The Pool is Open, and My Ass is Dreading it

The pool is open can be dreaded words for some women. Especially, those of us whom have given birth recently, and therefore, slacked off on the lunges! Last year, I was preggers during pool season, and I have to admit I actually got excited about the fact that I could go all Demi Moore at the pool. No, not full on naked, but proud in my two piece, strutting around the pool with my little belly on display. It was quite rewarding not giving two shits if my stomach was hanging out. I could see all of the skinnies watching enviously while I gorged on watermelon and frito’s. They too wanted to let their stomach’s out and eat in the open, gasp and dare I say it, in front of one another free from judgement.

This year, when the dreaded email went out to all of my neighborhood that the pool was now open, I decided to do some bathing suit shopping in my bathing suit drawer with fingers crossed. Big mistake! Although I have lost all of the weight, and I look pretty good from the front view, my ass however did not get the memo, and my back view needs some work from a mechanic…to beat the dents out. The mirror can be a tricky little bitch. From the front view, the bitch would say, I look about 30, but the back view is another story.

So the question is what to do? I haven’t been the most diligent on my workout routine. Between working ten to twelve hours a day and taking care of a baby, there is just not enough time in the day. Yes, I could get up at 5 am and work out, but that is not happening! I guess me and my stretched out Shoshanna triangle top and M/L bottoms will have to make it work this year. Time to start sipping out of my water bottle and knawing on kale chips at the pool with all of my neighbors. Maternity leave is officially over. Mama has got to check in, get out of the buffet line, and into the lunge line. Waaaaaaaaaaaa!!!

What Happened to My Boobies?

This week on the season premiere of Dancing with the Stars, Sherri Shepherd, told the live audience that she thought she may have left her boobies on the dance floor. The crowd roared, as did I, because my boobies and I are not seeing eye to eye these days. They have let me down or rather they have fallen down! The boobie drop is perplexing to me. My ta ta’s have always been quite perky. From the moment puberty set in my boobies have been over achievers. I can remember the day they started to bud. I was running through my parents bedroom and haphazardly bumped into the corner of my parents high chest of drawers. The pain was unfathomable, even worse than when I rode my brother’s bike and fell off the seat hitting the boy bar. From the moment of impact my little right bud starting throbbing, intent on letting me know that she did not like being bumped. I ran to my mother in agony. “I think it is time for me to get a training bra mom. I hit my boobie.” I admitted half crying. My mom, who for what ever reason was amused, took me in her arms to comfort me. In my mind, a bra was the answer. If my buds were covered, they would be protected. My mother took me to Belk’s junior department the following weekend. After some chuckles between the sales clerk and my mom, I was told to try on a pretty Scooby Doo yellow training bra. It fit, just like I knew it would.

As I matured, I grew to really like my breasts. They became a perfect small C cup, an exact handful my college boyfriend had marveled. I remember seeing Madonna’s boobs in a photo where she posed nude in the street hitchhiking. My boobs closely resembled hers. Once I even had a friend who was contemplating getting her breasts augmented, ask me if she could take a picture of mine in to show to her surgeon. Obviously, I obliged and was flattered by the compliment.

By the time I got pregnant in my latter thirties my ta ta’s were still holding up nicely. Sure a little bit of gravity had set in, but they were still aging gracefully and seemed alert. Until that bitch mother nature decided to mess with me. By the time I was entering my second trimester, my sweet little perfect C’s had gone on a binge. They blossomed up so fast that they were bulging out of my Spanx bra. Now that was a problem. My friend Nel (who also happened to be pregnant) and I went bra shopping. We browsed through Sak’s looking for bra’s. Our bra consultant quickly escorted us back to the dressing room for a proper bra fitting. Nel went first. She had grown an entire cup size, and the poor thing still had three months to go. Next it was my turn to be fitted. “Big Mama is coming through” I said giggling as I made my way past Nel to the consultant. She placed a tape measure around my bobs who were already spilling out of my current bra. “34 F” she announced matter of factly. “What? You must be joking!” I said fearful of the truth. How in the world had I gone up three or four bra sizes in four damn months? I wondered. I had another six more months to go with this baby in my stomach. “You look beautiful. It is just pregnancy. Your breasts will go down after you have the baby.” The consultant said trying in vain to make me feel better. Nel also offered her condolences. Hanging my head down, I headed back to the bra department. I picked out a few that looked big enough to fit Dolly Parton, none of which had lace or anything that resembled cute, and prepared for the worse. Frowning, I lassoed my big ass boobs into a very unflattering nude bra.The cups covered half of my torso. Gone were my small breasts and Victoria Secret’s bras. They would now be replaced by Queen Latifah and Dolly’s type braziers. How would I ever find matching panties? I never wanted boobs this big, honestly. Anytime I try to complain to anyone it is always the same response, “I bet your husband loves them.” No not so much, I want to scream. He is a butt guy, and even if he did like big boobs, I sure as hell did not!

