PORKrotica

There's a lot of talk surrounding the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. Some of my friends are as obsessed with it as 12-year-olds at a Justin Bieber concert. Some other friends, however, were less than impressed.

What do I think of the books? I think I'm not interested in reading them at all, actually. I'm probably the only straight woman on the planet who doesn't want to read them or see the Magic Mike movie. I realize that makes me sound like a sexually repressed 1950's housewife, but it's quite the contrary. I like sex just as much as the next girl, and in fact am one of the most open-minded people I know on the subject. No, really. If you know me in person and we haven't discussed the joys of multiple orgasms, it's probably because I'm not sure how you feel on the subject and I don't want to make you uncomfortable.

Or you're a nun.

Or my mom.

At any rate, the whole 50 Shades thing just doesn't tickle my fancy. But today I saw this picture on Facebook:

Finally, some smut I can get behind!

Who doesn't get turned on by bacon? Even as a vegetarian I loved the stuff. In fact, it was my gateway meat back into the life of an omnivore. It has the taste of angel but just enough nitrates to make it dangerous.

So I decided I should write some porkrotica in honour of this sexy picture. And hey, maybe it'll get popular and we can turn it into a porknography movie.

50 PLATES OF BACON

He stood in the hallway - a coy smile on his face - and reached for my hand. I let him guide me into the kitchen. Candles stood alight on the granite counter, their flames reflected in the pot rack above. Lagostina, I noticed. And not the cheap kind with the plastic handles, either. This guy meant business.

"What are you cook--" I began to ask, but he put a finger to my lips and stopped me cold.

 "Don't speak," he insisted, and reached into the pocket of his apron, pulling out a silk scarf. He grabbed my hair and gently forced my head back, tying the scarf so that all I could see was blackness. "On your knees."

Cold air blasted me from the fridge door.

The last time I was on my knees, I was scrubbing dried pee from beside the toilet bowl. Sure, no one was bossing me around at the time, but at least this situation smelled a lot better. In fact, it smelled incredible.

His curly moustache tickled my cheek as he leaned down to whisper in my ear. "I've been getting my meat ready for you all day, lover. Now it's time for things to get hot."

Excitement rushed through me at the sound of something unzipping in front of my face. Freezer bag!

The sound of dish sliding against dish behind me, then the intense pounding of microwave keys. Not a word was spoken for what felt like at least thirty seconds, Then, a beep cut through the silence like a knife.

"I want you to taste my meat," he said. "But first I want you to beg for it."

I wanted his meat. I wanted it so badly. But I kept quiet.

The scent was getting stronger, smokier, closer. I breathed it in lustfully.  Sweat began to trickle down my face. Oh God, I thought. I know that smell. That amazing, breakfast-like smell.

I soon realized that wasn't sweat trickling down my chin, but drool.

I could hold my porkly passion no longer. "Feed me your meat." I said quietly.

He got behind me, put a foot on my back, and held the plate just under my nose.  His chef hat fell in my lap."Louder! Tell me how much you want it!"

"Feed me your long, hard strip!" I yelled.

He pulled off the blindfold. A pound of perfectly processed pork product sat steaming on a plate. "Take it all! Cram it in you mouth! I want to watch you eat it."

And so I did. He looked at me and cocked his head. "Good girl. Only 49 more plates to go."

I never knew such desire until that night.

So, how's YOUR summer going?

Lucky for Spawnling, he is gorgeous. Totally a survival tactic. (Photo by Gutsy. Seriously. The kid has a great eye.)

Texts exchanged this morning with my friend, Liliane:

Me: Is it okay to send Spawnling to space camp... in space? He's driving me insane and I think he should be the cosmonauts' problem because they're trained to deal with high-stress situations and I'm not.

Liliane: I don't believe you. He was so good when you guys were over this weekend.

Me: That's his superpower! All supervillains have one. His is to be charming and make people think I'm insane while he plots to take over the city. I just saw this ploy used in the new Spiderman movie. Don't let him fool you!

Liliane: I'm skeptical, Maven. What's wrong with him? Does he need to burn off some energy?

Me: No. He just needs to tell people off and kick everything and not listen and not go to bed well AT ALL and yell oh-so-very-much and demand things. It's just... unholy. Maybe we should have had him baptized after all. Not because we're religious, but because he may be possessed.

