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?

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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!

Mama Needs Her Lashes!

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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!

John Edwards Did Not Think Buckhead Famous was Special!

Okay, mama is pissed. After seeing and hearing about John Edwards…not the politician…the psychic medium… for the last several years, I decided to go see him. For the last month or so I have seen him everywhere, on every channel, like he was willing me to come see him. I watched him connect Kim Kardashian with her deceased father on her reality show. I even saw him sway Mr. Big Texan himself, Dr. Phil, on his talk show. I decided to look him up, and low and behold, he was coming to Atlanta. I started thinking that maybe all of my television coincidences had been a…sign? Like most of you, I have lost loved ones. Many of us feel and think that they are still around us. Some people say their loved ones visit them in their dreams, while others swear by a smell or a flickering light.

Over the years, I have seen a few psychics. There has never been a rhyme or reason as to when, or why, I chose to visit them. It could have been on a whim, or just for sport. To me, psychics are like a girl’s gay best confidant, everyone should have one.

This is the short version of my day with John, and you unlike me, get to keep your 150.00 dollars.

Let me start by saying I do think John has talent. I think he does hear things and may know things from beyond this life. In my opinion, he is in a league of his own. He is not reading people’s palms or predicting if your boyfriend will come back; he can speak with those who have already passed over. I wanted to invite my cray, cray friend with me. She totally believes in psychics and is game for just about anything. Years ago after a horrible break up she called a psychic in San Francisco every day for an entire month. Sister believed her too. She even bought healing rocks and put them around her bath each night. When she couldn’t go, I called my other friend, who like me, had lost her father. She bought a ticket and we made plans to go to lunch and see John. At the last-minute she had to cancel, so my back-up was my mother. My mom is a wise ass, but an entertaining one.

My mom and I pull into the venue an hour early hoping to get front row seats. We take the elevator down to the hotel meeting rooms. There is a line wrapping around the ballroom already. My mom sits her happy ass down on the chair to “rest” while I am left to stand in a long line with a bunch of believers. As we all stand patiently in line, there is a John Edwards staffer pushing a pamphlet called “the five”. From what she is yelling overhead, it seems “the five”, is an elite club you can join for a mere five bucks a day, or month, I can’t remember. If you are lucky enough to get in the club, you can win a personal reading from John in the near future and also meet him after the show. Otherwise, you are placed on an email list where you are privy to his written thoughts and upcoming events. I pass.

When I get to the front of the line, I am greeted and ushered to my seat amongst the 700 other people scurrying in to find their seats. As my Mom and I are walking in she smirks, “I see getting here early helped!” My mom is along for the ride, but she has not yet been convinced that he actually speaks to the dead.

“Come on sister. We can take those seats in the middle aisle row.” I point out. I hustle over to my seat. My mother takes her time and talks to any and every person she sees. Think Paula Dean at a picnic. She is now sitting down and talking to her new neighbor about her necklace and how my mom thinks she could make one. I am focused. It is now 3pm. John will be starting at 4. The room is a chatter with every walk of life discussing what is about to happen. It is about 80 percent women and the rest are husbands both gay and straight. There are first timers like us, parents who have lost children, and children who have lost parents. The believers and “the fives” who already know what to expect. John is running a little late, but at around 4:15, he suddenly appears on stage. The room goes absolutely quiet as if the Dali Lama has just appeared. He opens with who he is and how his gift works. He says he cannot help who comes through, and that unfortunately, not everyone will get a reading. The disclaimer does not apply to me, I will get a reading! After a long overview he begins by asking who wants to ask him a question. Hands shoot up across the room. I don’t raise mine. I am waiting to be chosen. John picks people at random. Microphones are given to those chosen and they are told to remain standing. A frail middle-aged woman is chosen to go first. “My son was killed 2 weeks ago. Does he have anything to say to me?” All heads turn to listen. There are audible gasps, and for a moment, I feel like I am in a support group where all is forgiven and out in the open. John is wonderful with her. Although her son does not come through he talks to her at length about loss. The question and answer segment seems to drag on from there. People are asking mundane questions peppered with specific questions about their loved ones. By 5pm someone has finally come through from the other side. He is a son and brother of two women whom are now standing. They nod as John speaks. Tears are flowing. They seem to be in tandem with what he is saying. Yes, he died suddenly. Yes, he was on the shorter side. Then, John asks if the deceased was missing a finger. My mom leans over to me and whispers. “Did he just ask if her son was missing a digit?” The daughter speaks up. “No. He had all of his fingers.” The reading starts to stall. John keeps asking about the finger. He says the missing digit has significance and probes them to think. Finally the daughter at a loss (no pun intended) speaks. “Um, the other day I was at Chick-fil-a and noticed the cashier was missing a finger.” She says it almost as a question. John smiles. “I am the same way. I notice things and seem to fixate on differences in people as well. Don’t be embarrassed. The fact that you noticed the missing finger is just your brothers way of saying he saw it too.” I look over at my mom who wants to giggle. Is this guy for real? Over the next hour he seems to connect with three other families. He tells one lady that her mother wants to ask her about being a nudist. She smiles and says she understands. In between readings John likes to reminisce about his own losses. He likes talking about himself. We have that in common. I am growing more and more impatient. The clock says that it is ten minutes til 6. Pamphlet girl tells John he has one last chance for questions. My hand goes up fast this time. I feel like the little boy in the Christmas Story wanting his essay to get chosen. Pick me. Pick me. I am thinking. I re-adjust and am now sitting on my knees in hopes of my head being over the crowd. Maybe he just hasn’t seen me, I think. He can’t connect if he can’t see me, damn it. My mom is egging me on. “Get your hand up further, honey.” He picks one last person, and it is not me. I slump down in my chair exhausted. My mom winks at me. I am pissed. John is telling everyone to rub their hands together to make energy. He wants everyone to know that we were all guided here by our loved ones. He tells us that they are among us, and not to lose hope, and some other shit. I leave how I came, with no answers.

A few days later, I am in the line at Chick-fil-a to try their new tortilla soup that all of the Buckhead Betty’s have been raving about. They are out of the soup. I start to laugh as the cashier takes my order. Perhaps, I am the cray, cray one. My dad is with me everyday. I don’t need John Edwards to throw me a bone, what I need is my 150.00 back and some tortilla soup!