If I had to model the relationship that I have with my body on a celebrity relationship, we'd totes be Whitney and Bobby.

[Too soon?]

It has taken me a long time to write this post, although I've hinted at it a bit with the assorted Weight Watchers attempts, the "THIS WILL BE THE TIME!" screeds. I guess the thing is, I struggle with disordered eating habits. And I think a lot of us do. And it is starting to worry me, selfishly, because I have a 13 year old daughter. And hell if I want for this to be her life.

I feel like I have two me's. There's the Me Who Is Being Healthy (I won't use the word "diet" but that's understood). This me is thin. She has been a size 4, a 6. She has a bikini and she loves it. She packs her own lunch and she is meticulous about her Points and she downloads healthy recipes off the internet, and golly gosh, some of them are pretty damn good. She buys $6 peanut butter.

She is also the Me who OBSESSES over everything that goes in her mouth. She is the Me who feels enormous guilt over an extra nibble of cheese eaten quickly and furtively, praying that no one sees. She is the Me who feels ugly and wrong--her hair is not the right color, the skin on her feet is too rough, her eyebrows are never ok. She hates her clothes--she constantly needs more. She is bored, listless, unhappy.

Then There is the Me Who Eats Everything in Sight. She has been a size 14, a 16, a fat bride in a plus size wedding gown. She seems to hover, mostly, around a size 10 or so. She loves chocolate, eats it daily. And we're not talking the French Women Don't Get Fat approved bites of dark chocolate, slowly savored over the course of an hour, no teeth allowed. She likes Hershey's milk chocolate, eaten greedily in the car on the drive home with a Diet Coke to wash down all the crazy sweetness. She knows the people at Wendy's and makes small talk with them while they hand her her food. Her stomach jiggles when she runs (slowly) and her legs itch and she is miserable and promises to not do it again, but knows that tomorrow, her stomach will growl and it will be lunch time and she will need a french fry and it will taste so salty, salty good and she will be momentarily happy and at peace.

She is also the girl who feels pretty, oddly enough. She likes her hair, her new shade of lip gloss, her clothes. She found a dress on the Target clearance rack, loved it, and was so happy that she didn't even think about clothes or other "goodies" the whole week and ended up with extra money in her wallet. She can put on a pencil skirt and heels and feel so nice. Sure, she feels shame at the muffin top, but there is Spanx for that, right? EASY PEASY. And when she feels horrible about the wrappers in the floor of the car, the discarded frappuccino cup in her waste paper bin, well, she can just eat something else, and it is ok again.

But the size 10 Me knows that it is fleeting. That it can't go on forever. She remembers her grandmother, lying sad and immobile in the expensive oversized hospital bed, no longer able to walk, being treated for bed sores and wounds that wept and did not heal. She remembers her father throwing up at Busch Gardens, months after gastric bypass surgery but still unable to live life with any sense of normalcy. And on the other hand, she thinks of her mother and her high cholesterol, training to compete in cancer runs and measuring her life out in Truvia. She must pick a future for herself, and she knows that must not include the wrappers or the oversized bed.

So she eats one more meal, and she promises that next week it will go back to counting, to plotting, to pure, unadulterated obsession. A banana is an ok breakfast, right? That fake cream cheese stuff tastes almost like the real thing! She can only have two tacos.

And we're back at the Healthy Me. Until, that is, life throws me a curveball and I find myself in that line, saying the words "Java Chip Frappuccino."

**

I went for a pap smear the other week, and I felt good about it. I'm not the best at keeping up with health stuff that well, and some people will look at this and say, "Oh, it's because you're a mom," and I counter with, "No, it's because I'm me." I'm horrible at life. I just can't really be bothered for most things of any consequence, but I can tell you a shit load about videos on North Korea that I like to watch in my spare time. Anyway, I'm there, and I'm talking to the gyno who is super nice and helpful and I mention that I'm on Weight Watchers. And she is immediately praising me about what a wonderful diet it is, and how it is oh so healthy and how I have about 25 pounds to lose and it is totally doable with WW. And I'm like yeah, I know, but part of me wants to say, "Nope. Not the way I do it." Because the way I do it is nothing like that. The way I do it is obsessive and weird. I shoot to end the day with 5-10 unused points. If I meet my points allowance for the day, I sulk. I make myself go to bed at 9:00 to avoid eating. If I can go my entire breakfast/lunch and not eat more than 5 points, I'm happy.

See, for me, there is a middle ground. But it is constantly shifting under my feet and I can't stay on it for very long. I'm either on a non-stop BINGE or I'm OBSESSED. PICK ONE. And I see these people on WW who aren't like that and are doing it the correct way, and I have to admit, I feel some sort of sick "I'm better than you" kind of thing. Like, "When I do Weight Watchers, I don't do it that way. I can LOSE HELLA WEIGHT. I just choose not to right now." So weird.

And to make myself feel even more superior, I investigate purchasing The Ritual Cleanse and have another fry, because that shit won't be here until next week even if I order today.