Liliane: So, just to clarify, you're having a bad morning, then?

Me: Not such a good morning, no. I think I'm going to try and sneak him into a locker right before they film an episode of Storage Wars. Why? Because they have to bid on the contents of the ENTIRE LOCKER, even if there's a screaming kid in it. It's a rule.

Me: Also, I just saw a woman wearing earth tones while sporting a very bright red lipstick. I nearly pulled her into my car for a makeup intervention. Then I realized that would probably still fall under the whole "kidnapping"thing, even if my intentions were to save her from herself.

Liliane: I don't get bright red lipstick. We're not in the 1980's anymore.

This is why I text Lil whenever I'm having a bad day. I just word-vomit my problems and fashion observations all over her and she cleans it up without complaining. Also, by texting her in my car outside the gym, I extended my "me" time outside the house this morning and my work-at-home husband couldn't exactly give me the stink-eye upon my return because it's for my health and can you really be mad at your wife for wanting to be healthy? No. You can't.

Not even if, while I was gone, the five-year-old threw a fit over not getting a popsicle, grabbed two toys from his room and deliberately hit the stair railing until a piece chipped off, and then sobbed his way through helping to glue it back together and was still loudly crying when I got home. Not even then, because it was for my health.

And by all of this I mean: Our summer's going great. How's yours?

Zombies, Black Lace, and my Trip to the ER

Last night my right leg went numb. I thought it was because I was playing too much World of Warcraft  - which is basically a roleplaying game and thus the work of Satan - and was being adequately punished for my sins. I logged off and went to bed before I caught fire.

This morning the leg wasn't much better, and by mid-morning my right arm had gone numb. A little after that, the right side of my face decided to follow suit. Even my tongue went half-numb. By then I was pretty convinced I was having a stroke and suggested to Geekster that we go to the hospital.

Was I scared? Absolutely. But not so scared as to avoid putting on a nice bra and some makeup first. I always worry that, if I die and people come to say goodbye to me in the hospital, I'm going to look like shit and that will be everyone's last memory of me. "Remember how shitty The Maven looked when she died? So tragic." 

Or, worse, the zombie apocalypse will happen right as I take my last breath, and my mouth will be tearing into skulls without any pretty lipstick on it to compliment the blood splatter.

Off to the hospital, now looking passably hawt. I was kind of angry the whole way. I kept saying to Geekster that I had better not die because I just started working out three months ago and my arms are looking fabulous and who wants to die when their arms look this good? Besides, then he'd have to raise the kids by himself, or try and find a woman who's as attractive and maternal as me, and good luck with that because every single one will pale in comparison after you've had all this, buddy. And really, people are just starting to find my blog and how is it fair to them if I perish in a freak numbing incident? 

No, I had purpose: I needed to stay alive for the people.

They did lots of weird tests at the hospital. I had to rub the heel of one foot down the opposite shin, close my eyes and pretend I was holding a tray, repeatedly touch my nose and then the doctor's finger... At one point I asked if they wanted to take my blood alcohol level because that would conclusively prove I wasn't drunk. She laughed and said no, but she'd like to do a pregnancy test.

I was all, "Bitch, I am so not pregnant. You're wasting your time." Except I didn't call the doctor a bitch because she wasn't and even if she was, she has drugs at her disposal that could kill an elephant in 6 seconds. And she asked if I was sure and I replied, "Bitch, I just finished my period and my husband has a vasectomy. I'm pretty sure." But she still wanted to check because it could explain the numbness.

Now, I've been pregnant at least 5 times and carried 3 babies to term, and I can tell you that numbness - outside of sciatica - has never been an issue for me. But fine, I'll pee for you. And so I did, and it was negative. And so we checked my heart, and that was nice and strong. And we checked blood pressure and reflexes and eyes and speech and all sorts of things - and I am absolutely healthy. No signs of anything worrisome. 

Except for the numbness.

The doctor called in another doctor and a specialist of some kind and they all talked about me while I was lying there getting my heart rhythm checked with my shirt pulled up and my pretty bra showing (see? It pays to wear nice underthings to the hospital. They were all, "Can you pull up your shirt so we can attach these stickers to you?" And I was all, "Absolutely, you can!" BA-BOOM! Gorgeous, supported cleavage wrapped up in frilly lace. And it's black so it won't show all the blood when I come back to feast on the living.)

