really fantastic time but I'm thinking that a real SAHM would have known the park would be flooded and the ducks gone. Because she would have been there all along, not venturing out for the first time in a good while, trying on the SAHM status like a cape. And that ole working mom guilt flooded me and I felt pretty icky for a solid half hour or so. My house is disorganized, there is a constant flood of unwashed dishes in the vicinity of our sink, my poor little tomato and banana pepper plants (the only garden I managed this year) are vastly in need of some love and some Miracle Gro. I put Alice down for her nap and moped on the couch with an old Law and Order: SVU rerun.
Yesterday, I had planned to to actually send Alice up to my MIL's despite having the day off. Matt had also taken the day off, and we were planning on reorganizing our garage. However, we had just started taking some outgrown kids stuff out there when Matt started puking. And, like clockwork, the phone rang, and the nurse summoned me to the school to pick up Gabby, who was suffering the same fate. I decided it was a sign for me to keep Al with me and SAHM it again. We stayed home with our "patients" and made a day of improptu dance parties, chicken soup preparation and cupcake icing. At the end of the day, Alice had had to have two baths, and was laying across her Dora couch, clutching a stuffed dog and looking dazed and happy.
And it was then that I knew. No matter where I have spent my time over the past little bit, no matter where noon each day finds me, Alice and I are linked. And we are happy together. Giddily so, in fact. We understand each other--each one of my children and I share a distinct and lovely understanding. Alice and I are two that play hard, almost to the point of exhaustion, and then throw ourselves in a heap and sleep that way. Seeing her there, laid out on her couch like three week's wash, I was happy with being a working mom, part-time, full-time or otherwise. I was happy with my decision and my family and all of it. And, as I'm sure any mom (working or SAH) can attest, having that moment guilt-free was pretty sublime.
Giveaways on Other People's Blogs: Mary Kay
I am blogging about this giveaway to get another entry into a contest. It is not my giveaway--I think we've established that I will never have my shit together enough to actually give you a reward for reading this crap. Sorry. Check your expectations at the door, my little croquembouches.
When I was a kid, my mom sold Mary Kay cosmetics. She kept them in this huge metal credenza in this extra office in her building, a place where she also kept a lot of old client files, a mini-fridge, and a really awesome old Commodore 64. I don't have to tell you that this was the most awesome room that has very been put together EVER. I spent a good deal of my childhood in that room with a pair of roller skates on my feet, retrieving files when asked, typing weird documents on the computer made up mostly of pixelated hearts, and trying on lipstick.
My favorite lipstick of the bunch was an incredibly bright fuschia. My mom only had a couple of tubes, mostly because she probably knew that no one, other than perhaps Baby Jane and daydreamy young girls, would buy that shit. It was so bright--I can't find anything comparable on Sephora now, and believe me, I've looked. I would pull it out of its box and stare at it and think about how wonderful it would be to wear it. At that point in my life, I knew a lot about what I would be like when I grew up: I would always hate chicken salad (note: not true), I would never wear earrings (again, not true) and that I would wear Mary Kay matte fuschia lipstick every day.
My mom made sure to send me a summer arts day camp every year, probably because she got sick of hearing those roller skates coming down the hall every day for 8 hours a day, three months of the year. We would go for six weeks during the summer, all leading up to a huge play production at the end. Every year, a new director would be brought in from some exotic place (Knoxville! Asheville! Roanoke!) and we would have a great time with the play. One year, we did a Broadway melody type thing, where each group performed a few songs from various musicals. My group did Bye Bye Birdie, Oklahoma, and South Pacific. Because there were so many kids and so many costumes, a few of them were left to the parents to come up with. I remember mom got me a pair of Hawaiian pink shorts and bright green top at Belk's for South Pacific--I thought it was an amazing outfit. Mostly because the shorts were the same color as the lipstick I adored.
So I asked mom if I could have the lipstick. For art! To match my shorts in my big number! She said ok. I took it with me to the performance, carefully placed amongst my other belongings. I put it on as we were getting ready, as South Pacific was our first number. And then, because I was afraid it wore off, I put it on again. And well, because it felt good, I put it on one more time before arriving on stage.
When the curtains opened, I stood in the middle of the stage in my new shorts and top. I started singing about washing some man right out of my hair. I thought I rocked it. However, now when I look back at the video my parents lovingly made with their 14 pound camcorder, you can't hear my lovely voice. All you can hear, all you can think is LIPS. BRIGHT LIPS. HONEY, GET ME SOME RAY BANS CAUSE THOSE LIPS ARE BRIGHT.
