Gap Be Gone: A Tribute To My Mother

If you know me, you know that I'm a mushy girl. I love a good rom-com, I absolutely believe in love at first sight, and I think the scene in "The Last of The Mohicans" where John Alexander tells Cora "I will find you!", is hands down one of the most romantic and loving moments in movie cinema history. One thing you ALSO know if you know me, is that even though my mother drives me to the edge of insanity sometimes, and has me standing in the aisles of BevMo pondering over the calorie content of vodka vs. gin, I love her to no end. She is a fascinating, complex mixture of book knowledge and ditziness. Human kindness and cobra venom. She can be the punchline of a dumb blonde joke, and she can walk you step by step through open heart surgery with her eyes closed. No lie. She once tutored a struggling nursing student while "resting her eyes". AND WAS SPOT ON. This woman is definitely someone to think twice about. She can make you feel all warm and gushy inside, and cut you down with a look so fast you will be reduced to the fetal position and thumb sucking in two seconds flat. As the recipient of said looks, I guarantee you, this is no exaggeration. Lastly, you also know that I am not a crier. It has to be something just BEYOND devastating/touching/earth shattering for me to rain from my face.

HOW-EV-ERRRRRRRR, yesterday I made an exception.

My mom is awkwardly and stunningly beautiful - at the same time. She does not have Ford Model looks. She's not leggy (although she does have legs that can stop traffic - seen it happen), she's not blonde (in theory), and my favorite part....she has a way less than perfect smile. Well....she HAD. My mom had buck teeth that led to RELENTLESS teasing as a kid (little bad ass kids - can be so cruel!), and a GAP. Models may have gaps, but they don't have buck teeth AND a gap. My mom had BOTH. And she was stunning. She had a smile that stretched from ear to ear, and could light up a dark closet at midnight. I remember sitting on the toilet as a kid (just sitting - NOT using...gutterheads), watching her put her makeup on and thinking "wow....my mom is so pretty...I hope I look like her someday". Then in junior high never wanting her to come to school because a:I knew I would be in for a major ass whoopin' if she saw me wildin' out like a fool with no common sense, and b:I didn't want my crushes to see her. In my juvenile, pre-pubescent mind, my crushes would take one look at her and fall instantly in love, and I would never have a chance. Of course, at age 12 the notion that you never had a chance to begin with, and your mom is not a chester doesn't pop into your head. All you think is "she's gonna steal my not-yet man".

My mom used to tell me all the time that I was beautiful. Never believed her because....I have a gap too. And how could someone with a gap like mine be beautiful. SHE was beautiful. But definitely not me. I was......cute...at best...on a good day...wearing my best bra and highest heels...and mascara. Yeah...THEN I was cute...but my mom...she was stunning. Because she accepted herself. Short stature, big booty, and gap tooth grin...she took it allllll in an easy, stop and stare stride. And eventually, as I grew older, I began to accept myself too. And my good bra. And my highest heels. (Hey - I still need a little help...) But I accepted my gap tooth grin, and learned to say "thank you" when people complimented me on my smile. Learned to laugh AND insult at the same time when I would hear the age old comment "You know what they say about a girl with a gap?"....and I would respond with "Easier to floss after she bites your pecker off!". That always left them a little dumbfounded. But it left me feeling giddy. My point is I.learned.to.love.my.gap. Because my mommy loved hers. Her acceptance of her gap helped me to accept mine. She always thought she was beautiful, so I thought I was beautiful. People always told me that I look just like her. So if she's gorgeous, so am I.

And then it happened. She got dentures. With no gap. The gap was gone. And for me, the one thing that (in my mind) made my mom the MOST beautiful, was gone too. I was (shockingly) devastated. And all of a sudden the girl who doesn't cry was a bumbling, rainy faced fool in the middle of the dentist's office. If she didn't have her gap, where would that leave me? I have always based my self acceptance on my mom's ability to accept herself. I always listened when she told me I was beautiful JUST THE WAY I WAS. I amy not have BELIEVED her, but I listened. And I thought SHE was beautiful too. JUST THE WAY SHE WAS. But now, she's different. So what does that make me? What do I do? I feel weird. My mom being ok with her gap, made me ok with mine. But then my mom told me that was never really OK with her gap. She had merely learned to live with it. It was something she had just learned to accept. But she had never really been O.K.

