Ah, Vacation

We're about 2 days into vacation and I already feel like I can breathe a little more easily (except for the dramz the day we left- more on that later- but just think trip to the ER).

 

Bad Bloggy Hair Day

So, I've been reading a lot more blogs lately.

Read: I've been a procrastination queen lately.

And I've made a realization.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait.

My blog is fugly.  (Sorry to c-tease you)

No really.  It's not cute.  Like, "Gah! This is a homemade piece of shit scarf my dog made for me! Only on the internet where total strangers see it and judge me and blarghgfrrrgggfff." I think I have to hire somebody to fix this mo-fo.

Also, I think I may need to get my own url. I don't know.  I think I'm going to put up a poll about what I should name my blog.  (ps- some whore took "andbabymakesfour.com" and doesn't even write on it...just sayin)

And also, I just had a YOUGE glass of wine and ate 2 bean quesadillas today. I told you I'm bringing the sexeh revolution. Wine + Bean Quesadilla = Big Fat Win For Brendan.

What url should I choose for this piece of sh*t blog?

I'm Bringing Sexy Fat

So some really smart scientist and doctor peeps put their heads together, ran some studies with clipboards, and came to this startling conclusion:

Fat Sex is kind of Bad Sex

Turns out overweight people (especially those packing female parts) said they didn't like sex as much as their skinny counterparts. Which made me think- This is less about your dress size and more about obsessing over that size.

This got me thinking about being Sexy Fat. You know, where it's all "I've got curves that make your eyeballs do that cartoon springy deal. In a good way." Where being fat is less about being fat and more about having curves. Where your body is all Marilyn Monroe-ish and you're not spending time figuring out how to pose yourself or how you can create ambient "ooh lala light" and avoid the kind of dressing-room lighting that makes Kate Moss look bad.

So, I googled "sexy fat."  (PSA- Don't do this unless you want a porn slap to your eyes)

Ah will make you feel the sexeh

This ended up being an exercise in futility.  I gathered pointers like, "Have good hygiene."

Dude.

So, I think that in the end, sexy fat is not about good lighting, sucking it in, or doing a wiggly dance of love. I think it comes down to what's between your ears.

It's hard. But I need to work on obsessing forgetting my wobbly bits, living in the moment, and some g-d body confidence already.

Because, Baby, I'm gonna bring the sexeh.

The sexeh revolution.

What do you do to just get over yourself already?

Sand In Your Shorts

A week from now I'll be on the beach.  

I hope I feel like this:

 

Yep. That's me and my Daddio and Pedro, circa 1985.  Retro Baby. 

I was in my posing stage. Don't hate.

T minus 6 days.

Just The Tip

I'm having a bloggy identity crisis.

All of about 5 minutes ago I sent in my registration to a blog conference.  All of about 4.5 minutes ago, I had a minor anxiety attack.

I don't know anyone.
I'm not a pro blogger.
Why am I doing this?
People will think I'm a poser.
I have ugly feet.

All kinds of insecurities raised their ugly heads.  And I've been mulling over the idea of this thing for about 24 hours. I talked to my mom, brother, husband, and babies about it. Should I go? Should I not? Who do I think I am?

They gave me some good advice:

Mom: Being afraid is a crap reason to not go.
Brother: Will you get your money's worth of information?
Husband: Do I get to spend that amount of money on anything I want to? If yes, you should go.
Babies: Babbley babble, that, babble

So, I did it.  I'm not a pro blogger. I don't profess to be one. I'm not trying to be one. I don't even really have bloggy prowess. But it's just down the road from my house. If I hate it, I'll come home and call the 5 minute commute a wash.

I Heart Orifices

But a toe in the water doesn't hurt, right? Unless the waters are infested with pirahnas or those amazon fish who swim up your rectum or pee hole.  But maybe bloggers are nice people? Maybe? I doubt anybody wants to swim up my pee hole.


So, I'll give it a try. Maybe I'll learn something. Maybe I'll hide in the bathroom the whole time.  Maybe I'll pretend to be somebody with an accent and wear a funny hat.. 

Okay. Vent over. But be prepared to hear about this again. Repeatedly. It's my blog and I can be neurotic as I wanna be.

How To Leave Your Babies Overnight For the First Time and Avoid Kidnapping

I spent my first night away from the babies last week.

I went to a 3-day drunk fest training conference up in yonder mountains.  I was a little nervous. Would I or wouldn't I run screaming home before the sun went down?  The whole thing was kind of a nail-biter.