In the end, nobody knows what's wrong with me. I still have this traveling numbness that is sometimes in my right leg, sometimes in my right arm, sometimes anywhere on my face, or sometimes in all those places. I could have hurt my back, I could have a virus, I could be having an allergic reaction, it could be a bug bite, I could be having a neurological event. We are just not sure. The one thing we are pretty sure about is that it's not getting any worse right now. I have a standing invitation to visit the ER again any time this weekend if it gets scarier, and I'm to follow up with the doctor at the hospital either tomorrow or Monday. If it's not gone, we'll do a CT scan and/or MRI and/or other tests (we weighed the pros vs. cons of subjecting me to that level of radiation today and we decided against it as I don't have any other symptoms warranting one.) If it's gone, we'll chalk it up to an unlucky incident that will hopefully never return.

As we were leaving, I had to remind Geekster that snickering after I said, "Well, at least there's nothing seriously wrong with my brain," was bad form. He still thought it was mighty hilarious. I smacked him with my numb arm because I couldn't feel it. 

And then made him take me out for steak.

I'm glad I'm not dying and especially glad I'm not pregnant. As it stands, however, I am a medical enigma. 

This is not your typical mom blog

In case you hadn't noticed, this isn't exactly a typical mom blog. Why? Because most of the blogs I've seen that are specifically geared toward parenting are about reviews, giveaways, new crafts to try and how to organize a mudroom.

It's not that I'm against those things. I read my fair share of parenting-oriented posts and enjoy them. I keep hoping that if I see enough crafts in pictures that a magical crafting fairy will swoop down and give my children the kind of fine motor and glitter glue experiences they don't often get from me*. The thing is, I'm more of the stress-induced twitching, bad word-mumbling, underachieving kind of parent. Always have been, always will be - as much as I've fought against it. There's no time to stencil personalized cubbies in a mudroom if I'm this busy yelling, right? It's not like I'm a great multitasker.

Oh, how I wish I could paint a pretty picture for people who happen to stumble upon this blog looking for advice, support, or a primer on becoming more serene parents. How I wish they could read a post I've written and take away something encouraging, enlightening, uplifting. About the most I can do is shine a bright light upon my mediocre parenting skills in hopes that readers can leave feeling a lot better about themselves.

But every now and then, I do something seriously mom-ish; something I'm proud of because it could have been read about on a blog from those other moms who are actually good at this shit. Today was a great example.

I mentioned in a previous post about how I whined and batted my eyelashes into a brand new Nikon SLR camera for Mother's Day. This has been, by far, been the best purchase we couldn't afford in years. I've been snapping far more pictures lately. My little gremlins are fast, but this camera is usually faster. And the battery life is incredible; it goes longer than a bad porn movie that should have ended several encounters ago and you're all like, "How is this thing still on?"

(I'd talk about how big it is too, but after comparing it to a porn movie I really have nowhere to go but down. You can't back-peddle into the waters of appropriateness after making sexual comparisons. It's bad form.)

Anyway, I stuffed the big, hard camera into my soft, open, pink purse and took the youngest fighting furies to the library. I made them borrow books because that's what good moms do, and then rewarded them by borrowing some movies and taking them into the nearby mall to buy them junk food to eat when they watch said movies. (See? Mediocrity: it's how I roll.)

As we were walking through the parking lot, my mommy instincts kicked in (like a tigress, I tell you) and I snapped some pictures:

And oh my good lawd, are they gorgeous or what? I mean, seriously. Good job on the procreation, me!

Um, I mean us. I think my husband was involved in the process a little.

These boys may end up slightly dysfunctional from all those times I've locked myself in my room and screamed into a pillow, but I'm hoping the good looks make up for it a bit.