That's when I realized...

It wasn't my mother's teeth that made her beautiful. It wasn't even her ability to "learn to live with it" that made her beautiful. It was her determination to ensure that I would always see MYSELF as beautiful, REGARDLESS of what mean junior high boys (and catty junior high girls) said. She knew that if she portrayed herself as not ok with ANY part of her, I would not be completely ok with who I AM. And so she laughed way out loud, and all her teeth showed. She smiled wide for pictures, and never gave a glimpse of insecurity. And therefore, she was beautiful. Stunningly, graciously, simply, beautiful.

And she still is. Gap be gone. She still is.

Mommy Porn

Soooo...I've often wondered about the genetic "make-up" differences between men and women. There are things that they (men) will do, that women (or at least THIS woman) wouldn't ever dream of doing. Like smashing beer cans against their foreheads, convincing their friends to "take one for the team", so they can talk to the pretty girl...I would NEVER do that. My girlfriends would look at me like I was high on crack and probably disown me...for a very.long.time.

However, there are things that WE can do that I think many men either a: can't do, or b: won't do. The main, and most glaring thing that comes to mind is MUTLITASKING.

I don't know many guys out there who are capable of doing more than ONE thing at a time. However I know HUNDREDS of mom's out there who in two hours time can: make all the beds in the house, clean the kitchen AND bathroom, fold all the laundry and put in respective bedrooms, WHILE starting another load, prep dinner for the evening, AND reorganize the playroom. Now, if you give that same to do list to a guy, and left the house to run errands for two hours, how much do you think would get done? I am going to go with.....TWO ITEMS. I am being nice and giving them the benefit of the doubt that they could prep dinner AND do the dishes because it's all in the same general area. But really, I don't see much else happening.

And when you come in all breezy and light because you managed to escape the zoo for two hours of loveliness, you look around, look at him, look around one more time for validity's sake, and then look back at him. And what do ya get? The look. The "deer in headlights" look. The "what did I do" look. The "oh shit she's pissed" look. And when you ask what got done while you were gone, in your sacchrine-y sweet, non accusatory voice, you get "well I did the dishes, and I prepped dinner like you asked, and I was just about to....blah blah blah". By this time you've probably tuned him out because you've already started the 5 other things on the list. And he will watch you work. And he will watch football. And he will be quiet. Because he knows...and you know...there will be no nookie tonight.

But honestly, don't you think our guys would get it by now? Male domesticity is SEXY! There's a reason the PORN FOR NEW MOMS book is as popular as it is. Helping mama out at home means we will most likely help you out in the bedroom. Know why? Because we're not dead-ass tired from picking up EVERYTHING through out the day. Dishes after dinner = Dirty Diana after the kids go down. Little laundry = little licky licky. LOTS O' LAUNDRY = LOTS O' LICKY LICKY. And so on and so forth.....

So ladies...maybe run that by your guy....maybe he'll get busy so he can GET BUSY.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have 800 more things to do on my to do list. That includes buying new AA batteries.


*Note from the author: For my uber sensitive guys out there who may take offense to this, please notice I did not say ALL guys are incapable of multitasking. I know a handful that definitely are. And let me just say, they are very happy gentleman. But if you DID get offended, maybe that's a sign that you need to put ON the yellow rubber gloves more often. Do that and your little lady may take something OFF for you. Imjussayin'.*

Five Steps To Insanity

As parents (though I think mostly, as MOMS), there are things that drive us absolutely INSANE. Things that our kids and significant others do that make us briefly question their necessity to our lives. Ok, well maybe that's extreme, but they certainly make us question the number of working brain cells. They also make us question our doctors when they tell us they can't up our dosage of Xanax.