My boobs remained a 34 F until birth. Today, over a year after giving birth, my boobs have definitely deflated, but interestingly enough, only at the top. What to Expect When you are Expecting did not mention this. They did not go back to their perky selves, so the bra clerk lied. I guess I have to take the good with the bad. My boobies can imitate their old selves in a Vicky C bra. It may be an illusion, but isn’t everything these days?  My husband is still a butt man, and most importantly, I have an amazing daughter that one day I get to tak bra shopping!

A Married Friend, A Single Friend, and a Burger YEAH!

This past Saturday I got a hall pass from my husband to spend the entire day however I wanted. It was a win win for us both. He got brownie points while watching March madness and baby sitting, and I got to galavant all over Buckhead toddler free. It was a beautiful eighty degree day, full of possibilities. Since having my child, it is a rarity that I get the luxury of having an entire day to goof off. I was dressed and out of the house by ten am, which is impressive with an inquisitive toddler following you around and begging you to chase her. My first stop was the nail salon. It had to be, because my toe nails were looking tired and chipped like I had been dragged behind a car barefoot for ten miles. Mommy feet, I said to myself looking down at them. I thought about calling a friend to join me, but the peace and quiet of reading an Us Weekly while enjoying a foot massage was exactly what I needed. After a quick dry, with my Tory Burch flip flops, and some tissue tucked between my toes, I hobbled out to my car ready to do some shopping. I needed some new sunglasses. I pulled into Sak’s parking lot a little past eleven am. While taking my time, and mindlessly shopping in the sunglass department, my stomach let out a loud long growl. She (my stomach) has a mind of her own and likes to eat a lot and frequently. I have learned to listen to her or we both get ornery. I paid for my new, Marc Jacob’s sunny shades, and made my way through the shoe department towards the exit. Another growl came, but this time even louder. My stomach would continue to protest if I did not get her some food. My Sak’s expedition would be over for the time being. I smiled at the shoe sales clerk who is used to my shoe obsession. I wanted to blurt out, not today honey, Mama is hungry, but I didn’t. As I passed by her, I thought about my love-hate relationship with Sak’s and their sales clerks. I love them when I have the time and money to blow, but they can get on my last nerve when I am in a hurry and they are swarming all over me like flies on watermelon.

As I walked towards my car, I pondered which girlfriend I wanted to call for lunch. Having a leisurely lunch with a friend, or friends, was no longer routine for me. Nowadays, I do not have free countless hours to analyze my girlfriends’ situations just for the hell of it. Don’t get me wrong, I love to analyze any and every situation, but now I needed more of a 50/50 lunch date. One where we could bitch and swap stories like a well paired tennis match and then both be on our ways fed and content. This is not something that ever dawned on me before having children. I was the queen of talking about myself and monopolizing the time I shared with my married friends, oblivious to their schedules and needs. Now I am one of them. It is an odd shift after you have a child. In an instant, your time and priorities change. You just get so damn busy. A husband and a child require constant supervision. Women without kids simply cannot comprehend the shift. When I was single, I didn’t. Plus, it is hard to comprehend the change. You do still want to be the same friend you once were, the truth is you simply can’t. Before having a child, I used to think, well she has a nanny, why can’t she stay on the phone longer? Why can’t she go out on a Saturday night? Why can’t she grab dinner? Why can’t she be there for me? The truth is, being a mom sucks you dry, literally. If you are a working mom, like me, you are always exhausted and conflicted. You feel guilty to leave your adorable child, but you want to, and when you do, it has to be worth your while. Today, I could be my old self with no schedule, just ready and willing to listen to some venting guilt free.

I decided Elle would be my best bet for a lunch partner. She lives in workout clothes and can go for a few days without washing her hair. A baseball cap and pony tail is her staple. She could be ready fast. I called Elle, who just happened to be walking out of her training appointment at the gym. ” Do you want to grab some lunch?” I asked. Elle and I use to eat every meal together when we were both single. “Girl, I am hungover! I need some real food. How about Yeah burger? I know how addicted you are to that place.”  A smile came over my face as I started to fantasize over the menu. Would I have the cobb salad with crisp lettuce, blue cheese, and yummy bacon just falling off the mounds of grilled to perfection chicken? No wait, the double patty cheeseburger with grilled onions and american cheese was calling my name. Oh my God, the brussel sprouts with goat cheese, had my mouth watering all ready. “Are you there?” Elle asked. “Oh yes, I’m sorry. I love that place. Do you want to meet me at the one on North Highland in 15?” I asked.