**

I have to admit that it is a little embarrassing to write all this down here. At the very least, I am outing myself as the kind of girl who sits in the corner and eats paste. The perpetual weird kid. At the worst, I am telling you about my myriad psychological issues which run on unchecked and unmedicated putting you all at some danger of having to deal with unhinged me and my gross love handles.

But there is a reason. I know there's like 3.67 people who read this, and perhaps no one does. And that's fine. I'm not Dooce--this isn't my livelihood, and I basically do it because it gives me something to do on days when my boss is sitting in his office watching YouTube videos and planning on chartering a yacht (true story). And hell, I'm on the internet anyway--it's not a secret that I love the fucking internet.

And that's the thing. I love the internet. I am looking at it constantly. And I've seen that not many people are out there, owning up to their eating weirdnesses. There are pro-ana blogs (ICK) and fat acceptance blogs. There are diet blogs and vehement anti-diet blogs. But there isn't much out there that says "Hey. I like to eat. And sometimes I fuck myself up with it. But other than that, I'm a normal feminist girl." And maybe there's a reason--maybe I'm the only adult human female who pulls this shit over and over again. But maybe I'm not. I'm betting I'm not. And maybe someone else reads this at some point and thinks, "Man, am I one screwed up pup. But here's someone else who is too, bless her heart."

So that's that. Tomorrow I promise to write something about a lip gloss and which baseball player I want to seduce with a mixture of homemade fried chicken and dirty talk involving the letters ERA.

And if you'll excuse me, I need to go to Wendy's and purchase one small chili and one half spicy chicken caesar salad. I hope my favorite drive through attendee is there so I can ask her about her kid. He was sick on Monday.

Having Sex with Joe Mauer for Dummies

There have been a myriad Opening Days in baseball this year, so it is hard to pick one to point to as THE DAY. My beloved A's played the Mariners in an opening series in Japan last week, and technically, that was Opening Day. But no one paid attention to that, and the games were at 6:00 a.m. here on the east coast, so it wasn't acceptable to drink a bunch of beer and feel totally and completely at peace with the fact that baseball was back at last. Then there was a game on Wednesday in the Marlins' new stadium, and then there was yesterday which I guess was technically Opening Day. And finally, the A's play again tonight, in a REAL Opening Day, the kind where you get drunk, talk smack and then don't have to go to work afterwards.

I say all this to show that baseball sometimes is confusing. Even technical stuff, like actual dates of games, can be rendered into complete craziness by the powers that be. Sometimes the pure beauty of the game can be lost in rules and controversy and shouting.

But the pure beauty of Joe Mauer is never lost. Even when he does a second rate blue steel for the camera and doesn't even have the gear on.

So, in honor of some kind of Opening Day somewhere, I give you the return of Products that Allow You to Have Sex with Joe Mauer.

For the sake of ease and because it is the Friday before Easter and hardly anyone here is actually in the office (except for me! because I am totally that girl!), we are going to focus on two areas of expertise in our quest to bed our favorite all-star catcher. Those areas are: tanning and big hair. How did I arrive at these two areas? Well, let's just be honest. Sun-kissed legs and humongo strands are what bring ALL the boys to the yard. Ever seen a limp haired, pasty stripper? I DIDN'T THINK SO (and if you have, you really need to stop going to the strip club at lunchtime).

Sonia Kashuk Illuminating Bronzer: This is a relatively new product on Target's shelves--I think it came out at the end of February. As a very pasty person, I have tried a lot of the bronzers out there--my favorites before arriving at this formula were Nars Laguna and these old school bronzer beads that Physician's Formula put out when I was in college. Bronzer is one of those things that is pretty hard to actually get right because it can go from 0 to Snooki in just a hot minute. Especially when you start out as pale as I am. And I have to say, this product gets it right in a whole bunch of different ways. First off, the packaging is pretty spot on. It is actually pretty, and looks a lot more expensive than $13. The clamshell is a good size to throw into a bag for when you need to head out to an airport DoubleTree in Detroit for a little hot catcher's mitt action. And it actually comes with its own little brush, not a cheapie applicator pad. I found that although the brush was small, the quality of it was pretty on par with the other Sonia Kashuk brushes I have (which is good), although not as good as my favorite Sephora brand ones. This is a great plus, again, for $13. Obviously you can use your own bronzer brush with it, but I really like the option of being able to just throw one self-contained product into my bag if I need to.

Now to the actual formula: the big difference between this and other bronzers is the illuminating factor. You can see right off the bat that this stuff is pretty shiny. I have no issue with that because I like a little sheen, especially in summer. This stuff would be killer on shoulders and cleavage, and, really, that is one of my primary uses for bronzer, even when I'm not trying to sneak a beej to a member of the Minnesota Twins. I KNOW. TOTAL SLUT. LET ME SHOW YOU HOW I SNORT MY BIRTH CONTROL PILLS OFF A LOUISVILLE SLUGGER. (And by Louisville Slugger, I mean "penis.") So, what I'm saying is, that's fine with me. If you don't like shine, I would not pass go and head directly to Nars Laguna camp. Aside from the shine, the other thing that sets this apart is that it is long-lasting. The internet tells me that it is engineered to go 12 hours, which Mauer loves because he wants the option to bone and then spend time snuggling while he watches old video of Josh Beckett getting LIT UP, which inevitably makes him ready to go again, and well, you don't want to be pasty when it is time for Mauer 2: Revenge of the Dong. In my experience, it definitely lasts the workday. It hasn't been hot enough yet for me to put it to the test by wearing it to the park or something like that, but I think it could hold up to some pretty strenuous activity. Sometimes at work, I get really mad at people for being stupid and I type out furious tweets that I never, ever submit. It has lasted through that.