So in honor of all mom's teetering on the brink of putting the kids, husband, and family pet in a large box and shipping them all to Istanbul for a few quiet, glorious days, I have comprised a list. A list of things that sometimes drive ME to toss back a bottleglass of wine or three at the end of a long day. Hopefully you will realize that you, my mommy friend, are in good company. Or perhaps just confirm for me that I'm not crazy. It's them.

1. Almost breaking my ankle because I have tripped YET AGAIN over a size 12 pair of Nike's left RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the living room. Apparently the five extra steps to take theme off in our bedroom was just entirely too much.

2. Finding the toilet paper roll EMPTY, and a brand new roll sitting on top of the tank, on the sink next to the toilet, IN the sink, or on the floor next to the toilet. REALLY??? Was the crap leaving your ass with such speed that you just couldn't get the roll on the holder fast enough?? It was? Oh. Well that sounds like a personal problem. But how about when you were done? Couldn't put the roll on then either huh?

3. Having cleaned the ENTIRE kitchen after dinner, it's spotless, and then you wake up in the morning to crumbs on the stove and a plate and butter knife in the sink. And the bread on the counter - open. It is at that point when all the sharp objects in MY kitchen become very VERY appealing.

4. Looking forward to getting a glass of juice only to find that someone has left the portion equivalent of ant piss in the bottle, and placed it back in the refrigerator. Seriously, I have no words to describe the amount of irritation this causes. NO. WORDS. And it happens with EVERYTHING. Potato chips, lunch meat, cookies, string cheese...FOOD IN GENERAL.

5. Hearing the following words 8 MILLION TIMES A DAY: Babe, have you seen my (fill in the blank). Mom, I can't find my (fill in the blank). It's enough to make me wanna change me name to "Don't ask me another damn question because if you had just put your crap away like I told you to, you would be able to find it" Nelson. Seriously.

So...there's my top five. I am sure if I sat here long enough I could come up with plenty more. However, I don't have that luxury. Someone is calling me because they can't find their toothbrush. REALLY??? Your TOOTH-BRUSH?? Maybe it got tossed in the trash after it was found IN THE SINK, next to the BRAND NEW ROLL of toilet tissue that just didn't quite make it's journey to the holder.

Jussayin'.

The NEW Dirty Words

"Jeeeemmmm is truly outrageous! Truly truly truly outrageous! Oooooohhh Jem!"

"I don't wanna grow up, I'm a Toys R' Us kid! There's a million toys at Toys R' Us that I can play with! From bikes to trains to video games, it's the biggest toy store there is! I don't wanna grow up, cuz maybe if I did, I wouldn't be a Toys R' Us kid!"

"Oh who are the people in your neighborhood? In your neighborhood...in your neighborhood? Oh who are the people in your neighborhood? They're the people that you meet, when you're walkin' down the street, they're the people that you meet...each...daaaaayyyy!"

Remember these songs. They were staples. Staples of our childhood....if you were a child of the 80's. And I am. So...these songs, I claim as mine. They are songs that said hey, it's ok to run down the street at warp speed, with your hair ribbons trailing behind you like dragonflies trying to keep up'. And it's ok to eat allll the Apple Jacks in the cupboard, and drink up alllll the kool-aid, and give your mom the saddest puppy dog face in the world as you beg for the GOOD peanut butter this time. You know which one. Don't act brand new. Goobers. With the peanut butter and jelly IN THE SAME JAR! Yeaaaahhhhh man....that was the good-good. As long as you had your Goobers pb & j, all was right in the world.

These songs told me that the "b" word had five letter, the "f" word had four, and the consequence for saying either involved NO LETTERS. Being a kid was the biz-bomb-diggity. The ish, my friend. The stayin-up-late-on-friday-night-because-it-was-the-weekend-only-to-wake-up-extra-early-on-saturday-to-watch-THE-MON-CHI-CHI'S-ish. I clearly remember watching after school specials, "one to grow on's", and The Electric Company.