* I just need to say that - by pure coincidence - I had to stop writing this post halfway through and help Spawnling cut a door into an empty printer box so he could get into his "rocket ship."**

** I just need to say that Spawnling insisted that the door didn't have to be that big because it's "just for decoration," and then the minute I was done he burst into tears and wailed about how he couldn't possibly fit through that door because it's too small, and why didn't I cut it bigger, and now he's going to need a new box. We have no other boxes because I'm not a mover nor an eBay addict. Serious problem. The way he wanted the door meant I couldn't cut it any bigger without ruining the whole thing. Thankfully, Gutsy saved the day by contorting himself through the door and into the "rocket ship" and Spawn followed suit as he wiped his tears away. Crisis averted.***

*** I just need to say that this is why I don't do a lot of crafts with my kids.

I'm Being Featured on BlogHer (or: OMG OMG OMG!)

UPDATE: Here is me in all my caffeinated awesomeness being featured on BlogHer. Holy manga hair on a Troll doll, this actually happened!

Yesterday, as I was standing in my kitchen watching my husband put away groceries, I decided I'd check my email. Then I definitely couldn't help put anything away because I'd be drinking coffee and checking my smart phone, thus having both arms busy. See? Totally unavailable.

Oh, but the cans go on the middle shelf, dear. 

I shouldn't have checked my email just then, and not only because that kind of laziness eventually leads to marriage therapy. I shouldn't have checked because, instead of the normal junk-type mail I get most weekends, I got a big, scary, awesome surprise: an email from BlogHer.

If you don't know what BlogHer is, you either:

a) are not a blogger, or,

b) are a blogger but write posts from beneath your rock, which is buried deep in the Cave of Cluelessness

I took the plunge a couple of weeks ago and submitted a post to the giant publishing network.  Why? Because someone suggested I do, and I respect and value other people even when I'm not helping put the groceries away, dear husband. I honestly didn't think it would go anywhere, but knew I'd kick myself if I didn't at least try. I'd be 97 and sitting in my hovering rocking chair - because it's the future and everything hovers, even rocking chairs - and petting my robo-cat, and I'd be wondering why I didn't travel more, or have a torrid affair with a young European, or take my writing more seriously and submit to BlogHer.

And there I was, suddenly staring at an email and yelling "OMIGAWDNOFREAKINGWAY!" while my husband was unceremoniously stuffing cereal boxes into a cupboard full of other nearly-empty-and-definitely-stale cereal boxes. Because, guess what? It's BlogHer calling, and they're featuring me on their homepage on Monday, and here's some badge bling to put on your site to show that, yes, we love your writing and want to share it with people.

I know, right? I kind of want this tattooed on my hindquarters

And the other thing? The post they're featuring isn't the post I submitted. That might very well mean that someone read through my posts and chose the one that is. Like, they actually bothered to do that. For some reason, that's the coolest/scariest part.

Gulp.

I spent the rest of the day doing the following:

1. Telling people in that "I can't believe this is actually happening" kind of way.

2. Wanting to throw up in a bucket.

3. Eating about 7 handfuls of Peanut M&Ms

4. Feeling sheepish when the occasional person was all, "Oh yeah, that happened to me once/twice/seventeen times" like it's not a big deal when I'm thinking it's a totally big deal.

5. Wondering what this will mean for me; will it give me more confidence? Help me take my writing to the next level? Or will it simply provide me with 15 minutes of viral-dom and nothing more because I don't believe enough in myself to go after what I want?

6. Distracting myself from these big questions with a date night watching Prometheus, which was excellent except when the alien was eating someone's face and suddenly a voice would pop into my head saying, "Hey, remember how you're going to be featured on BlogHer on Monday? Nerve-wracking, right? Do you have a bucket handy?" and I'm all, "Shut up, voice! An alien is eating someone's face and you're making me feel nauseated for all the wrong reasons right now."

7. Wondering what the hell I was going to write to impress whoever visits my blog for the first time and wants to get a sense of who I am.

I knew I had to write something, but what? I froze. I felt stuck. And I laughed, because it was so damn ironic: The post being featured is one I wrote in May about - get ready for this - writer's block. 

This lead me to two conclusions. First, I had to do what I did last time and write through my block, fear be damned. Second, I had to stop worrying about impressing people and just be The Maven. Why would I even try to be someone else? That's crazy talk. This is my voice as a writer; the only one I'll ever have. It's authentic and, most of the time, flows freely from my head to my fingertips. Also, it's sometimes kinda funny and people like it. So why not get out of my own way and just write? 

So I did. And this is the post that came out. Surely my awesomeness will seep through, right? Right. Of course it will.

