Spanx You Very Much

It is a well documented fact that when your uterus is used to grow a child, after you expel said life sucker, err baby, you tend to fall off the current fashion trends bandwagon. Where once there were heels, dresses, straight ironing and applied make-up now there is a slapping of tinted moisturizer, a brushing of lip gloss, a quick comb and hopefully no baby gooped clothing. For those scoring at home today proved to be unsuccessful. This is why when on maternity leave watching the Today Show’s Fourth Hour hosted by Kathie Lee and Hoda that I first heard of Spanx. Later in the week, Spanx was again mentioned, this time on Oprah. Seems when I was birthing babies a revolution of under garments occurred. And did anyone tell me? Nope. Because of an impending wedding, I decided to buy some Spanx. I mean if Oprah tells you it’s a must, IT IS A MUST. Even though there is seemingly another fashion trend of women wearing no panty hose (someone? anyone?), I ordered the high waisted, tummy tucking, thigh shaping nylon Spanx in nude. I am sorry, but my ancestors come from Ireland, there is no way these very white legs should be seen by the public. The only time someone needs to be witness to such blindingly white light, is after they die. Truth told, after ordering these twenty-eight dollar essentially control top hosiery, I felt there was no way the buzz could live up to the product. Walgreens sells the same thing for $4.99. When my Spanx arrived, I looked upon them with a fear that is only shared by victims of torture, this was some serious engineering. No way would these things ever be comfortable. But as I put them on, it occurred to me, who was I to doubt Oprah Friggin Winfrey. Holy cow, the comfort. Also did I mention that have a pee hole? Because they do. A god forsaken pee hole, “to make your life easier”. Why thank you Spanx, I appreciate you thinking of me being drunk and trying to pee when wearing an almost chastity belt. You rock. So yes, although my womb has housed two, I am getting back into the fashion game. First with Spanx, and someday, god willing, black diamonds.

Farmer's Market Betrayal

On Sunday morning in our weekly attempt to get Owen worn out significantly in order to watch football in peace, and by peace I mean him running around the house yelling “Play Niners Daddy. Tickle!! Tickle!!”. Tickle meaning tackle, and Niners meaning football. As a Patriots fan hearing these words from my son’s mouth fractures my heart each and every time. We journeyed to the Stonestown Farmers Market which has two jumpy houses. Thank you Stonestown Mall for thinking of me and my football Sundays. Sure I can’t go to Zeke’s and drink pitchers while drunkenly conversing with other Patriots fans about how picking up a Patriots running back always kills my fantasy football team and how pretty Tom Brady is, but I can have my son jump around an inflatable plastic orb so that he will be dazed and confused enough to allow something other than Cars and Monsters, Inc. to be played on the television. Yesterday after Owen had exhausted his ticket supply, we walked around the market wherein I saw this jewelry vendor. If one ever frequents Farmer’s Markets, usually the jewelry is pretty much turquoise and whatever else the stoned not very washed hippie making it decided to create. But in this display case was a most beautiful necklace. Looking I was immediately drawn in by its beauty, its dark metallic gray undertones, its shiny, and its absolute awesome. Oh pretty necklace, I love you so. Before even asking the vendor about the necklace and disregarding my fundamental cheapitude, I thought to myself that even if it was two hundred and fifty dollars, it would be mine. It would be mine! Then the following conversation was had:

Me: Hi, can I see that necklace. What is that? A metallic gray?
Vendor: Lovely choice. These are black diamonds.
Me: Laughter. (Thinking - oh sure, diamonds, right. At a Farmer’s
Market? Funny.)
Me: Its so beautiful, how much is it?
Vendor: 1000.
Me: One Thousand DOLLARS?!?!?!
Vendor: Yes, it is not something one typically finds at a Farmer’s Market.
Me: No shit, asshole.

It was then I thanked him and walked away dejected. It is not a lie to say that for over ten years I have searched for a perfect necklace. And yesterday, that necklace was found. With a price tag of a thousand dollars. Usually, this would not upset me so because I tend to avoid high end jewelry stores for this very reason. But at a Farmers Market? A one thousand dollar necklace for sale at a god forsaken FARMERS MARKET. I am unsure what a black diamond is, but I am sure of one thing - it stopped my heart. My eyes became saucers of adoration. I should have punched that vendor in the mouth, took the necklace and ran off to Kauai with it. But nope, I just went on the internet and further hurt myself by googling “black diamond necklaces” for an hour. Oh black diamond strand necklace, will you ever be mine? Will you? Also, anyone reading this right now, please note my birthday is Friday.