Heeeeeyyy Yooooouuuu Guuuyyyyyysssssss! Guess what? We're not kids anymore. The "f" word now has eleven letters. FORECLOSURE. The "b" word has six. BUDGET. And one begets the other to remind us with a swift kick to our checkbooks that we have grown up. If you're like most parents today, Toy's R' Us isn't even an option. Not because it's a cesspool of germs, and evidence of failed birth control gone wild, but because Target has the same toy for $5.00 less. And that $5.00 equates to one box of Up & Up unscented baby wipes. Three packs in the box and you're set until the next pay period rolls around. Many of us have traded in our Jem dolls for discounted gym memberships, and if we're lucky, like Jem, we have managed to steer clear of The Misfits. If we're REALLY lucky, we have our own personal Rio, and Synergy has been replaced by our wise, all knowing, and always annoyingly right mothers.

This is the new childhood. Our playgrounds are outlet malls, our superhero's are financial experts on the Today show teaching us how to get out of debt in one year or less, without giving up our monthly waxing appointment (quit frontin' - you know you get SOMETHING waxed. And if you don't, you probably should), and our Goober's PB & J in a jar is Activia - because Jamie Lee Curtis says we need to be regular.

Our 9 year old professed to me that she NEVER wants to grow up. She wants to stay a kid FOREEEEEEEVEEEEEERRRRRRR. To her, being a kid is the.best.thing.on.earth.ever. Seriously. Ever. And as I listen to her breakdown the character profiles on iCarly, and explain to me why Carly lives with her brother and not her parents (because her dad is on a submarine 10,000 leagues under the sea - DUH!), I find myself thinking that she really needs to take off her "school clothes" and put on her "play clothes" because we don't have money to keep buying Costco sized bottles of detergent to do just HER laundry. And lost in my own adult mental playground, I totally miss why Gibby is stuck in Carly's chimney. But our 9 year old kiddo is laughing hysterically. And rolling on the floor in her school clothes. Because really, she's a kid. And that's all she wants to be.

Me too.

Yes I Said It, And No, It's Not An Olympic Event.....

Sport Fucking.

Yes. You read right. SPORT.FUCKING. Did your face fall on the floor? Mine did. I didn't make this up. And I'm not trying to be crass or vulgar. I actually heard this being discussed on the radio this morning by some local dj's.

What is it, you ask? Get ready for this one y'all. Long gone are the days of panty raids, and squirt guns aimed at our boobs as we walk to class. The days of TP'ing your favorite sorority house are o-v-a-h OVAHHHHHH. Now, your favorite 18-21 year old can engage in a lovely game called Sport Fucking. The object of this lovely little game is to go out and have random sex with the biggest girl they can find. The small penis boys all throw money in a pot, and whoever brings home and successfully "bag 'n tags" the biggest girl wins.

Folks, I PROMISE you, I am not making this up. Young boys are now likening thicker, heavier, chubbier, fatter, WHATEVER WORD YOU WANT TO USE girls to trophy kills during hunting season. Seriously?

SERIOUSLY????

Soooo....I really want to be funny. I really want to be anecdotal, and make references to small penises (more than just the ONE reference I already made), and come up with funny scenarios of what I WOULD do if I ever found out someone was treating me, my child, my family member, or my friend as if they were nothing more than a piece of pawn shop trash. I WANT to say that if I ever found out that someone did my child like that, you would have to hide every single sharp object I own because someone would definitely be gettin' cut that day (huh, guess I did just say it..oops).

But really, what would that solve.

All I can really say is Mama's, teach your boys RIGHT. Teach them how to respect women, how to treat women, how to love women. Daddy's - you do the same exact thing, by modeling that behavior with their mothers. I don't care if she is your baby's mama and you curse the day you didn't use a condom - model it. Boys coming up now have less and less respect for girls/women than EVER before.

Also, teach your DAUGHTERS how to exemplify self respect, class, dignity, and confidence. Teach them that it's not just about how cute you are, but how you carry yourself. Teach them that SASHA FIERCE is a CHARACTER, not an aspiration.

And lastly, make sure you teach your daughter the power of words and quick thinking. You never know when she might need a good "tic tac in a whale's mouth" comeback. I'm just sayin'.

Middle Finger Mondays....

