Gloves On

"YOU VS. the SWIMSUIT!"

"Keep your eye on the prize. Go out and buy the swimsuit you want to wear. Hang it in your kitchen. Think of it as your opponent."

This is the new Special K promotion for their protein waters, cereal, and meal-replacement bars.

It made me a little pissy.

First of all, I think putting my swimsuit in my kitchen is kind of weird.

"Please pass the mayo...it's right behind the tankini."

Secondly, doesn't this contribute to all the bullshit body-hating stuff we do? Aren't we trying to work against it? It's even funnier to see the ad in a magazine that touts itself for being all about healthy women with healthy body images. That said, I'm all about dropping a few pounds if it's healthy. I'm all about psyching myself up for summer and feeling good about myself in a bathing suit. I want my girls to realize, too, that a healthy body is important. How would I explain my bathing suit in the kitchen to my kiddos?

"Well honey, I'm at war with my bathing suit. It's my opponent. I want to kick it's ass. So, I hang it here above the slivered almonds to remind myself that FAT IS BAD and that size 6 is GOOD. Here is your dinner. Don't eat too much now!"

What do you think?

You May As Well

Me: Hi peanut. It’s fun taking tubbies with Mom isn’t it?

Sam: Yah. I like a pee in the tubby.

M: Well, I’d like it if you didn’t pee in the tubby. But if you need to you can.

S: Yah. I like a pineapple.

M: Really? Me too. I like mine with some chocolate sauce. How about you?

S: I like a chocolate brownie. I eat a brownie in tubbie.

M: THAT sounds pretty fun. That way we could eat and get clean right away. Maybe next time okay?

S: Yah. I want a cup.

M: Here you go, can you dump some water on Mommy? I’m getting kind of chilly.

S: Issa chilly in heeyah.

M: Oh, can you not put that bottle near your private parts? That’s not healthy.

S: Yah. I hold a bottle.

M: Yep, that’s your shampoo bottle, it makes your hair nice and shiny.

S: I pee on the bottle.

M: Well, we can pee when we get out of the tubby.

S: Mommy get out?

M: Oh. Would you like me to get out?

S: Yah. I a swim in a tubby by self.

M: Okay. Mommy will get out so you can swim.

S: Sammy swimming. Sammy pee in the tubby. Nice and warm and cozy.

Too

Sometimes, I'm just too much. Sometimes, I feel like if I could just curtail THAT part of me, that too much part of me, things would be fine. I would be more likable. I would be more admired. I could be funny without trying too hard. Too desperate. Too eager. Too much.

Maybe some of you will read this and say..."You? Nooooo." I doubt it though. I think I know that you know what I know which is that I am sometimes, just too damn much.

It's funny when I think about it though, because although 20% wants to work on it, the other 80% doesn't much care about changing because I've been at this for 33 years and I seem to be doing okay. That said, it still occurs to me, often enough to share it, that I need to sit the hell down and close it sometimes. Leave a little mystery Jennifer. It's cool to do that. Me? Not so cool. Share and share it all, and then repeat said sharedness later to a friend that says, "Yeah, you mentioned that."

Is it part of being an only child? Probably. Like me! Like me! Think I'm funny and great....! See? I'll convince you. Let me tell you a funny. Let me show you a cool picture. Let me demonstrate how caring and considerate I am. Let me dance for you like the monkey that I am. Dance, monkey dance!

Oh....did I say too much?

Up On An Airplane

I was on an airplane last week when I visited my folks in Florida. This time, though, I went with the girls. No husband. No right-hand man. No co-parent. Yes, my folks were helpful, but it was just different, you know? Anyway, so I'm on my way down south and I'm geared up with:

-DVD player with 3 videos (names provided by my two year old: Peekaboo Show, Circle Show, Milo Otis Show)

-IPOD with kid playlist including any and all nursery rhymes. By the way, some of these are the most hideous things ever written. What about Wee Willie Winkie? Running all over town...in his nightgown...wondering if your kids are in their beds? That would get you jail time now. I digress.

-Gluten-free snacks aplenty

-Three bottles of formula for the baby

-Some grub for me (read: whatever the kids don't eat)

-Beverages for toddler. I will not drink her leftovers. LOTS of backwash.

-And, all my crap (itinerary, birth certificates, cell phone, lip gloss, hair ties, gum, etc)

My friend had outfitted me with this super duper 5 point restraint addendum to the seat belt. It worked well but really ticked Sam off. She was kind of shellacked to the seat. Anyhoo, I thought I had prepped myself well for the 7:20 am flight by curtailing beverages so as to avoid the whole bathroom scenario. How would I be able to go? Who would I bring? Who would I leave? It was a bit of a conundrum and it made me a bit anxious, so I just didn't drink anything that morning. But, my pea-sized bladder prevailed and at some point, I had to go.

Don't think I don't realize that many of my posts are about pee and poop. It's how I roll lately, can't help it.

So, I engage one of the lovely flight attendants who happily sits with my super-duper strapped in toddler, and off I go to the mini-lavatory clearly built with an eight year old's body type in mind. I am holding my one year old...thinking...how am I to make this work? Put her on the floor? Narsty narsty no. Hold her while I go? Nope. My ass will be in full-hover mode. No touchy touchy. How about I hold her while I hover? Impossible. BUT, what about the sink. Yes, yes. It's like a mini baby-seat, really. It's probably what the engineers had in mind when they build this chamber-like chamber pot.

Here's how it lays out. Mom is hovering with thighs that haven't seen a squat in...er...about 3 years. Daugher partially in sink. Mom uses head as leverage to hold baby in said sink while she finishes up, thinking..."Please don't remember this."