So, enter this contest. And get some lipstick. I'm sure Mary Kay no longer has as bright a lipstick as they did during the very early 90's, but you know, you can try.
When I was a kid, my mom sold Mary Kay cosmetics. She kept them in this huge metal credenza in this extra office in her building, a place where she also kept a lot of old client files, a mini-fridge, and a really awesome old Commodore 64. I don't have to tell you that this was the most awesome room that has very been put together EVER. I spent a good deal of my childhood in that room with a pair of roller skates on my feet, retrieving files when asked, typing weird documents on the computer made up mostly of pixelated hearts, and trying on lipstick.
My favorite lipstick of the bunch was an incredibly bright fuschia. My mom only had a couple of tubes, mostly because she probably knew that no one, other than perhaps Baby Jane and daydreamy young girls, would buy that shit. It was so bright--I can't find anything comparable on Sephora now, and believe me, I've looked. I would pull it out of its box and stare at it and think about how wonderful it would be to wear it. At that point in my life, I knew a lot about what I would be like when I grew up: I would always hate chicken salad (note: not true), I would never wear earrings (again, not true) and that I would wear Mary Kay matte fuschia lipstick every day.
My mom made sure to send me a summer arts day camp every year, probably because she got sick of hearing those roller skates coming down the hall every day for 8 hours a day, three months of the year. We would go for six weeks during the summer, all leading up to a huge play production at the end. Every year, a new director would be brought in from some exotic place (Knoxville! Asheville! Roanoke!) and we would have a great time with the play. One year, we did a Broadway melody type thing, where each group performed a few songs from various musicals. My group did Bye Bye Birdie, Oklahoma, and South Pacific. Because there were so many kids and so many costumes, a few of them were left to the parents to come up with. I remember mom got me a pair of Hawaiian pink shorts and bright green top at Belk's for South Pacific--I thought it was an amazing outfit. Mostly because the shorts were the same color as the lipstick I adored.
So I asked mom if I could have the lipstick. For art! To match my shorts in my big number! She said ok. I took it with me to the performance, carefully placed amongst my other belongings. I put it on as we were getting ready, as South Pacific was our first number. And then, because I was afraid it wore off, I put it on again. And well, because it felt good, I put it on one more time before arriving on stage.
When the curtains opened, I stood in the middle of the stage in my new shorts and top. I started singing about washing some man right out of my hair. I thought I rocked it. However, now when I look back at the video my parents lovingly made with their 14 pound camcorder, you can't hear my lovely voice. All you can hear, all you can think is LIPS. BRIGHT LIPS. HONEY, GET ME SOME RAY BANS CAUSE THOSE LIPS ARE BRIGHT.
So, enter this contest. And get some lipstick. I'm sure Mary Kay no longer has as bright a lipstick as they did during the very early 90's, but you know, you can try.
Friday, May 27, 2011
This Week in F?&k You: Oprah
I actually meant to write this post on Wednesday. However, I took the day off on Wednesday to stay at home and play SAHM with Al. This was just following our graduation service that forced me to be here for 12 long, excruciating hours in heels and work appropriate LBD, trying to find something to talk to our provost and my boss about that did not include the words "That's what she said!" And well, I took the day off on Thursday too, to go out with my husband, eat a fucking barbecue sandwich that was the size of a dinner plate, see The Hangover Part II, and then wash it all down with a veritable vat of ice cream.
But here I am, sitting at work on a Friday and there is no one here but me, being as how I'm the girl who drew the short end of the stick having to show up on a Friday before a holiday. And while I was gone, they brought me a new computer, and yes I know this is a First World Problem and boo fuckin' hoo, but the screen is so big that it now hurts my neck to look at it. WAAAH. I'll reserve my table for one at Weenie Hut Junior's, please. ANYWAY, all of this is more than enough to make me a little stabby, especially since I had a convicted felon come in an ogle my cleavage for about 20 minutes today in this totally creepy, off putting way. MEN OF THE WORLD: WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING AT. DON'T THINK YOU ARE BEING SLY ABOUT IT. AND WHILE IT IS A LITTLE FLATTERING, ANYTHING OVER FIVE MINUTES IS CREEPY AS ALL SHIT AND DOES NOT MAKE ME WANT TO LET YOU MOTORBOAT ME. Just an FYI.