OM-FREAKIN-G!!!

Are you serious?? This is my Monday? If that's so - F YOU, MONDAY!!

Seriously - have you ever had one of those days where just anything and everything that could happen to push you over the edge into the abyss called insanity, happens??

No?

Well then F you too.

It started with having to sleep on the couch because my sweet, loveable, snoring to alert Russia of an incoming nuclear attack boyfriend couldn't put a lid on his "back of throat choir". Then Sir Can't Sleep Quietly comes into the living room to bitch about how HOT it is in the room, and he's sweating to death so he's turning down the heat.

REALLY? REALLY?? Well if I wasn't FREEZING MY EYELIDS SHUT in the living room, the heat wouldn't BE ON, ya jackass! I'd probably be laying in bed next to you, and you'd probably be gettin' some...but since I'm not - shut the hell up - I'm sleepin'. and freezin'. and not gettin' any.

Then, in attempting to turn down the volume on my cell phone alarm, my dumb ass turns OFF the freakin' thing, and proceeds to drift off into dream land. But not to dream about the deliciousness we call Idris Elba. Oh no. There were no dripping honey scenes, or capable hands picking me up and placing me on the countertop to have his way with me in THIS dream. Nope. I got to dream of a Mr. I'm So Hot I Can't Sleep in the next room. And you guessed it. We were arguing. In my dream. Arguing. And apparently arguing so intensely that when he woke me up THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE I HAD TO LEAVE THE HOUSE, I wanted to punch him right in his big, fat, well rested face!

Him: "Do you want some coffee, babe?"
Me: "F off."

Ok - so I didn't REALLY say that...but I think my eyeballs did. I was in NO KINDA MOOD this morning.

Get in the car - it's on E. Who was the last one to drive it? Guess. Just guess...Yup. The man I love. Except right now, I don't love him. I loathe him. I curse his name all the way to the kid's doctor's appointment, in between praying to sweet baby Jesus in his tiny little manger that we actually MAKE IT THERE.

I curse his name AGAIN, when I get gas after the appointment, in between thanking sweet baby Jesus surrounded by all those cute baby animals in his tiny, cold little manger, that we actually DID make it.

And then, when I finally come home...ready to blog about the evil ways of Monday, I can't log into my blogger account. Why? Well it has taken me all of 8 billion wasted minutes to figure out that my handy dandy man candy has logged me OUT of my google account, and logged into his, thereby rendering me helpless, useless, and essentially - blogless.

But alas, the one brain cell that has managed to escape the daggers of vodka I have been throwing at it managed to figure it out, and here I am. Blogging to you. My beautiful, hopefully sympathetic (if not by now drunk with disgust over my whiny Monday rant) bloggie babies. I love you dearly. You give me the one moment of the day to spew my insanity and get back to feeling semi-anything.

And on that note, I must go. You know who is snoring on the couch now, and I can't concentrate anymore. Plus, there are too many sharp objects nearby. I may get inappropriately inspired to hold on to a quiet home.

I hope you have a great Monday. But as for me - I'm givin' Monday the finger.


*Author's note: Because of the world we live in, where some folks can't take a joke and poke fun at life's certain absurdities, I feel like I now have to put a *sidenote* on certain blogs. So for the record - NO. I WOULD NEVER KILL MY BOYFRIEND. NO. I HAVE NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT KILLING MY BOYFRIEND. But yes, I do believe in sweet baby Jesus. And it doesn't matter to me one bit if it offends you that I make reference to him in tiny mangers, surrounded by sweet, cuddly, loveable farm animals. So there.

Praying for Peace in Target

Oh Target, how I love thee...let me count the ways.....
1. Your "market bazaar" area is divine...I could accessorize my entire home in this section
2. Your baby/toddler clothes are a-dorable! And a-ffordable
3. Starbucks. Need I say more?

etc. etc. etc....

I love Target. Much like most women in the world, it is almost impossible for me to leave without getting SOMETHING! Target is fun! It's affordable! It's....a sanctuary. If you are able to get away from the kid(s) for an hour or so, Target is a small haven. A cheap spa. A prayerful retreat away from home.