The only thing to watch for with this stuff is that it can go from pasty to DIRRRRTY in one quick swipe. And not mid-aught's Christina DIRRRTY. Like, "Um, what do you have on your face?" dirty. For instance, the first time I put it on, I kept thinking I wasn't getting anything on the brush. I would swirl a bit and then apply, and I didn't see many little bronzer particles actually on the brush or on my face. So I applied a bit more pressure to the brush and then swiped on my forehead. And yeah. BIG DIRTY SPOT. Thankfully, I was able to spread it out and rub it in a bit and get it to the level I wanted. And really, that is another thing to note about this product: there is only one "shade," that being "Goddess." So it is definitely "buildable" color. If you are pale like me, you're going to have to be pretty careful about how much you put on. If you are darker, you could probably go hog wild. I don't know. You tan people confuse me. I think you must live such a rich and full life that I will never know, one that includes more sex with baseball players, more halter tops and a lot of glasses of white zinfandel.

So in the end, this is going to be my bronzer for the summer. I like it. And Joe Mauer approves. He's like, "Hey Girl. When you wear that bronzer, it makes me think of a perfectly seasoned mitt, all soft and supple and tan. And I'm like, you wanna be a part of this battery? And you're lookin' at me and kinda bitin' your lip which is really cute, and I just know that me and you are going to reinact that fight between Robin Ventura and Nolan Ryan, except without the punching and add a whole lot more genitalia."

got2b Powderfull I read about this product somewhere on the interwebz, and to be really honest, the place is escaping me now. But the review must have been good, because I looked at a bunch of places to find it. I finally found it in the Fourth Circle of Hell, aka, the Norton, VA Wal-Mart. I can't even remember why I was in that store to begin with. It's not like I needed to score some illegal Xanax or convince myself to never let solid food pass my lips again which would be the only reasons I can think of for going to that particular store. Hmmmm... Now I'm verklempt.

Anyway, this is not the type of prestige product you leave out on your bathroom counter so that visitors can marvel at your beauty acumen and deep pockets. I guess that using lowercase letters and interspersing numbers into words in a brand name is just not my game. This seems like something my daughter would be taken by and she's 13. But despite all that, I bought it, and I use it almost every day. And maybe I do that for the sheer novelty of it. I don't know. Because to be honest, this is a weird product. It is a little thing of powder, and you shake the powder out in your hand and then you rub your hands together and the stuff totally disappears. Like magic. It is kind of freaky the first time you do it, especially when you are left with a slight cool sensation on your hands. I'm just going to be honest: I've never been a drug user myself, but I watch a lot of Intervention. And this looks like something you'd sniff with a $20. ANYWAY, after it disappears, you rub your hands through your head and it gives your hair volume.

And yeah, it does. You can immediately see some lift to your hair, although one wonders if you wouldn't see the same thing from just fussing around with your hands, you know? It doesn't really last though. Let's just say that, sure, you could do a quick bathroom trip, fluff your hair and come out and be stripper ready for Mr. Mauer. But after you did a few things that are illegal in the state of VA, you're going to have to rely on the sheer magic of sexin' to give you your full-bodied look. This stuff will be long gone.

So why do I keep using it? Well, besides the fact that it is just weird enough to keep me interested, it is a pretty decent texturizer (the only thing I really like better for this purpose is Jonathan Silky Dirt, which, technically, I haven't used in years). I have been using it on the ends of my hair to create a kind of piecey look that I really like. And while it doesn't give me OUTRAGEOUS volume all day, I like the teensy bit that it does give better than I like the kind of stickier volume that can come from mousses or sprays. Maybe it is because I've been wearing my hair stick straight lately, and am not looking for anything super OMG big. In that case, it is a serviceable product. Worth risking life and personal hygiene by going to a Wal-Mart to get it?Maybe not. But if I think to order it on Amazon next time, I just might buy it again.

Just a note to the wise: it mentions on the package that you can shake it directly on your roots for even more crazy volume. DO NOT DO THIS. For one thing, it is really hard to get blended, and you'll look like you have THE DRUGZ in your hair. Second off, even when I got it blended in, it left my hair feeling sticky and my scalp feeling kind of gross. Avoid.

Mauer verdict? "Hey Girl. You know I like it when your hair is all big and you toss it around and do that awkward dance to Motley Crue's Girls Girls Girls. Now, let me get out of this uniform and we can read passages of The Dirt to each other and reenact the better ones while trying to not think about the idea of Vince Neil ever having had sex."

We are no longer a co-sleeping family.

Well, I just lost a little bit of my crunchy-mom cred. If you need me, I'll be putting a bird on something.