My Imagination

When I started running, it never occurred to me that seventeen weeks later there would be this amount of pain. A pain that is completely and utterly isolated in my triceps. It hurts to type, which I do believe is an indication of one hell of a sore. Logically all I can come up with is that my body is attacking the last true bastion of fat laden cells. When thinking of losing weight, I imagine little beasts consuming the fat stores that lay upon my body. Which scientifically is pretty fact based; however, I don’t believe most people believe it looks like this:



Eat em up my little purple monster. Eat em up.

Eff You Great Britain

I just finished ordering possible outfit number three for a wedding I am attending in November.

Outfit No. 1 was from J.Crew and tragically incapable of holding my ginormous nursing boobs. I actually ordered the dress a size up in an attempt to house said monstrosities. Unfortunately the size up meant that my chest area was still sausaged while the bottom of the dress could smuggle a family of five across the Mexican border. It was at the point I realized that I either had to do a wrap or a two piece. No dress without tons of alterations would do, and since I am not nursing forever (although it seems like it at times), there is no way Cheapskate McCall would spend money on something so unnecessary.

Outfit No. 2 is a simple black wrap dress with 3/4 sleeves that I got at Macy’s for the absolute low, low price of $64.00 bux. This is a great dress, and perfectly acceptable for the wedding, even though it cries boring. But in a fix, it will do. And every girl should have a black wrap in her wardrobe.

Today I got an e-mail from Boden declaring “new winter outfits.” And on perusal, I instantaneously feel in love with a 50s styled beaded cardigan and sateen skirt. A two piece wedding appropriate outfit that when paired with my black suede Mary Janes would make a girl skip. In my head, Cheapskate McCall was all “you have a dress, it fits, why bother?” But I was all shut up, I am acting on impulse, and I still get 10% off and free shipping, so quite down you ole bat. (Again, isn’t it is amazing I am let among the people?).

However, fine folks, do you know that Boden has UK sizing. I looked at the UK Sizing Charts to discover that even though I have lost forty-five pounds since having Maggie, and am finally in my old size (even though I still have 15 pounds to go), I still had to order a size up because it said “if you are a larger size then please order up for the UK equivalent.” Uh-huh. Talk about a fashion bitch slap. I will not be moving to London, EVER!

I never thought that one of the most important relationships in my life would be with the following:

What is that you ask? That is my breast pump. Every working day, five times a week, three times a day for 15 minutes a time, my Avent Isis Duo molests me. In addition to working for the man, I am working for the mammaries. This pump has lasted an entire year with Owen, and god willing, through these last five months with Maggie even though it sometimes delivers an exasperated wheezing that begs to ask “Aren’t you done with this shit yet?” No breast pump, I am not done with this shit. You will know when that time has come because I will be coming to you in a drunken vodka haze with a sledgehammer. You can imagine that this is a whole bunch of alone time with my exposed boobies. I usually pass the time with my Iphone, Nintendo, a book or just staring at how far that god damn machine can stretch my nipples. I am talking inches people. There are times, I forget to lock the door of our lactation room while pumping. That is what they call it here - not the Milk Mecca or the Conference Room Boob - but “Lactation Room.” I know that public education being as it is might make someone say “Lactation?” What is that? I should investigate. And sometimes with unlocked door, you do get a curious visitor. Once very heavy set woman in her fifties entered, someone obviously not lactating or in need of a lactation room, but medical science being as it is and the average age of first time San Francisco mothers hovering around 45, maybe she was. But my answer was quickly found in her reddened face at the sight of me, my boobs and awesome hum of the Isis Duo. I see this woman sometimes around the office, and want to shout “You saw my boobies!!! You say my boobies!!”, but refrain. I think she was scared straight. A few weeks ago, our wellness room was being used. That is what we call the nap room. Yes, there are adults who take naps at work. Who knew! Anyway, there was a knock on the door, and I was asked if a woman who was not feeling well came in to rest on the couch. Hmmm, let me think, some sick woman wants to rest her head while I sit her with my boobs out pumping breast milk to a pump that sounds like it is saying “you whore” “you whore” “you whore”. Ah, nope. Does she? I don’t think the term awkward quite defines how I felt as she lay on the couch with closed eyes while I played Bedazzled 2 on my Iphone. But let me say I am happy for wine and beer. I really am.