"Lord, if you let these jeans fit, I promise to never eat another cheesecake bite again."

"Please be on sale. Please be on sale. PLEASE GOD, LET THIS BE ON SALE!"

"Dear sweet baby Jesus, I really need the total to NOT be over $100 this time.....HALLELUJAH! $99.50!"

See, it's prayerful.

Target is like....church. You go....you get food for your soul (fashion, beauty, music - it all makes you feel good - just like church), you sing along (who doesn't press the buttons on those "sample cd" music boxes, to preview the music), and you give an offering (your total is $99.99, ma'am). You wanna know how else Target is just like church???

There's always some screaming/crying/kicking/cussing kid whose mom absolutely REFUSES to remove the kid from the holiest of holy places. ALWAYS. This kid, like the kid in church, makes it difficult to focus (microfiber sheet set or shabby chic? Egyptian cotton??), embarrasses the hell out of his mom (because everyone is now staring at her, and her evil spawn who apparently hasn't gotten his daily dose of "act right"), and drives you into a manic craze, during which time you become a mere shadow of your former self and begin to shoot daggers at the kid and his mom. Slowly, you move closer to said mom, and when you finally can't take it any longer you lean over to the kid and tell him Santa is watching and isjust about to cross his name off the "good" list. Or perhaps you recant a story OUT LOUD, TO NO ONE IN PARTICULAR, about how if you had acted that way in public when you were a kid, your mom would have snatched you bald and dared you to even BREATHE loudly - hoping to give the haggard Target mom some ideas.

What, you've never done that? Shame on me, because I sure as hell have. Maybe I'm out of line. But don't even think for one second that I don't know that you (yes you, the one reading this as she sips her coffee and listens to her own name being repeated over and over again by her needy 2/3/4 year old (yes, your name IS 'mommy', and yes, it has been said 10,326 times in the last 30 minutes), have thought the same thing, or even wanted to DO the same thing. The only difference between you and me is that I HAVE. And I will probably do it again. Because like church, I like my Target experience to be a holy, sacred shopping experience. And I know everyone else does too.

Now, if you're the mom whose kids began getting their daily doses of "act right" from day one, KUDOS TO YOU!!! I LOVE YOU! YOU ARE A SAINT! Well not really, but you are highly regarded in the church of Target, and we, the congregation, will always pass by and smile, remarking on how well behaved your children are. In the church of Target, you could possibly be a Deacon.

For you mom's who missed out on the "act right" class, here's a crash course.

1. Before you even leave the house, make it known that the shopping trip is NOT for them, it's for YOU. Don't ask for anything. Don't touch anything. Don't even LOOK at anything. Keep your eyes closed the whole time.

2. Add the consequence. "If any one of the above rules is broken, we will leave Target IMMEDIATELY, go straight to the post office, and I will ship you to a small village in Cambodia. Or Antarctica. Whichever shipping costs less." Add the words "Think I'm playin?" to the end of this statement for added effect.

3. Make the kid repeat it back to you. This way YOU know that THEY know the rules, and the consequences.

4. When the kiddo loses his mind in Target, (because he will) leave and drive straight to the post office. Yes, he will be freaking out, but he will realize you mean business. Now obviously, you are NOT going to ship your kid off to another country! DO NOT DO THIS!! (I probably don't have to say that, but you know, there's always that ONE parent....) However, I think your kid needs to know that there is a possibility that you could be just a tad bit off. It makes them think twice about forgetting their "act right".

5. And lastly, if at all possible, just don't bring them. Take time for you. Let Target become YOUR sanctuary too! Leave the kiddo(s) with dad, grandma, auntie, neighbor, SOMEONE WHOSE NAME IS NOT 'MOMMY'. They won't die.

However, my looks might kill you if I hear your kid hollerin' one more time, while I'm all the way across the store praying to the kitchen towel gods.

HAPPY SHOPPING!!