Alice is now sleeping full time in the crib/converted daybed. Now the bed has been used by all of my children AND my cousin's two kids. That kind of makes me feel good in a full-circle, family kind of way.

BUT HOLY SWEET JESUS ON A RUBBER CRUTCH. NOT AS GOOD AS STRETCHING OUT FULLY IN MY BED/NOT HAVING MY HAIR PULLED ALL NIGHT LONG BY A MUMBLING, INCOHERENT SLEEP TYRANT!

It is funny how the whole thing happened too. We have talked with Alice extensively about moving into her own digs, and while she seemed ok with it in theory lots of times, in practice it was a whole 'nother ballgame. We would talked to her and get her excited about making the space "hers"--adding special blankets and toys and what have you. Then she would revolt, and I would feel so horrible that I would welcome her squirmy little body back into my personal space. Then she weaned herself. Still, even though she wasn't using me for the occasional nighttime comfort nurse, she seemed to NEED my hair. I started thinking about cutting it off and gluing it on a Dora doll for her. I started sleeping more and more on the couch, but only if I could pry myself away from her incessant little grasp. I was (even more) tired all the time and starting to really resent the bed partner.

And then, magically, on Friday, she just up and said she wanted to sleep in "[her] bed." It had become a repository for stuffed animals, unused blankets and a few unmatched socks, so Matt joyfully cleaned it off for her and we made it up with the softest and prettiest blankets we could find. I still fully expected her to go back on it. But then Friday night, after several Olivia books and an interminable amount of time spent discussing the finer points of Sesame Street, she was asleep. She made it until about 4:30 and then rejoined us. On Saturday night, though, she slept undisturbed all night long, and then walked into the living room and peacefully played with a dollhouse until I woke up, heard someone in the living room, and went running in there like a mad woman. I'm just glad she wasn't wearing a hoodie at the time, because sometimes children look mega-scary, you know? And I can't guarantee that when I'm scared, I won't violently disembowel someone. AMIRITE?

I can't tell you just how amazing it is to be able to stick my ass out at night and know that Matt is on the other side of it. We had not really snuggled in 2.5 years, ya'll (except for the odd vacation/kid's night at my MIL's). I even didn't mind when he tried to wake me up to have sex/tell me something dumb about a book he's reading (I normally don't mind either of those things, except when I am sleeping the sleep of a thousand nights or when they are related in some weird way, which it seems they were the other night? Maybe?). I HAD MISSED THAT. I feel about sleeping now the way I felt after I ate really good tiramisu for the first time--I literally cannot wait to do it again.

All that said, I am not anti-co-sleeping at all. It worked for us for a good long while, and actually, I was able to get more sleep in the first year than I would have been able to any other way. Allie is a good kid, and a good sleeper (aside from talking in her sleep--more about that later). Did co-sleeping make her that way? Maybe. Maybe not. We never had to deal with a night of her crying it out (which I did with Gabby and it.was.horrible. Poor kid had sleep issues until she went to school because of it), nor did we have to deal with the kind of sleep issues Sam had, which mostly had to do with him getting up at odd hours in the middle of the night deadset on eating popcorn and watching Cars. I would advocate any kind of sleeping you can get your kid to do. If it is co-sleeping, AWESOME. If it is putting them in the back of a Peugeot and driving them around while singing James Taylor until they conk and then putting them in a crib, GREAT (note: that is the only way my mom could get me to sleep, apparently).

I think I've said it before, but my grand experience with more natural parenting has taught me that it is best to be super non-judgmental about any kind of parenting choice. You do what you do because you think it will work. And then you reevaluate. And you put up with some discomfort because you want your kid to be happy/healthy/better off. And then they change whatever it was that you wanted them to change and you realize that things do, indeed, work out. When they are good and ready to do so.

And now without further adieu, I present to you the wacky and bizarre things Alice has said in her sleep in her first nights out on her own. Apparently, if she doesn't have my hair to fondle/yank, she dreams about some weird crap and talks about it. And it is awesome:

• Kiss me! I'm sleeping beauty!
• I'm hungry, but no doughnuts!
• Mommy here. She bite me.
• garble, garble, garble BOOTS!
• Rosita say Buenes NOCHES!

Bright Lips and Me

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS. Aliens totally came and abducted me on March 9, and took me to another planet where I had to engage in lots of sick, twisted alien sex and they only brought me back when they couldn't take anymore of my incessant talking and begging for internet access! It was so, so bad, you guys. But the food was actually kind of good, so that's why I've gained four pounds. IT TOTALLY HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE FACT I'VE STARTED CONSIDERING "Dove Chocolate Bar and Diet Coke" A MUST FOR DRIVING HOME. Why would you say that? You just hurt my feelings.

Ok, yeah, whatever. Let's just blame my absence on it being March. March blows. Like for real--there is a proven thing about light or something and how it makes people depressed in March. I read it on the internet, so it is totally true and I could totally go out and eat seven cheeseburgers, kill a drifter, and become a raging Black Eyed Peas fangirl, and everyone would totally be like, "Whatevs! It's March!"