We pull up at the exact same time. I get out of my car refreshed and full of energy. Elle staggers out of her SUV and walks towards me looking like she is hurting. “Long night?” I ask remembering the fun years. “Yep.” she groaned. As soon as we opened the door the place was popping. There were people a buzz, in a long line, waiting to place their orders. Elle was massaging her temples, dehydrated, and having a hard time waiting in line. She was parched and in need of some fluids. “This place is always busy, isn’t it?” I said to pass the time. Elle, who usually has the patience of Job, eyes the manager at the bar. She heads toward him, I follow. I am intrigued, because most of the time, I am the instigator and inpatient one. “I’m so hungover!” She announced. The manager, Russell, nods. “Would you ladies like to order from the bar?” He asks. “That would be great, thank you.” Elle says, happy he obliged. She orders a grilled chicken sandwich with blue cheese, grilled onions, pickles, peppers, and I think avocado. I order a burger, all beef, not bison, and a half order of onions rings and french fries. I wanted to order some wine, but decide against it, because I have bathroom tiles to pick out later. We take our seats on the patio. Our food is served before I am back from getting my diet coke refill. Elle is giving me a play-by-play of all of the men she met the night before, a guy, with a great sense of humor, yet too short. A guy who said he never wanted to get married, and one who had to keep patting his forehead dry with a napkin because of an over active sweat gland he says. I take my first glorious bite. Heaven! I am in sheer rhapsody. The burger is the absolute best burger I have ever put in my mouth! I start to do the happy girl dance. You know, the one all girls do when we are eating something that makes us happy. See chart below. I am swaying back and forth and giddy. Elle takes a bite of her brussel sprouts and joins in on the dance. We eat, we laugh, and we analyze. “I am starting to feel better.” Elle admits on her last bite of chicken. “Better enough for a glass of vino?” I ask. I guess the more things change, the more they really stay the same!

The Happy Girl Food Rating scale:

***** The Happy Girl Dance (no words needed)
**** The I may eat all of this admission
***   The you can have half of this offer
**    The I am sending this shit back demand
*     The throw my plate on the floor because I wasted calories reaction

Mama Needs Her Lashes!

How many of us women are just plain tired of trying to keep up with the upkeep of being a woman? I had a baby not too long ago. It was now time to focus on someone else, and I was ready for a vacation from my grueling schedule of upkeep. By the time I made it to the 9th month of pregnancy, I had to admit to myself, I was not a natural blonde. It was time to boycott my roots and just let my tired, over-processed hair, take maternity leave. I allowed my naturally light brown hair to take up total residence on my head. I have to say, it was liberating…and mousy, but I sucked it up. I would no longer be a slave to my hairdresser and his schedule. Next off the list was my quarterly botox habit. I couldn’t poison my baby for vanity, right? I cut my mani’s out completely. Pedicure’s went to monthly versus weekly, and all of my other routines slowed to a halt. By the time my daughter was a month old, I looked like a granola version of my former self! I had quit focusing on my vanity and was enjoying pouring all of my energy into my baby, that was until, I saw my baby photographer’s luscious lashes! As she clicked her camera, I swooned over what looked like mink fans instead of human lashes looking flawlessly into the lens. “Are those real?” I blurted out not being able to catch myself. I mean, she was beautiful, but those lashes were unbelievable. She didn’t even have to wear mascara or even eyeliner for God’s sake. “Actually, they are extensions. I got them done by Flawless Lashes on Piedmont.” She offered. At that very moment, my granola phase took a backseat. “They look amazing. Really. They look so real and just plain beautiful.” I said in aw. The next day, in my mommy track suit, I was in Flawless Lashes. I walked into the tranquil like spa environment with my dull hair in a mommy knot on top of my head. Ionela greeted me and gave me a quick consult. A few moments later, I was stretched out on the comfy massage table. The lash application seemed so effortless that I let my self doze off. I was so relaxed that I only woke up when I heard myself snore. Embarrassing! Just as I was about to nestle back into my nap, Ionela announced we were done. She handed me a mirror. My lashes looked as full as a Kardashian’s. I could not believe the transformation. Beautiful.

My baby is now almost 2 years old. My upkeep schedule has definitely lightened.  As any new mother can attest, your life changes when a baby comes into the picture. You have to pick and choose how to spend your miniscule free time. Today my hair remains natural, but my lashes remain extended and flawless!