Roly Poly Resolutions

Yea yea yea...its 2k12, and as of 4 days ago millions of people all over the world made resolutions. The momentarily significant, often short-lived promises we make to ourselves. I will quit smoking this year, starting today (as you reach for another Marlboro light). This will be the last time I sleep with someone on the first date (as you mouth the words "call me", and head out for the first Shacker Walk of Shame of the New Year). Don't feel bad if you have already broken your resolutions - it shows you are consistent and predictable. Two great traits for relationships and the workforce. Of course, you can't smoke on the job, and you'll never HAVE that relationship if you live in first date/last date lala land, but hey, I'm just sayin'.

Now, don't think that because I am kind of giving resolutions the finger that I haven't made any myself. Sure I have! The same one I make every.single.year.

This year, I will lose weight. And keep it off. And if that means that small children may die if they eat a donut in front of me, so be it. I will be a skinny bitch no matter what. Yep. Same resolution. Every year. And every year, I break the damn thing by day TWO. I mean really, you don't take a recovering alcoholic to a bar on the second day of their recovery. Why would take a foodie to the cupcake shop?? So really, it's not my fault that I never succeeded. I was sidelined by well meaning skinny friends.

However, this year is different. There is a new attack on us big girls, and I gotta admit - it's working. But it's also kinda succeeding at annoying the hell out of me - however well intentioned and motivational it is supposed to be. We've all seen the new commercial with skinny Jennifer Hudson singing to big Jennifer Hudson. Come ooonnnnnnn! REALLY? Formerly fat girls please answer me this - DO YOU PULL OUT PICTURES OF YOUR FORMER SELF NOW THAT YOU'RE SKINNY AND SING TO THEM??? Yeah. Didn't think so. In her honor though, I made up a song too. But it's just for me.

Rolly Poly Thunder Thighs
Can't fit my jeans
I'm gonna cry....

Hahahahahaha....Seriously though...Most of us hide those pictures away, never to be seen again. I, for one, have no intention of singing to ANY part of me when I get skinny. Last time I did that my ass surpassed round and jumped straight to rotund. Damn Sir Mix Alot and his "Baby Got Back" crap. I just wanted a little bit o'back.

Then there's the Mariah Carey commercial for Jenny Craig. Now, this commercial kinda makes me laugh. Mariah is singing "You Can Make It" while wrapped in some windblown black fabric. The fabric covers her tata's, and her hips. Everything else - out. Now, Ms. Carey just had twins some months ago, and homegirl blew up - as well she should have. She was carrying two - not one but TWO gorgeous babies in that belly. So please don't think I'm knocking her for gaining baby weight. I looked like a beached whale in heels by five months into my pregnancy, so please. But here's my thing. I'm not so sure she's made it yet. I think she's airbrushed. I think the wind is strategically pushing the fat back. I think the material she's wearing is well placed, and pinned in the right areas. I think she has a body double for the commercial. I think she got bigger girls for the commercial so she looks smaller.

I think I'm full of shit.

Don't you?

Let's face it. JHud and Mariah look A-MAAAAAAAZING! And they worked their asses off to get there. They put down the chocolate cake. They went the opposite way when they saw Wing Stop (mmmm....wiiinnnngggsss). They DIDN'T snatch the cookie out of their babies hand in a mad sugar craze. They persevered, and now they want to help the rest of us. That's nice. Thank you Jennifer Hudson. Thank you Mariah Carey. I hope to one day join the ranks of girls who don't look like they just had a baby/are still pregnant/just ate the fridge.

Until then, I'll just keep logging my food in my trusty food journal, and stare longingly at my used-to-be-skinny jeans.

Pass the ice cream. And the remote. That commercial is on again.


*author's note: I AM NOT SKINNY. I AM NOT PICKING ON BIG GIRLS. I.AM.A.BIG.GIRL.TOO. MY JEANS HAVEN'T SEEN SINGLE DIGITS ON THE LABEL SINCE JUNIOR HIGH, SO PLEASE DON'T CHEW ME OUT OR CALL ME INSENSITIVE. I POKE FUN AT MY LIFE. IF YOU'RE OFFENDED, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD TRY POKING SOME FUN AT YOUR OWN LIFE TOO. MAKES THINGS MORE INTERESTING. AND BEARABLE.