It is, I should say though, hella warm outside. I hope it is for you too, because that helps, you know, with the March-ness of it all. As I write this, it is a perfect 69 degrees outside, and it is 11:15 in the morning. That's awesome. I love it. I am wearing (this kind of makes me feel sexy, telling you what I'm wearing. Is it bad that I sometimes think about taking up phone sex as a career? Like seriously think about it?) a black maxi dress from The Gap that I adore and plan to buy many, many more of, a denim jacket with holes from the J.Crew outlet, a sparkly necklace, and gold gladiator sandals from Lands End Canvas. And I am so feeling the outfit. Is it seasonally appropriate? Probably not. The shoes definitely aren't. But here's the thing--you guys, my 13 year old likes these shoes. She thinks they are pretty. And they are something I picked out. So you understand that I have to wear them all the time, right? And it's a shame that my boss is gone and nobody is really around to see my finery. What is awesome is that I have spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in front of this two-way mirror that separates his office from the common area and putting on lip gloss. And that's where this post comes in.

I have never been a bright lip girl, except for a very brief period when I was around 7 or 8 and became obsessed with Mary Kay Fuchsia cream lipstick. I have always used tawny shades (the recently discontinued Buxom Dolly is a favorite). I like Clinique Black Honey, but even that, when layered a bit too heartily is a bit much for me. When I wear bright lipstick, I always feel it dates me a bit. Like I'm 29 before lipstick, and a solid 52 after. And no one wants 52. Unless they're 55.

But bright lipstick is hot this year, and well, really, it's hot all the damn time. I have always wanted to be the MAC red type girl, who just pulls out a tube of real lipstick (not gloss or anything with a wand) and puts on a creamy, matte stripe of color and rocks it. It's the part of me that will stay 13 forever and worship anything Gwen Stefani-esque. So, I tried. And really, lipstick is a cheap little trick, so you can try them and then become disgusted with yourself and have another--kind of like an order of McDonald's fries or a Kardashian.

First I bought Revlon ColorStay in Top Tomato. I had read a lot about it, and it looked familiar, like a gloss or something. And I'll tell you--people love this stuff. It has a devoted following. I really kind of hate it. First off, sure it adheres to your lips after a little bit. But for that first little while, it gets EVERYWHERE. On your teeth. Around your mouth. The teeth thing, though, is what killed me. Suddenly, I was my fifth grade teacher, Ms. McReynolds, whose husband drove a Mustang and who once gave me a 70 on a science test because someone else cheated off of my paper without my knowledge. I WOULD RATHER LOOK LIKE SADDAM HUSSEIN IS WHAT I AM SAYING. And then, it kind of flakes after that so you end up with it kind of peeling off, which I guess could have been my dry lips and the fact that it was February, but well, let's blame the product because that is easier. I tried to mitigate this by layering Burt's Bees Tinted Lip Balm in Rose over top of it, and really, the color of that combo was really pretty, but there was a bit of hassle there and I am not the one for hassle.

Ok, one more thing about this stuff, and I will advise you not to read this paragraph is you are a) one of my children or b) my mother in law or c) if you have a weak constitution and/or have considered voting for Santorum. The ColorStay side of this does not really hold up to pressure. I wore this on Valentine's Day. I wore it with a black dress and heels and a red cardigan, and I came home and found that my husband had cleaned our house and washed all the diapers, and I'm a woman and the smell of PineSol is a total turn on--I'm not going to front. So within about 15 seconds of me arriving home and realizing that my children were at my MIL's, I wasn't wearing the dress anymore. And maybe I was really happy about the house or whatever and a bit more enthusiastic than say, I would be at the office, but by the time I stopped to check my appearance, I had this stuff up to my hairline. I am not kidding. I looked like a teenage prostitute from a Law and Order episode with Chris Noth in it. Now, I found that really sexy and my husband did too, but yeah, COLORSTAY MY ASS.

Oh and I should mention that my mom told me I looked old in this. MY OWN MOTHER. Fail.

So then I bought L'Oreal Colour Riche Lipstick in British Red. It fit my requirement of being in a little gold tube. I had images of me pulling out this bad boy and being a grown ass woman applying her lipstick and drinking a vodka tonic and having someone murdered. Ok, not really. I drink gin. And really, at times, I like it on me. It is a good, solid, coral red. But the thing is, it's just not me. I can put it on in the morning, feel pretty good about it, and then about halfway through the day I catch a look at myself and all I see is "LIPS" which is a let down because usually I see "BOOBS." I kept justifying it, saying that I should buy some lipliner (I KNOW) or I should be better about reapplying it, or put some gloss on it. But really, it just comes down to the fact that it is not me and I don't like it that much. So I start realizing that not only am I never going to be an Olympic gymnast, now I'm not going to look like Dita von Teese either. FUCK. Pass me that caramel mocha, you guys, cause nothing really matters anymore.

And it smells like my grandmother. Which is a total potshot, but really, you should go sniff a tube.