All in all, the flight down was relatively painless. The flight home is another story.

Scrub a Dub Dub

My girl Kathryn turned me on to Paula's Choice products a long time ago and I've been using ever since. I don't use her stuff exclusively because I have other tried and true faves too, but some of her stuff is stellar.

If you find that you are always looking for a good exfoliating scrub but think that perhaps using Swiss Ives Apricot scrub (this includes ground walnut shells, by the way!) isn't the best route for you, you could be interested in Paula's line of exfoliating lotions.

What? Lotions? Yep. See, they have alpha and beta hydroxy acids, and they exfoliate your skin without a) burning the bejesus out of your face and b) burning the bejesus out of your face. There is a difference between the alpha and the beta (are we talking exboyfriend's personality profiles or scrubs here?) and it's important to know which is the best type for you. Paula goes into detail on her website as to which works for you, but basically it's a difference between AHA (alpha hydroxy acids) which are glycolic acidsand BHA (beta hydroxy acids) which are salicylic acids. If you're interested, definitely check out the link above (note: some folks are uber sensitive to these). I swear by the BHA 2% lotion. Keeps my skin smooth, which is good because skin that is bumpy AND hairy, not so much.

Sproutings

I may swear a bit. I have made the discovery that I have facial hair. Not peach-fuzzy blonde softness that sweeps across my skin like a teenager's tanned and lovely tummy. No, not that. I have hair first of all, on my fucking FACE. Like, Magnum P.I. mustache facial hair. Like, "Wow, I only notice it because you mentioned it" bullshit facial hair. It's right under my eye. My EYE! Who has almost-eye-hair, other than cavemen? Apparently dames like me, who after pumping out two chillens in two years, has faced the hormonal onslaught. On my face. I found a 2 inch hair under my chin on Saturday night before date-night with the hubby. Nothing says sexy like shaving next to your loved one at the sink. Can you pass me the Mach-3 honey?

I've always had to groom the brows which have grown almost Frida-like across my face. Rectangular-shaped brows I can manage. But when said eyebrow hair grows all the way up to my REAL hairline, I have to stop the show. Send in the clowns, and ask them to bring plenty of Nair with them.

In high school I rocked the Jolen often. That little teal, 3-D square box was found many a time on my bathroom sink. Like a chemists bunsen burner, it was ready to burn the shit out of my face. Not hair removal, you see...but hair bleaching. And, for those who haven't had the opportunity to work with Jolene, it's a cream, mixed with a vial of bleach granules that makes for a nifty mask to put upon your hairy area. It also included a square mixing platform and a spatula that could also be used in a dollhouse if your dolls made batches of delicious bleachcakes. . I often left it on too long as I am: 1) easily distracted 2) unorganized with matter of beauty of the quest therein 3) interested in a cookie, hold on and 4) I think I know better than the directions. Seven minutes? Naaah, Eleven would be much better. It will make the hair even LIGHTER, I bet! Sandra McSmarty pants often showed up with a red bozo-like mustache that stole the attention of her man-stache.

"Jen, did you burn yourself? Seriously, that looks sensitive, try some butter."

So here I am again, back in a shituation which requires: 1) Money I don't have to do laser Star Wars beam-like zapping treatments on my face 2) Time in the bathroom to ponder at new follicular growth, pluck it, shave it (no!), or wonder if the Nair bottle really means it when it says "DON'T USE THIS ON YOUR FACE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD."

As for right now, I think I'll suck it up and get myself a wax job. On my upper lip. And brow up to the hairline. And perhaps my chin.

Or, like my hubby suggested, we can grow matching goatees.

Kiss

You know that song, Copperline, by James Taylor? It's always been one of my favorites. It's about a time in a boy's life when things were simple and sweet. A time when you could go exploring for hours and come back with skinned knees and dirty fingernails and great stories to tell. A time when kissing someone for the first time stops your world in it's tracks. I played this song so much that the boy I used to babysit used to scream 'Jenny's song!' when he heard it with his mother.

I used some of the lyrics on the front cover of my first wedding album. I had married a sweetheart and this song reminded me of him and of us. The words, 'First Kiss, Ever I Took' was gold-embossed on the front of the black leather-bound book. It was my most sentimental time. As that marriage evolved into a sad tale, that innocent part of me started to harden up and I began to scoff at those kinds of lyrics. I remember hearing the opening note of the song on the radio and flipping the switch so fast I surprised myself. What had happened to me had happened to many of us, but this was my only love and I was a young, naive girl. I had married him. He had made a fool of me and I was convinced that the entire world knew it. I was angry that he took that innocence from me, and I couldn't even enjoy simple things like love songs or trips to Provincetown or baby showers without hating him.

So, time goes by as it has a way of doing, and my life moved on and up. That hardness is still there, but it's way down deep, underneath my layers of motherhood and marriage and friendship. I was watching television on Sunday night and saw that PBS was showcasing Mr. Taylor himself. I made a mental note to go back and check it out after I watched some of the 'Big Give' show. I forgot about it until I was channel-cruising at 10:30pm or so and I saw him. Darn it! I had missed most of it.

But, as fate would have it...I heard the opening note of my song. My Copperline. And it was a sweet as I had first remembered it. I sang every word, tears in my eyes. I thought of how good my life was, with my best guy's body next to me, keeping me warm. I smiled the most when I heard my favorite line...'First kiss, ever I took, like a page from a romance book. They sky opened and the earth shook, down on Copperline.'