Now, many of you might like Oprah. Lord knows she has a shit ton of fans, and I don't begrudge her that. Lots of people and things that I don't like have a shit ton of fans, and without that, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night with the smug sense of elitist entitlement that allows me to dream about things like The Fleet Foxes and Tolstoy. But Oprah, to me, is insanely off-putting. Basically, she has made a career out of saying a lot of inspirational psycho-babble that basically amounts to her tooting her own horn in about 50 different octaves. BUY HER BOOKS! LISTEN TO HER DOCTOR! BUY THE FUCKING KEY LIME PIE THAT SHE LIKES TO EAT! All of this will make you a better person and give your life some sort of meaning that it didn't have this morning while you were snaking your drain and living some life cursed by normalcy! Oprah, despite her humble beginnings or whatever else I hear about anytime I dare to not toe the party-line on this subject, is a BRAND. She is not an inspiration, she is not your friend, she is not someone to emulate and aspire to be. She is a marketing gimmick in a poufy wig and overpriced shoes.
I don't understand why most people are sickened by the kind of brazen self-promotion that we see the Kardashians and other reality show stars participate in daily, but let Oprah by with that level and MORE. Folks, Oprah has a magazine that she puts herself on EVERY DAMN MONTH. The next time you say something snarky about one of the Kardashians and her fame hungriness, just remember that she is a product of this post-Oprah world, a world that encourages you to be your own biggest fan and act accordingly.
So, in short, I'm really pretty stoked that she won't be on TV anymore. I'm jazzed about a world where I don't walk into a bookstore and find myself accosted by whatever she's deemed worthy enough for her 1,000's of followers to read. I'm thrilled that I won't see clips where she's talking about the perfect weight loss plan, the perfect banana pudding, the perfect poop. You can laud her all you want to, but the way I see it, she's been lauding herself for years, so I think she's gotten enough.
This has been This Week in F&*K You. At this point, I'm off to begin my lovely summer holiday weekend. Hope you eat something from a grill and wear something delightfully airy, no matter where you are.
But here I am, sitting at work on a Friday and there is no one here but me, being as how I'm the girl who drew the short end of the stick having to show up on a Friday before a holiday. And while I was gone, they brought me a new computer, and yes I know this is a First World Problem and boo fuckin' hoo, but the screen is so big that it now hurts my neck to look at it. WAAAH. I'll reserve my table for one at Weenie Hut Junior's, please. ANYWAY, all of this is more than enough to make me a little stabby, especially since I had a convicted felon come in an ogle my cleavage for about 20 minutes today in this totally creepy, off putting way. MEN OF THE WORLD: WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING AT. DON'T THINK YOU ARE BEING SLY ABOUT IT. AND WHILE IT IS A LITTLE FLATTERING, ANYTHING OVER FIVE MINUTES IS CREEPY AS ALL SHIT AND DOES NOT MAKE ME WANT TO LET YOU MOTORBOAT ME. Just an FYI.
Now, many of you might like Oprah. Lord knows she has a shit ton of fans, and I don't begrudge her that. Lots of people and things that I don't like have a shit ton of fans, and without that, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night with the smug sense of elitist entitlement that allows me to dream about things like The Fleet Foxes and Tolstoy. But Oprah, to me, is insanely off-putting. Basically, she has made a career out of saying a lot of inspirational psycho-babble that basically amounts to her tooting her own horn in about 50 different octaves. BUY HER BOOKS! LISTEN TO HER DOCTOR! BUY THE FUCKING KEY LIME PIE THAT SHE LIKES TO EAT! All of this will make you a better person and give your life some sort of meaning that it didn't have this morning while you were snaking your drain and living some life cursed by normalcy! Oprah, despite her humble beginnings or whatever else I hear about anytime I dare to not toe the party-line on this subject, is a BRAND. She is not an inspiration, she is not your friend, she is not someone to emulate and aspire to be. She is a marketing gimmick in a poufy wig and overpriced shoes.
I don't understand why most people are sickened by the kind of brazen self-promotion that we see the Kardashians and other reality show stars participate in daily, but let Oprah by with that level and MORE. Folks, Oprah has a magazine that she puts herself on EVERY DAMN MONTH. The next time you say something snarky about one of the Kardashians and her fame hungriness, just remember that she is a product of this post-Oprah world, a world that encourages you to be your own biggest fan and act accordingly.