I hugged the babies, rolled my suitcase out to the car, and smeared some fast-food on my face on the way. 

Baby withdrawal hit at about 5pm.  Skype bitched out on me and Happy Hour was calling.  I was all, "I'm drinking to forget, Suckas!"  Dinner looked like this:

Mmm....Beer Flight.  Dinner of champions

The next night I was having full-on Baby DTs-  Looking at their pictures on my phone, Passing the pictures around, and Jonesin for some Baby.  And then near-disaster struck at 4:30pm.

Some guy had his baby with him.
In the bar.
During happy hour.

She was super-cute. And little. And I WANTED TO HOLD HER.

I told my friend that I needed a fix and Baby was my drug of choice.

She was little.  I had a big purse.  I could tote her around and sing Karen Carpenter songs.

Hello Baby. Get in mah purse!

But I changed my mind when I realized that she probably would not appreciate being squished between my conference name tag and complementary water bottle. Besides, she wasn't MY baby and stealing babies is bad. (I do have morals, you know.)


So, I suffered in silence.  But I survived.  And now I'm passing my wisdom on to you interwebbers:

Tips for Moms spending the night (or 3 days and 2 nights- also known as 52 hours) away from their offspring:

1. Drink your sorrows away (but if you're at 10,000 feet above see level- drink slowly- trust).
2.  Make sure your Skype doesn't bitch out on you.
3. Make your husband send you cute pictures (like these):

 

4. Try to resist the urge to talk about your babies to strangers, insert them into every conversation, or shove their pictures into the faces of every person within 2 feet, screaming "Look at my baby! He NEEDS me!"

5. If you decide to watch videos of them during a boring training, make sure to have the volume turned off. Oops.

6. Carry a small purse in case you see any cute babies you want to steal. It will help you win over temptation.
7. Bring a Dummy Baby (teddy bear, toy doll, squirrel dressed like a baby) to tote around or hug when withdrawal sets in.
8. Don't steal babies.

You're welcome.

Does anybody have any other tips I may have overlooked?

I Spit On Your Fun

Let me paint you a picture.

Everybody's hanging out. Mama has coffee.  Babies are playing. Obnoxious baby toy musics chimes in the background (that I hardly even hear anymore).  We're all chillaxin.  It looks kind of like this:

 

And, OF COURSE, nothing ruins chillaxin time like some good old parenting.  

"Stop pushing your sister!"

"No, you can not climb on the table!"

"No thank you. I do not want to have your fingers in my mouth."

Or in this case, "You can not touch my camera with your nasty baby fingers. I'm sorry."

 

Chillaxin time effectively ruined by Queen of Party-Pooping Parenting.

I'll See Your Hoochie Skirt and Raise You a Mom Purse

A couple weeks ago I attended a bachelorette party.  It was fun, it was crazy, and it ended with tired feet and feeling...old...

About 10 years ago, I was Queen of the Club.

High heels, sassy tops, eyeliner, and hairspray were my uniform of hooch.

I spent evenings talking in code to girlfriends ("Did you hear that?" =  CUTE GUY ALERT!) and wiggling my eyebrows at hotties across the room.  I could laugh, toss my hair, and do a shot all at the same time. I would shake it on the dance floor and spent a few nights wiggling away from guys who were shmarmy marmies.

After flashing my ID to the doorman last Friday, I caught a glimpse of my reflection.  I won't lie. It scared me.

My thirty-something, tired face did not say, "I am so fun! Buy me a cocktail sailor!"  Instead it read, "My shoes are effing killing me."

Once inside, the scene was familiar: Couches, low lights, pounding music, a crowded dance floor.

I spit on your game! Do you need a Sponge Bob crayon?

As my friends and I went out to dance, my ginormous mom-sized purse began to make its presence known. I was bumping into girls with skirts up to their britneys.  When I raised my hands, it thumped like lead against my side.  Every time a machismo schmuck squeezed past to dry hump the nearest girl, he got c-blocked by the bag. My mom purse was like a cold shower for the masses, "Make Room for the Holy Spirit!"

That sucker was a party-girl ball & chain. I wanted to toss it in a dark corner, coat check it, and pretend to be 23 again.

About 2 seconds later I changed my mind.

23 was a horror show. As was 24, 25, and 26. And then I met Brendan and I didn't need codes, wiggling eyebrows, low-cut blouses, and eyeliner to boost my fragile ego.  6 years and 2 babies later, you can keep your britney-showing skirt.  I'll keep my mom purse.

But I can still toss my hair like a pro.

Woof

Remember that time, I talked about not treating your kids like animals, even if they act like it?