But, hey, if I bomb there are always more Peanut M&Ms with which to eat my feelings. (I buy them in bulk.)

Leave it to Cleavage

Last night I had the privilege of being one of 21 readers at Blog Out Loud Ottawa 2012. It was my third year in a row because they like having someone there who makes the other readers look sane. I'm pretty sure I didn't disappoint in that department. I read a post from January 2011 about bad teenage moustaches, complete with flashbacks to the early 90's. Anyone who is that traumatized by facial hair clearly has issues.

I was obviously nervous about reading my post with a sound system boosting my every word. It's not that I'm particularly shy in large crowds, but reading my own work makes me want to throw up in a trash can and then throw up again because I just threw up in a trash can and that's fucking gross.

It was a hell of a busy week. The gremlins scuttle out of school next Friday, so every volunteer-laden activity is happening right now. Not only do they attend three different schools this year - yes, really - but I happen to work at one of them on a casual basis and that meant some shifts this week, as well. Then there's my regular gym date with myself so I can get buff and make other people uncomfortable by constantly asking them to fondle my biceps (this is already happening; I expect a few restraining orders shortly - one from my husband.) Oh, and there were appointments. There are always appointments when you have three kids, which should be a deterrent to having such a big family, except people like to have sex and the next thing you know you have lots of appointments.

Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything.

Anyway, to wrap this up in a neat little package that is not all rambly due to drinking a double-shot americano while writing a blog post on 5 hours of sleep, it was a really busy this week, I was nervous and I hadn't had time to do anything BOLO-related until 3pm yesterday. That gave me four hours to:

- Remember what post I was reading
- Fine-tune that post for public speaking consumption
- Ask myself if "public speaking consumption" is even an allowable term in the English language
- Get worried that I don't even know what acceptable English is so how the fuck can I even expect to speak it in front of a live audience
- Begin absentmindedly eating chips
- Gently remind myself that eating my feelings is unhealthy
- Take myself out to find a new dress, because buying things is a calorie-free way to deal with emotion

So off I went to find a dress.

I went to two stores. That's pretty decent in plus-size land, because there aren't a whole lot of places that cater to the curvy bitches. I tried on a few dresses. I tried on a few tops. I didn't like the way they fit; they were either too big on top, too snug on the bottom, or showed things that I don't find terribly flattering. I decided that I might need something to tuck it all in - to smooth the lumps and lines, so to speak.

That's when I discovered the body wrap. It was a pain to get on, much like unceremoniously stuffing yourself inside a flesh-coloured boa constrictor while simultaneously jumping hurdles, but it was totally worth it. Suddenly, all the dresses looked fabulous on me. Just as suddenly, I realized I didn't need to spend upwards of $80 on a new dress. What I needed was to buy my new best friend for $40, take it home and try on one of the two dresses I have here.

Yes, I only own two dresses. Dresses take confidence, folks, and I haven't had much of it in the past. But now that my body is changing I find that I'm actually excited about clothes. Geekster is not so excited about my excitement. There is talk about my credit cards going missing. I suppose this is better than my brake lines going missing. I know that won't happen because then he'd have to remember to dust the shelves and he'd totally forget, and the next thing you know everyone would be commenting on how he never dusts and he'd say, "I should have never cut her brake line like that. I miss her. *sneeze*"

So I came home, tried on one of the dresses and was all, "This looks fab, except that there's not enough bazinga! in the bossoms." I needed to rock the cleavage because, as I mentioned loudly before my reading last night, if I totally bombed at least everyone could stare at my tits and it wouldn't be a total loss. I didn't actually say "tits" because I'm a proper lady, but I was thinking it as I waved my hand in front of my chest like Vanna White hovering over some newly discovered vowels.

Bring on the cleave.

That's where the double push-up bra comes in. It's like a regular push up bra, except there's more padding, heavy-duty underwire, and it parts the girls like Moses parted the sea, forming mounds of fleshy beauty. I wish my boobs looked like this all the time. 3 pregnancies and 7 years of breastfeeding later, they need a little help.

Anyway, I felt rather good in my old dress.

Check out my sunburn. No amount of foundation could cover it. Insert redneck joke here.