Idris v. The Pull Up

Crap! Crap crap crap CRAP! How the hell did I manage to wake up late today? Oh wait. I remember. I was dreaming about Idris Elba. Very valid reason to wake up late. However, that is also a very valid reason for me to be a rushed, crabby ass fool this morning. Hello! Idris-yousodamnfine-Elba. Done.

But you, small two year old, (who got to sleep a whole TWEEEELLLLVVVVE hours as opposed to my five - one of which was spent trying desperately not to smother the snoring giant next to me), you eat three meals and two snacks DAILY, whereas sometimes thats what I get for the week (foraging for leftover scraps is a mothers specialty). And to top it all off, you WAKE UP model gorgeous!!! WTF??? I can't even begin to tell you what goes into making me even HALF WAY presentable, but I guarantee you that I give those Kardashian girls a run for their money. BIBLE.

SO....two year old....just what do YOU have to be cranky about first thing in the morning? What could be so unbelievably HORRIBLE that you find it absolutely, painstakingly NECESSARY to scream bloody murder at the top of your lungs for 2 minutes straight? (Ok, maybe not two whole minutes - but damn did it feel like it!)

Oh. Your Pull Up is full? And because your momma was the genius of the CENTURY, she bought the ones with a "cool sensor", and your girlie parts have been "cool" for  the last TEN of those sleeping twelve hours. They are now FROZEN.

Oh. Well I guess frozen bitties trumps Idris Elba. Sorry kid. Just don't piss on me when I ta-.....

Damn.

It's gonna be a long.ass.day.

Idris take me away.

You Poop, I Drink. Deal?

Sooooo...there's this thing...this thing that ALL toddlers do, and when they do we (as good mommies and daddies)make complete asses of ourselves - cheering and applauding...dancing around like a cracked out Elaine...all in the hopes of encouraging them to do it - AGAIN. It's poop. In the potty. Like a big kid. And we do the shitty dance over and over again, until our thighs are on fire(therefore justifying our need NOT to go to the gym that day), we are drenched in sweat, and our voices are hoarse....because we love our little munchkins. We even give them rewards for taking a dump!

COULD YOU IMAGINE IF THAT WAS STILL THE CASE??? IF EVERYTIME YOU COPPED A SQUAT YOU GOT A NEW PURSE, OR A NEW PAIR OF SHOES???? HOW FREAKIN AWESOME WOULD THAT BE???? I, FOR ONE WOULD BE LOADING UP ON METAMUCIL AND ORANGE JUICE LIKE IT WAS MY JOB...FOR REAL.

But seriously...we reward, we applaud, we sing and dance...and when they are finally fully potty trained we thank the piss and poop gods above that we don't have to change another diaper.

But what about us? What about us moms and dads who SURVIVED the whole training process? What do we get?? Aside from sticky poop under our finger nails, and flaming sore quadricep muscles from kneeling in front of our little poop machines for ten minutes at a time saying "come on honey...you can do it...go pee pee..go poop...come on"....like a freakin shit coach.....ugh...

So here's what I propose....everytime the kiddo takes a dump in the potty, or manages to pee in the toilet and not on your couch, or in your favorite potted plant, or in your eye, or on the family dog...have a drink...a glass of wine...a martini..a beer....whatever have you...if you don't drink have a rootbeer float...have sex...have SOMETHING to say that you have survived yet ANOTHER round with Capt. CrappyDrawers. And when that little bundle of boo boo is completely potty trained...take your ass to vegas....drink away the memories of the brown nail polish you were forced to buy when you couldn't get ALL the poop out from under your fingernails. You were two farts too late, and they quickly became sharts. And you quickly ruined your manicure.

Yes, yes....wash away all those memories, because when you get home you'll most likely have to work on the next task....how to get your kid to quit calling people "fuck-face" everytime you honk your horn while driving. Don't feel bad...I'm working on BOTH at the same time - although her curse of choice is "jack ass"...lucky me....

Bottoms up folks!