So, in short, I'm really pretty stoked that she won't be on TV anymore. I'm jazzed about a world where I don't walk into a bookstore and find myself accosted by whatever she's deemed worthy enough for her 1,000's of followers to read. I'm thrilled that I won't see clips where she's talking about the perfect weight loss plan, the perfect banana pudding, the perfect poop. You can laud her all you want to, but the way I see it, she's been lauding herself for years, so I think she's gotten enough.
This has been This Week in F&*K You. At this point, I'm off to begin my lovely summer holiday weekend. Hope you eat something from a grill and wear something delightfully airy, no matter where you are.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Take off those godforsaken yoga pants and come sit by me.
As many of you know, I get a bit tetchy when I hear other moms playing the martyr card. "I can't even shower, much less put on make-up!" "I have spit up on my shoulder and it has been there for two days!" "I wear yoga pants all the time because I'm a good mom and don't have time for fasteners on my clothing!" "WOE IS MOM."
Yet, it is usually these moms who update Facebook 3-4 times a day, posting pictures of their offspring doing something "adorable." Priorities, folks, it's all about 'em. And if looking your best is not your priority, fine. Photography is not mine. But please don't assume that those of us who choose to actually give a damn about how we look are selfish and/or not being a good parent.
*End rant.*
Anyway, when you are a mom, or rather, when you are a sentient, active being in this crazy, 24/7 mobile world of ours, children or no children, you definitely do not have time for make-up and hair routines like, say, you did when you were 13 and could spend an entire day putting perfect blue streaks in your hair and lining your unlined, bag-free eyes with glittery Hard Candy eyeliner. You need a few quick tricks to get you in and out of your bathroom in a hurry so you can prevent your child from spreading toothpaste all over the ottoman you lovingly have moved across the damn country twice because you like the thing, or, rather, getting there 30 seconds after the kid has done just that so you can admire her handy work. This is a list for that. And I would be oh so greatful if you could leave your tips in the comments--I know I could always use something new in the arsenal, and imagine others could as well.
1. Know what works for you. 7:30 on Wednesday morning is not time to try out the new glittery eye trend or bright red lipstick. Get a few basics and keep them. I am the world's worst for trying out every new marketing gimmick or product that passes through a magazine's hallowed pages, however, if I'm in a hurry, even I know better. Keep some of what works around at all times, just in case you having an inspiration-free day, or have to put your make-up on at your desk or while sitting on the couch, holding a baby and watching Max and Ruby. Here are my go to's:
Foundation: L'Oreal True Match
Blush: Nars Orgasm
Mascara: L'Oreal Voluminous (I always have a bit of DiorShow on hand for night time, but in a pinch, I love Voluminous, especially the new Carbon Black.)
Lipstick: Clinique Black Honey Almost Lipstick
Little sumthin' sumthin': Benefit Girl Meets Pearl
2. Hot FUCKING Rollers. (And I'm serious, whenever I say the word "roller," I think of nothing but The Oatmeal's hilariously apt Gay Roller, and I'm just sorry, but I can't keep a straight face. Heh. Straight face.) I used hot rollers in high school. Like a lot. I had this steam operated one, with little pink rollers, and you put the roller on top of this steam spurter and it made it...hot and steamy (that's what she said) and then you rolled it up and clamped it on. Anyone else have one of these? It was the SHIT. And when my hair was all nice and rolled, I let the little curls down, put my head between my knees and threw on an accordion headband and then threw my head back, stripper style and sprayed the shit out of that stuff with LA Looks aerosol spray. This made for a very, um, full look. Hey, it was the South, ya'll. I didn't know no better. But, folks, I'm here to tell you, hot rollers have changed. And I think lots of people use them. And not just in the lower South. And not just for beauty pageants, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Or, at least, that's what the ladies at Ulta told me when they sold me my set. Basically, these things give you Cosmo-model hair, but without having to use a curling iron, which, let's face it, sucks balls. And the volume lasts. Like 12 hour work day lasts. Like I-had-to-take-my-heels-off-but-my-hair-is-still-PADOW! lasts. Still not convinced? This set in particular heats up in about 85 seconds. So basically, you can plug it in, brush your hair a bit, maybe squeeze a zit, and you're ready to rock.