So I kinda gave up, and thought I would make do with my last tube of Revlon Super Lustrous Lip Gloss in Cherries in the Glow, which may have been discontinued because I can't find it anymore. And I chalked bright lipstick up there with math and the Lord of the Rings novels as things that I will never, ever get to participate in. But then this little beauty walked into my life:

What you are looking at is Mary Kay NouriShine Plus Lip Gloss in Rockin' Red. It is bright. It is color saturated. It is red. And yet, it is a gloss. It is shiny without being sticky, and it makes your lips feel so, so good. I adore it. It makes me feel like my lips are a part of my face again, albeit a brighter, happier part of my face. I think, personally, it is the matte bright lip, but given a spring update. And lest you think that this is the only bright option from Mary Kay, I will also say that the Mango Tango, a very bright orange-y coral is FABULOUS. And the best part? It has no discernible scent at all. I have to say as well that it lasts a lot better than other glosses, although you will want to reapply it because it feels so nice on the lips. You guys? This is a Holy Grail type product. And I don't throw that around lightly.

The other product I have found that gives me the bright lip I want without any of the uncomfortable old lady-ness of a lipstick is Revlon Lip Butter in Lollipop. I read about it on Wardrobe Oxygen, thought I could ignore it, but found myself at Target looking at it and realized that I really had to have it if for no other reason than just to say that I went there. Yeah, bright pink. I OWNED YOU. I wore it with a black and white wrap dress that I got at Old Navy on clearance for $10.94 (!!!), and I loved the look of the bright lip with the pattern. It did not, however, jive with the coral trench coat I wore over the dress that night. So I had to go back to my tawny gloss. And that was kind of an a-ha moment for me, this moment of realizing that clothing and lip gloss can clash and totally screw with a look. OMG, WHO KNEW!?! (Everyone in the world, I would say.) I plan on wearing it a lot more this summer--have already tried it with a neon yellow striped tee that I picked up, and it felt fresh to me. Once again, the formula is rich and nice and kind of luxurious feeling.

So the moral of this whole sad, disjointed story is that a) I spend way too much money on lipgloss and b) My lips are delicate little flowers and must be babied with things like "butters" and "nourishine." I am much, much too soft for a lipstick. And too young. And will remain that way for the foreseeable future.

Stay tuned, my little chicken kievs! I have a bunch more product reviews to do and also, I, at some point, want to really start delving into my very complicated relationship with food because really, I don't understand it, and maybe having four people read about it can shed some light on it. Because the internet provides me therapeutic care as well. Obviously.

Today my daughter turns 13 years old.

I could sit here and recount all the wonderful memories that we've had together--the trips to the zoo, the shopping trips, the times that I walked her around campus when I was in college, making up funny stories about the statues. But really, you know, you don't care. Those are nice, I guess, to hear, but you weren't there to feel the sun on your arms, to hear her giggle caught on the wind. So you don't know what an amazing child she is and you don't know how much I love her. Or maybe you do. Maybe you have your own kid who is sunshine and laughter.

I could also bemoan the future. She is turning 13 after all, and of all the ages that a parent says to someone else that their child is, 13 is the one sure to get a groan. We are all conditioned to think pretty badly of teenagers, and for good reason too--have you been to the mall lately? HOLY SHIT. They're horrible! But really, although I know there are rough times ahead, I'm sure it is something we will get through. I'm just going to keep her away from the Insane Clown Posse and any boys named "Spike."

I won't do either of those things in this blog post. What I will do is make a confession.

She's 13 today. And I only have five years left with her before I let her go into the mad, mad world. And I miss her already.

Today she walked out of her room, wearing a tight t-shirt with some character from Cartoon Network on it that said something about a moustache, inky skinny jeans, and a flourescent green hoodie. In her hair was a black sequinned headband with a huge bow on it, and she was wearing those orange Dr. Seuss Chuck Taylors. She could be seen from SPACE. But all I could think about was that someday, she is going to walk out of a room, carrying a bag, and I will not be worried about being late for work. I will be worried about leaving her behind in some dorm room with some kid whose parents very well might be homicidal maniacs who let their unsocialized child do nothing but play video games and drink Mountain Dew. THE HORROR. I will worry, and she will not be there to laugh about it. She will belong to the world then.

I am on the downhill slide with Gabby, I guess, and I think it hurts me the most of anything. Gabby has always been with me. She left home when I did, I packed her away to college with me, she moved across the country and moved back with me. She has always been there, by my side. And part of me wants to let her go a little, to see her flourish the way that I know she can, but the other part wants her to mine-all-mine forever. But she won't be.

And dammit, 13 is making me think about that all day. Maybe it is the cruelest age.

But instead of reveling in my own sad-sackedness, I will tell you this about my daughter. She is truly an individual (as the above outfit can attest). I asked her last night what she wanted me to fix her for dinner tonight. We had thought of making ribs or something similar to surprise her, but you never know, so I thought to ask. She thought for a bit, and said "Grilled vegetable skewers." Um, ok. Then she qualifies and says she wants it with hummus and pita (homemade if I can swing it--and I can't today) and tabboulleh. And I sat there and thought, "WHAT IN THE HELL?" When it is my birthday, I go into definite EAT ALL THE THINGS mode. But here stands my 13 year old, telling me she wants to eat VEGETABLES on her birthday?!?