And then I got to BOLO, and all I could do was worry about the body wrap and the boobs. Mainly:

- I chose a body wrap with thighs to avoid the chafing us chubby chicks often deal with, but the leg parts were so long I worried they'd poke out under my dress, making it look like I'm trying to be sexy  in my fashion crisis and failing miserably because stockings that start at your torso and end above the knee are not at all attractive, merely practical.
- Scrap that. There is nothing about a body wrap that is practical. Esthetically pleasing, perhaps, but definitely not something you should wear every day.
- But what if I got addicted to wearing them? I get addicted to everything, including stair machines at the gym and you know how evil those are. If I can get hooked on panting and looking like shit in front of other people, I can definitely develop a body wrap problem. What if my friends and family have to stage an intervention for me because I'm walking around with it under my bathing suit, those ugly leg things squeezing my bare thighs as I head to the pool?
- And the cleavage. Oh my good god, the cleavage. Too much? Maybe. I waffled back and forth between being proud of it and wanting to cover it up. I sort of worried my boobs would fall out while I was at the mic and then I had to spend time trying to figure out how that would happen, exactly. I decided I probably shouldn't do the dry-humping action as I was reading about it. This was likely a good decision on several levels, not the least of which involved nipple-containment protocol.

In the end, everything stayed where it should be. BOLO was wonderful, the readers were fabulous, and I look forward to next year.

The moral of the story: Body wraps and tits make the woman.

Okay, maybe not. Hang on.

The moral of the story: It's okay to buy things on credit when you're nervous.

Nope. That one might lead to some serious brake line severing.

The moral of the story: Don't over-think things, because the next thing you know you'll be in front of an audience trying not to dry-hump the mic stand inside a giant spandex snake.

Parenting: There is Light at the End of the Tunnel

This is Spawnling.

He pretty much makes this face every day.

Spawnling is five. But he's not five-and-a-half because, according to him, that's less than five. We have had this debate several times. I always lose. We will be working on math a little this summer. I don't see why my five-and-a-half-year-old can't understand fractions. Maybe he's a decimal point guy.

He also make this face, but not quite as often and usually when he wants something.

I had to have a talk with him on Monday about how to greet people. A woman who works at his school waved and said, "Hello, Spawnling!" in her 'I work with sweet innocent children' voice, to which he threw his hand up into peace sign and replied,"'Sup?'"

I don't know how she felt about that. I was too embarrassed to look at her. I suppose she must know what he's like, including his suburban gangsta greetings, and therefore knew what she was getting into by saying hello to him. Still, after averting my eyes until she left the parking lot, I explained that we must always greet adults in a respectful way. I'm not sure if if this sank in at all, and will not have the opportunity to ask the adults at his school as I'll be too busy hiding in my car until further notice.

I've written about having three kids before; how overwhelming and tiring it is at times, how I feel stretched to my limit by trying to provide them each with special one-on-one time, how things were simpler when we had an only child - or even when we had two. But a few things have happened in the last little while to reshape my thinking.

First of all, I haven't perished from any of the following parenting-related health risks I was sure would get me by now:
- stroke
- heart attack
- botched frontal lobotomy
- cancer of the stress (I'm positive there's a stress organ. I feel it in my body all the time.)
- eye rupture from constant twitches
- tall bridge "accident" (not to be confused with "toll bridge accident," which might simply mean that you forgot to bring enough change with you and the scary lady in the booth is scowling - but not murdering - you.)

B) I'm finding more time for myself these days. I'm writing more, painting more, exercising more, taking more vanity shots of myself. There really is light at the end of the tunnel that involves gratuitous time wasting. I was thrilled to discover this and immediately talked myself down off the bridge.

I took this picture yesterday in my - ready for this? - SPARE TIME. OMG, right?

3) I've become more organized. It's an excellent life skill. This was not a choice; it was a necessity. It is impossible to have three children and not be organized. It's difficult with one, challenging with two and outright impossible with three. We stopped at three because I didn't want to find out what's more impossible than impossible.