I have started washing my hair every other day, and using this on the day when it is unwashed. I do a blow-out the other day, but truthfully, it looks better on the day that I use the rollers, even though the blow-out takes about 3x longer for me to do, what with all the clips and the round brush and yada yada yada. With the rollers, I just put it up, do my 5 minute make-up, make the kid's breakfasts and lunches, convince Sam that no, his legs are not frozen, and yes, he can, in fact, walk, and then pull it down. And I get compliments on my "lovely hair." And people, my hair is not lovely. It is fucking blah. But with this stuff, I can definitely fake it.
3. Carry stuff with you. No one looks perfectly pulled together all damn day with no upkeep. This is where it is important to keep your tools at the ready. If you drive or have a commute, trick your car out. I personally keep two pairs of shoes in my car at all times--a pair of stilletto heels, and a pair of low-profile running shoes. That way I can change if need be and I don't look like a tool being the mom at the baseball field in heels. I also keep duplicates of my favorite make-up in a free bag I got from Clinique a couple of beauty bonus times ago. That way it is ready when I am--and I don't have to worry about leaving my favorite make-up in the car/at home when I need it. Also important--babies like to play with make-up. Not like put it on. They like to look at it, carry it around, chew on the end of a mascara tube. So multipurpose. Hellz yeah.
4. Dresses ya'll. Lots and lots of dresses. I am a very, VERY firm believer that you should get dressed everyday in something you would allow someone else to see you in, no matter your vocation. I know people disagree with me on this, and that's fine. But I personally do not know anyone's mental health that was helped by a wardrobe of yoga pants and stained t-shirts from college. Let's face it--you take a shower and get dressed, some little part of you feels better. And it is so so worth it. I've had three kids, ya'll, and I can only think of one day that I went without a shower and fresh change of clothes, and it was when Sam was in the Pediatric ICU and there was no shower attached to the room. But I totally get how putting on a pair of jeans can make you feel uncomfortable. Jeans, no matter how well they fit, are not the best things for laying around the house, especially if they are rigid or if you are doing a lot of bending and sitting (which all of us do around the house). But dresses are another thing all together. There are some amazing day dresses out there, a lot of which can be paired with leggings for a very cute sitting-around-the-house-waiting-on-something-awesome-to-happen look. Even better is the fact that you can find a lot of wrap styles that are convenient for nursing. The best part? If you are on a budget, buying one dress is cheaper than buying a shirt AND a pair of pants. When my husband figured this out one day, he gave very real thought about picking up a lovely frock at TJ Maxx under the guise of "If it worked for J. Edgar Hoover...."
5. "I guess the key is that it doesn't matter if you look like the 'before' picture, just act like you're the 'after' one." --Mindy Kaling via Twitter. Could never say it better, not in a million years.
Yet, it is usually these moms who update Facebook 3-4 times a day, posting pictures of their offspring doing something "adorable." Priorities, folks, it's all about 'em. And if looking your best is not your priority, fine. Photography is not mine. But please don't assume that those of us who choose to actually give a damn about how we look are selfish and/or not being a good parent.
*End rant.*
Anyway, when you are a mom, or rather, when you are a sentient, active being in this crazy, 24/7 mobile world of ours, children or no children, you definitely do not have time for make-up and hair routines like, say, you did when you were 13 and could spend an entire day putting perfect blue streaks in your hair and lining your unlined, bag-free eyes with glittery Hard Candy eyeliner. You need a few quick tricks to get you in and out of your bathroom in a hurry so you can prevent your child from spreading toothpaste all over the ottoman you lovingly have moved across the damn country twice because you like the thing, or, rather, getting there 30 seconds after the kid has done just that so you can admire her handy work. This is a list for that. And I would be oh so greatful if you could leave your tips in the comments--I know I could always use something new in the arsenal, and imagine others could as well.
1. Know what works for you. 7:30 on Wednesday morning is not time to try out the new glittery eye trend or bright red lipstick. Get a few basics and keep them. I am the world's worst for trying out every new marketing gimmick or product that passes through a magazine's hallowed pages, however, if I'm in a hurry, even I know better. Keep some of what works around at all times, just in case you having an inspiration-free day, or have to put your make-up on at your desk or while sitting on the couch, holding a baby and watching Max and Ruby. Here are my go to's:
Foundation: L'Oreal True Match
Blush: Nars Orgasm
Mascara: L'Oreal Voluminous (I always have a bit of DiorShow on hand for night time, but in a pinch, I love Voluminous, especially the new Carbon Black.)