I either did really good with that one, or I totally screwed her up. I'll let you decide and judge away. But at any rate, I'll fill her up with veggies, and see how long I can keep her.

Blah Day

There is all manner of severe weather going down in my neck of the woods. Tornado watches and warnings and OH SHITS are running rampant through Facebook. Every other status quotes something about "tornadic" activity (I am still trying to figure out if that is a real word). Hell, my kids are getting out of school an hour early today because of it.

I know this is bad, but I'm not much for weather-y shenanigans. When I was a kid, my mom used to tell me that the mountains were around us to protect us and that was the good thing about living where I did/do. (She didn't mention that was the ONLY good thing.) So when I see this stuff, I'm kinda like, "OK, whatever." THIS IS ALL BAD. I KNOW THAT. My family all hates me for it. In a way, I am a stunning daredevil of weather related phenomena. I have a very self-destructive sense running through me, and I think this is part of it. Some people abuse drugs, some develop eating disorders, and some are just general "Fuck it!"'s about questions of personal safety. That's where I come in.

I also eat food off the floor. There. I'm not afraid to say it.

Anyway, I'm not feeling super awesome today anyway, and I'll tell you why (and no, it doesn't have anything to do with eating something gnarley):

Fucking ab exercises.

Yesterday we started our March challenge as a family (run/walk a mile and read for 26 minutes each day). I happily loaded my group into the car after work (some more grudgingly than others) and we took our walk. I didn't have high hopes for Sam, who said he had already walked a mile that day. That little nerd, though....HOLY CRAP. That kid ran his mile. It was amazing. Especially given that he is pretty short with little strides. He would run for a while, notice that he was a good deal in front of us (especially at the beginning before Alice allowed us to put her in her stroller), stop and play with sticks, and then run again. I was so, so happy. How he learned to do that, I'll never know. Maybe Batman: Arkham City taught him? In that case, thanks, BATMAN!!!

Like I said, after the first 1/4 of a mile when Alice insisted on walking and picking.up.every.single.stick., I was able to go pretty fast myself. Allie can definitely walk the mile, but I think she enjoyed being put in the stroller and pushed while some heaving mad woman pushed her and made stupid references to silent Russian films about the revolution. I was proud of myself. It was my first time out in a while, and it felt good.

I got home and I WAS INSPIRED. I made dinner and did my family reading, and then it was ON LIKE DONKEY KONG. I went through some old Fitness magazines that I was using to hold up boot shafts (roll 'em up, girls, and stick em in to store yo' boots!), and found this ab workout thing by that Jackie person who used to be on Bravo. Is she still on Bravo? I have no idea. Up until about three months ago, I my cable provider didn't offer Bravo or MSNBC because those stations are for THE GAYS and we should all be watching Pat Robertson anyway, you know. Anyway, I tore out the page and found my 5 lb. dumbbell which was hiding, interestingly, next to this stupid religious book about debt that my MIL gave to my husband and a dustbunny the size of my youngest child.

(Ok, the weather is really getting hairy now. I feel like one of those guys they send to the Outer Banks in a blue anorak to talk about hurricanes. I hope I don't die while I'm typing this. At least you'll be able to say, "She died as she lived: being stupid on the internet.")

I started doing the exercises while watching a tivoed episode of Snapped. Alice was sitting on the couch watching Angelina Ballerina on her iPod. She kept saying "What you doing, Mommy?" and I kept saying, "Exercising." I got to the fourth exercise of the five (first rep of all of them), and all of a sudden, I felt like I was going to puke. The urge was so strong, I sat down, put the dumbbell down and stared at the TV in disgust. How was I that out of shape? Alice then goes, "Why you stop exercising, Mommy?" and I had to say, "Don't rub it in, kid."

This morning I got up, and I just felt weird. Like really "off." I have kind of a sick headache, and I've been really lightheaded a couple of times. And I just don't feel like myself. I am wearing black leggings from Target, a spring dress, a scarf, my denim jacket, and a pair of Frye Harness boots. That means nothing to you, but really, if I'm wearing leggings and a dress, what I'm basically saying is, "Stay away from me. I'm a little bit bitchy today and the world hates me." It is my version of pj pants and crocs.

So I called my mom. My mom is an exercise and diet fiend, more out of necessity than anything else. She's one of these people who has insanely high cholesterol that is not easily controlled, so it is either take a medicine that makes her feel bad or be a little unhinged. She chooses being crazy. She confirmed that the ab exercises in P90X do that to her. She also thought I was coming down a bit from having a lot of sugar last weekend when we celebrated her birthday by getting pukey drunk on BabyCakes cupcakes. My 12 y.o. daughter had the wherewithall to step away from the sugar when she had had enough. We did not. Because we're dumb.

This is a really long way of saying two things 1) I am bored today, and I don't feel good, and 2) Ab exercises are the devil. I hate them forever. I am thinking of letting my belly get really big and floppy and walking around Wal-Mart in a pair of cotton pants JUST TO SPITE THEM. Pass the Ben & Jerry's, bitches. It's about to get fluffy up in here.