Case in point

Woof

My Body is a Temple of Doom

The beach is calling.  2 weeks away.

And the scale is back to its old antics- full-on giving me the finger for the past 3 weeks. Whatever. I'm over that damn torture contraption.  (I say that but like a bad boyfriend, I keep running back like "Love me now?" and it responds- "Ah hate you.")

Back to the beach.

I'm excited.  Except for this one thing. About the swimsuit.  Eegads.

I went to this website for a swim store that's supposed to help you choose a suit based on your problem areas. I pulled it up, raised an eyebrow at the size 0 model with her size huge bosoms, and tried to navigate my way through.  It was a massive attack of Fail of Fail-Sized proportions.

The Options:

SUPPORTS BUST- Why, yes please. These puppies spend most of their time searching the ground of spare change.

ENHANCE CLEAVAGE-  Not only are they in a new zip code but they SHRUNK after milk duty. This must be some cruel joke from mother nature since I was already a member of the Itty Bitty Committee. I need some enhancing action. Check.

SLIMS HIPS & THIGHS- Indeed. Seeing as how these hips don't lie and baby got back this would again be in the Hell Yes Department.

TRIMS TUMMY- This muffin needs trimming. My vote is yay.

ELONGATES LEGS-  I'm a shorty. A not-quite-5'2"- shorty.  I know it offended someone when I called myself Danny Devito.  But when it comes to my legs I prefer Giselle to Danny thankuverymuch.

I froze.  A "Yes" on everything.  This was not the SATs.  There was no "All of The Above,"  "A & D,"  "A,B, & C" to choose from.  Not even a "If your bosoms are falling at the rate of 20 mph and your hips jiggle at 45 miles an hour, where will they meet, necessitating a scuba suit for the beach?" - which would have been an easier equation than what I was faced with.

Even when I ventured in further, I was slapped in the face with further ridiculousness. Behold, one of the standard options for the "slims hips & thighs" collection:

Polka Dot Ridiculousness. I would rather jiggle

The result- slamming my laptop shut and walking away.  Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.

How do you survive swimsuit buying? Any horrifying swimsuit experiences?

Do You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth?

There are words that make me cringe.  Like nails on a chalkboard.

They're not four-letter words.  We all know I'm a little too fond of the four-letter variety words.  To the point where a cuss jar may need to be instituted around here.  Cause, you know-  toddlers + mimicking + sailor mama = Meet the Fockers.

These words seem innocuous.  But when I hear them, part of my brain throbs.  I think it's called the pain center or the "I Will Cut You" center. I'm not a scientist. I'll have to ask somebody who knows.

Words of Pain:

Hubby

Nipple

Panties

Quite

Absolutely (when not used on its own. Like, "Can I buy you a drink?" "Absolutely!" gets a thumb's up. Otherwise, just say no to adverb abuse)

And the mother of all gross words.......

Moist

Even typing it makes me want to swirl a pen in my ear. 

Do you have words that make your skin crawl like a bad acid trip?

I Feel Better

This video is brought to you, courtesy of my brother.

He told me, "I just thought of you and your deep love for boy bands."

It's true. I used to sing along with the best of them. 

Enjoy.  And see if you can ever sing along with  Insert Boy Band of Choice Here the same again.

Happy Fourth Peeps

Hope y'all had a super non-hungover Fourth of July (some of us weren't so lucky).

Some pointers before the sun goes down:

1.  Don't put sparklers next to your face
2.  Don't try to wipe dog poop on the person grilling your hotdog (personal experience brings me wisdom)
3.  Tell veterans "thank you for being awesome"
4.  Don't judge people's questionable holiday wardrobe choices. Some people just really love this country.

 

God bless America.  Where Land of the Free means you're free to look as stupid as you want. 

If One More Thing Goes Missing, I Will Cut Someone

This morning I couldn't find anything.

My phone- Lost
My notepad with the notes that ZOMG. I. NEED. NOW- Lost
My invitation to a friend's bridal shower for today because I don't know where I'm going!!!!- Lost

It's a lot of lostness before I've finished my first cup of coffee.

I wanted to cut somebody.
Like with a shiv.
Because sometimes the universe brings out the killah.

And it made me think of this.  (If you don't read Hyperbole & a Half, you're missing out.)

This is one of those, "What she said," things.  So-  What she said.

Here's to all the Sneaky Hate Spiralers out there.  Tonight, I will tie one on for all of us. Which means, I might just get thrown out of this bridal shower gig.  IF I can ever find that damn invitation...