Lipstick: Clinique Black Honey Almost Lipstick
Little sumthin' sumthin': Benefit Girl Meets Pearl
2. Hot FUCKING Rollers. (And I'm serious, whenever I say the word "roller," I think of nothing but The Oatmeal's hilariously apt Gay Roller, and I'm just sorry, but I can't keep a straight face. Heh. Straight face.) I used hot rollers in high school. Like a lot. I had this steam operated one, with little pink rollers, and you put the roller on top of this steam spurter and it made it...hot and steamy (that's what she said) and then you rolled it up and clamped it on. Anyone else have one of these? It was the SHIT. And when my hair was all nice and rolled, I let the little curls down, put my head between my knees and threw on an accordion headband and then threw my head back, stripper style and sprayed the shit out of that stuff with LA Looks aerosol spray. This made for a very, um, full look. Hey, it was the South, ya'll. I didn't know no better. But, folks, I'm here to tell you, hot rollers have changed. And I think lots of people use them. And not just in the lower South. And not just for beauty pageants, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. Or, at least, that's what the ladies at Ulta told me when they sold me my set. Basically, these things give you Cosmo-model hair, but without having to use a curling iron, which, let's face it, sucks balls. And the volume lasts. Like 12 hour work day lasts. Like I-had-to-take-my-heels-off-but-my-hair-is-still-PADOW! lasts. Still not convinced? This set in particular heats up in about 85 seconds. So basically, you can plug it in, brush your hair a bit, maybe squeeze a zit, and you're ready to rock.
I have started washing my hair every other day, and using this on the day when it is unwashed. I do a blow-out the other day, but truthfully, it looks better on the day that I use the rollers, even though the blow-out takes about 3x longer for me to do, what with all the clips and the round brush and yada yada yada. With the rollers, I just put it up, do my 5 minute make-up, make the kid's breakfasts and lunches, convince Sam that no, his legs are not frozen, and yes, he can, in fact, walk, and then pull it down. And I get compliments on my "lovely hair." And people, my hair is not lovely. It is fucking blah. But with this stuff, I can definitely fake it.
3. Carry stuff with you. No one looks perfectly pulled together all damn day with no upkeep. This is where it is important to keep your tools at the ready. If you drive or have a commute, trick your car out. I personally keep two pairs of shoes in my car at all times--a pair of stilletto heels, and a pair of low-profile running shoes. That way I can change if need be and I don't look like a tool being the mom at the baseball field in heels. I also keep duplicates of my favorite make-up in a free bag I got from Clinique a couple of beauty bonus times ago. That way it is ready when I am--and I don't have to worry about leaving my favorite make-up in the car/at home when I need it. Also important--babies like to play with make-up. Not like put it on. They like to look at it, carry it around, chew on the end of a mascara tube. So multipurpose. Hellz yeah.
4. Dresses ya'll. Lots and lots of dresses. I am a very, VERY firm believer that you should get dressed everyday in something you would allow someone else to see you in, no matter your vocation. I know people disagree with me on this, and that's fine. But I personally do not know anyone's mental health that was helped by a wardrobe of yoga pants and stained t-shirts from college. Let's face it--you take a shower and get dressed, some little part of you feels better. And it is so so worth it. I've had three kids, ya'll, and I can only think of one day that I went without a shower and fresh change of clothes, and it was when Sam was in the Pediatric ICU and there was no shower attached to the room. But I totally get how putting on a pair of jeans can make you feel uncomfortable. Jeans, no matter how well they fit, are not the best things for laying around the house, especially if they are rigid or if you are doing a lot of bending and sitting (which all of us do around the house). But dresses are another thing all together. There are some amazing day dresses out there, a lot of which can be paired with leggings for a very cute sitting-around-the-house-waiting-on-something-awesome-to-happen look. Even better is the fact that you can find a lot of wrap styles that are convenient for nursing. The best part? If you are on a budget, buying one dress is cheaper than buying a shirt AND a pair of pants. When my husband figured this out one day, he gave very real thought about picking up a lovely frock at TJ Maxx under the guise of "If it worked for J. Edgar Hoover...."
5. "I guess the key is that it doesn't matter if you look like the 'before' picture, just act like you're the 'after' one." --Mindy Kaling via Twitter. Could never say it better, not in a million years.
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