This is just another reason for me to hate Fergie.

*I should note that this is the second Friday in a row that I haven't done Fashion Friday. Last week was because of crazy work stuff--I have a half written post featuring a dress I bought that Wardrobe Oxygen also bought which is yes, awesome--and this week is because I am Oscar the Grouch in a scarf. Next week! When the sun will shine and my abs will be much happier with me.

My daughter hates me.

My kids' school is doing this program during the month of March. You can sign up and pledge to read for 26 minutes and run/walk a mile each day. At the end of the month, there is a 5K for the school. Everyone goes and walks around the town and you get t-shirts and the joy of knowing what you accomplished.

I think it is a lovely idea. For one thing, our area is given to horrible health issues, mostly related to obesity and lack of education. This is inspiring the kids in our community to meet those challenges head on. I LOVES IT. When my son brought home the form, I basically told him that I was signing him up. Sam is a great reader (and reads for more than 26 minutes each day on his own), but we could all use a little help in outdoor activities. He seemed excited, and didn't really fight me on it at all. I was a little surprised by this, to be honest.

Then I got the great idea to do it as a family. As a group, we have let the fast pace of life, as well as the presence of the TV and internet get between us and reading as much as we should or could. And then there is exercise.... As I have related before, I do great during spring and summer with exercising. Winter notsomuch. So I need something to inspire me back into good habits. The kids and Matt do as well. After confirming with the husband, I made the executive decision that we would all participate together. I even thought of making our own incentives for good work and making a family challenge to read the most pages/walk the most miles. Seriously. When my mind latches onto something like this, I'm like one of those snapping turtles that you have to wait until it thunders for it to pull loose.

Gabby, however, was not similarly excited. She immediately told me that she had lost the form so I wouldn't be able to sign her up. I asked her to get one at school the next day. Sensing there was another excuse where the other had come from, I called the school and asked them to make sure she got an extra form sent up to her. She was not happy about that. I tried several times to get her to tell me why she didn't want to participate, and the most I could get from her was that her friends weren't doing it and that she "just didn't want to." I explained that we all needed the exercise, and that she, especially, had let a love for technology come between her and reading. I played the college card, telling her that reading now is her best bet at getting into and enjoying college (seriously, as a former test prep person, the only guaranteed way to get a higher verbal SAT score is to develop a love and taste for reading early on). She still abjectly refused to do it. She then said she didn't want to do it because she didn't want to get the free t-shirt because "they never fit right" and she didn't want to wear something like that. I listened to this, but told her it wasn't like I was asking her to wear it everyday, and that she could just put it in her drawer with the t's that she sleeps in.

Finally, she came up with this compromise, where if I didn't sign her up through the school, she would do the program, but not participate in the 5K. I briefly considered this, but decided against it. Her attitude was pretty bad about the whole thing, even going so far as to insult her brother and talking about how stupid the whole thing was. I didn't want a compromise to seem like an acceptance of that behavior.

So I signed the form and positively dared her not to turn it in. And this morning, I made her deliver Sam to the gym so that he could participate in the first pre-school walking work-out. I told her that she didn't have to walk herself, but that she would have to at least make sure Sam got there ok. She, of course, responded by not speaking to me on the way to school, calling me "mean," and slamming the car door in my face.

You know, I was a holy terror when I was her age. I remember yelling at my mom that I wanted to live with my dad, telling her that she was mean and stupid and OH MY GOD ARE YOU FOR REAL?!?! She got so used to it that when I pulled the dad card, she would just look at me straight in the eye and tell me go to pack my bag, that she would wait until he was home from work and call and see when he could pick me up. One time she dialed the number before I told her to stop and sulked off to my room to listen to Prodigy and plot my escape through any OTHER means. So I get it. I really do. Hormones are racing and things are weird and you have to deal with mean girls and first periods and people who don't understand you, because at that age, no one does. I try to tell Gabby that I do get it, but that I can't let this stage in her life keep her or the rest of us from enjoying ourselves. And deep down, I think participating in this with us will be enjoyable. I am deluded enough to think that.

I read these things on the internet about parenting, and so many of them say something to the tune of, "If your kid doesn't hate you, you're not doing it right." I can see that argument. As a parent, you have to toe that line between dictator and friend, and it is only natural that at some points, you are going to fall well over into the dictator side of things. And that's ok. We all--not just kids--need that sometimes. I have to say, though, from my standpoint, it does suck when your kid is so mad at you that they won't even look your way, that they won't even make a comment on the stupid Selena Gomez song that just came on the radio (btw, have you ever seen the video for "I Love You Like A Lovesong"? Gabby and I watch this on YouTube just to laugh at it. That is, when she is speaking to me). You don't want that at all, and any parent that says they do, is lying.

I kinda dread going home today, to be really honest, and part of it has to do with getting Gabby to do anything with this program. I hope she'll be fine with it when I get there. If she's anything like her mom, though, she'll be good and sulky, really wallowing in it by the time I enter the scene and try to ply her with buffalo chicken.

Ah, parenting. Yes, Snooki, this is what you just got yourself into.