Appendix D) I'm less of a control freak. (Or maybe I'm less control and more freak.) Before my third child I had this idea that I could control my little world. I could create the life I wanted for myself and all that other crap Oprah and The Secret tell you. If I willed it, I could have a clutter-free home, well-adjusted children, the perfect marriage and hefty bank savings. Oh, how I tried to make that my reality. When it wasn't working, I would just try harder; I just needed to work at it some more. Once I succeeded I could become a parenting columnist, making other parents feel bad about themselves because they're not as good as me. (Funny how I have the exact opposite effect these days. "Have you read The Maven? We should start a charity fund for her kids. They're going to need a lot of therapy...") Anyhoo, after Spawnling hatched I realized I had no control over anything, ever. There are five people in this house and only one of me. I don't have that much power, as omnipotent as four cups of coffee might make me feel. I learned to let go and enjoy the chaos. My house is condemnable, my husband and I are so tired we often don't speak and instead sit on the couch looking like somewhat more attractive zombies, and my five-and-a-half-year-old says "'Sup?" to grownups. All these things are okay.

D.2) I might still be working on that one last one.

D.2.a) I'd like to state that I think I'm actually significantly more attractive than a zombie. Before you get all testy about my ego, please remember how ugly zombies are. It's not hard to be hotter than the undead. You just pretty much have to not have a rotting face.

Lastly, I have learned to let go of my expectations and just enjoy my kids. The older they get, the more I see that their personalities are not going to change. They really are who they are and all we can do is feed and water them until they grow up. Intrepid wants to go into medicine and will make a kind, empathetic doctor. Gutsy will likely sit in a windowless room developing the next big tech thing, sell it to Mark Zuckerberg and become an insta-millionaire. And Spawnling will be the best gang member ever. He might even make leader someday. I have faith.

See? It's all about letting go. No lobotomy required. Besides, I'm going to need all my wits to figure out how to break Spawnling out of prison in a few years.

Ladies: size doesn't matter

I saw this picture on Facebook.

After staring at it for a bit, a few things occurred to me:

This woman is gorgeous. Truly.

She has great hair. I wish my hair would do that. I would have to actually take time to style it,  however, and not throw a bunch of product in it as I run out the door and hope it doesn't dry to look like a cat died on my head.

This woman is confident in a way I only wish I was confident. I could never sit with a piece of cardboard being the only thing standing between my nakedness and a camera. Not. That. Brave.

I wrote a blog post once that reminds me of this of this picture. Clearly, she read it.

Yes, I saw it: "Than" should be "then." We are not surprised I noticed this grammatical error. We are, however, surprised that it was the last thing I noticed because the picture is so powerful.

Girls, we (I'm now using "we" to describe our society and just myself in that egotistical "royal we" fashion) are a gender obsessed with size: 2, 12, 22, 32. It doesn't matter. "I'll be happy when I'm a size 6 again." "Ugh. I can't believe I'm a 16." We attach meaning to the numbers on a label sewn into some cloth. We celebrate it, we cry over it, we create life goals around it. Think about how crazy that is for a minute. I mean, really think about it.

When is the last time you heard a man bemoan his pant size? "OMG, I went to the store and I tried on a 32 and they didn't fit. I totally wanted to die. I had to text my buddy John between sobs in the dressing room and he reminded me that Mark's Manlypants Warehouse makes their jeans a little snug. Still, it's South Beach for me until my ass looks great in those pants!" Answer: not often and maybe never. It's not that men don't get body-obsessed, but it's different and there's generally a lot less self-hatred attached to it.

We keep ourselves down, ladies. Actress Ashley Judd wrote a poignant article about this recently. By focusing on senseless stuff like dress size, we often create a roadblock to the greater things in life. Size 4 isn't going to make you happy. Size 4 is not going to make your problems go away, pay your bills, make someone love you or respect you or stay with you, improve your friendships, make your job better, help you find joy or feel fulfilled. Those things are not dependent on size. How many women have I met who've achieved their body goal and aren't any happier in life? Skinny does not equal happy, period. And yet we truly believe we'll be better people overall based on what we look like or what stores we can shop in. How did we lose our collective way? We are smart, capable, life-creating, beautiful creatures who have somehow subscribed to this insanity.

Don't get me wrong: Lifestyle plays a big role in happiness, energy and health. Exercise and nutrition are important. But size isn't always a good indicator of how healthy someone is. Sometimes bodies respond to positive lifestyle choices by getting or staying smaller, but not always. This idea that we needs to look a certain way to be fit is erroneous and potentially dangerous. The weight loss industry loves that we look to magazine covers as ambassadors of fitness. And we're suckers for buying into it.

I will keep going to the gym and emerging a sweaty beast. I will try to make food choices that support my cardiovascular system and keep my blood sugars stable. I will likely continue to lose weight in the process - for now. But right before I go try on clothes the next time, I will look at the picture above and remind myself that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. I will not cry in the dressing room, nor will I squeal when something fits. I will simply celebrate that my body is getting healthy in the way it's meant to, and smile.

I am awesome no matter what the label says. And so are you.

And This is Why I Love my Husband

A polite conversation had this morning between my husband and I:


Me, getting home from the gym: I'm starving. Want to go for breakfast?

Geekster, working from home: I just ate breakfast.

Me: Okay. Want to go for some freshly squeezed juice while I eat breakfast?

Geekster: I have a lot of work to do.

Me: But they have a bacon omelette to die for!

Geekster, clearly not getting the point: Can't you just make an omelette here?

Me: We're out of eggs.

Geekster: We're out of eggs?

Me: Well, we're probably out of eggs. I didn't actually look. That's besides the point. And anyway, we don't have bacon. Bacon is essential to a bacon omelette, sir. I was going to go to the store on my way home until I remembered that I'm a red-faced, wild-haired, smelly, nasty-ass gym beast with sweat stains on my bum from that brutal new elliptical routine I tried today. Did you know ellipticals can go backwards? Because they can. It's the devil's work.

Geekster: I knew that, yes.

Me: You're so smart. All those brain cells undoubtedly require extra sustenance. Breakfast?

Geekster: Remember the part about me being busy and not being able to go?

Me, sighing and maybe pouting a little bit: Fine (said in a way that is not indicative of anything being fine). I'll go have a shower and then make something gross and/or terribly boring, like plain yogurt with fruit.

Geekster: I'm pretty sure we have eggs.

Me, on my way to the shower: But there's no bacon. Good god, man! Don't you get it?!

*~*~*~*~*

Me, after my shower: Well, it's been a few minutes. I thought I'd see if you've reconsidered breakfast yet. Or freshly squeezed juice or whatever the hell else will get you to sit across from me at a table while I eat so I don't look like a loser who eats bacon cheese omelettes by herself in a restaurant.

Geekster: Sorry. I really can't.

Me: Fine. (Said in a way that implies nothing is fine and in fact that things are quite un-fine.) It's okay, I'll just go dig up that tub of barf we have in the fridge.. Uh, I mean delicious yogurt.

Geekster: Sigh.

Me: You really should try to make more of an effort with me. Do you even know me anymore? I mean, for all you know, I could be leading a double life and you'd never figure it out because you don't spend any time with me.

Geekster: Uh-huh.

Me: I mean, I've been going to the gym for 10 weeks. But have you ever actually seen me go to the gym? Or leave the gym? No, you have not. All you know is that I drop the kids off at school, go somewhere for a couple of hours and then come back home, hot and sweaty. For all you know, I'm having a torrid affair with a guy who digs chubby girls in yoga pants. I could have a mistress-- or whatever the boy version is of that word. What's that called? A mister?

Geekster: Probably a "dead man".

Me: No, I'm sure it has a more exotic name to match the exotic guy I could be having an affair with. Maybe he's called "Pedro."

Geekster, not even looking up from the screen: Pedro?

Me: That's right: Pedro, my Latin mister. Or "Latin lover" because that sounds better. For all you know, I'm losing weight because I'm having so much extramarital sex. You can't have sex for an hour or so every morning and not lose weight. But you'll never know because you can't be bothered to have an omelette with me this morning.

Geekster: Right.

Me: Your loss. I'll text Pedro and see if he wants to go. Pedro loves to have breakfast with me. We have it after sex all the time. And he's independently wealthy so he doesn't have stupid work getting in the way.

Geekster: Okay, that's good. Thank him for me when you see him. You look amazing.

Me, sulking and heading to the fridge: I hate when you win.

Geekster: Want me to make you a coffee to go with your yogourt?

Me: Fine. (In a way that is more like fine than the last few times I used it.)



I love my husband even though he never did go for breakfast this morning and doesn't care if I'm slapping thighs with Pedro. It takes a special man to put up with me keep up with me.