Sunday, April 27, 2008

Going on a Frumpcation

Someone please tell me how on earth a girl can travel with a toddler without ending up looking like something that's been chewed and spat out? We've taken two weekend trips lately - one to Seattle and one to Portland. In both instances, I arrived looking and smelling like Courtney Love after a two-week bender. First of all, it's next to impossible to dress correctly for the entire process of traveling. I needed something warm on both myself and my daughter for the cold climates in which we were landing, yet that "something warm" ended up being the bane of my existence while going through security -- trying to remove my layers and my daughter's layers while also collapsing the stroller, shoving it through a tiny tunnel AND keeping both of us from contracting some horrific foot disease from being barefoot in the airport (walk on your toes). (PS. How crazy ridiculous is it that we have to remove the footwear of infants? I mean, am I seriously going to be able to fit an airplane-obliterating bomb in my daughter's tiny pink maryjanes?) Anyways, then, once you're on the plane, it's either claustrophobically hot (on the ground) or blasting cold air in one spot on the top of your head (in the air). So, I just kept my warm layers on the whole time and ended up working up some nice bodily aromas. Then, on top of the temperature issue, we have the issue of keeping a toddler occupied for over two hours in under three square feet of room. For me, this involves lots of food items (which end up largely on my person) and small toys (which get thrown one by one onto the disgusting floor of the plane for me to pick up repeatedly - a surefire hairdo killer.) There's also the emotional turmoil of dealing with your neighbors - on these particular flights my daughter cycled between kicking the seat in front of her (there's so little room that I couldn't move her feet in any conceivable direction where she couldn't reach it), patting the person next to her (which I thought was cute but I'm not sure he did), or trying to touch the man's hair directly behind us (I think I kept that one at bay but I can't be sure). All this to say, I'm sorry Portland and Seattle, for landing on your doorstep in such a frumptastic state. Thank you for two wonderful weekends!

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

A Humble Request

Fellow moms, lovely friends, dear husband - 
If I have a visible booger in my nose, PLEASE TELL ME.

If I have lipstick on or spinach in my teeth, PLEASE TELL ME.

If my headlights are on too bright or (and I'm speaking from experience here) one of my nipples is peeking out of a holey sweatshirt, PLEASE TELL ME.

If my g-string is riding up, my bra strap is riding down, or anything else is within sight that no one should have to witness, PLEASE TELL ME.

If my makeup's not blended, my whiskers need plucking, my armpits need shaving (or deodorizing), or the back of my hair needs immediate attention, PLEASE TELL ME.

If there is anything on or about my person that, if I were aware, would cause me Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, PLEASE TELL ME.

Yes, it will be slightly embarrassing for both of us, though more for me than for you. But as I continue to go about my day, meeting with coworkers, fraternizing with other moms, conversing with baristas and possibly running into ex-boyfriends, I will be silently and fervently thanking you for your candor. After all, a girl can only pay attention to so many things at once. 

And of course, I will return the favor. With pleasure.

UPDATE: The other night, my husband said to me, "Let me look at you." He then went on to look at me intently for about a minute. I thought it was really romantic, until he said, "You need to pluck." Turns out he had read my post. Thank you, honey!! 

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Starbucks Frump Sighting

There I was at Starbucks this morning amidst a bevy of moms, thinking to myself how stylish and put together they all looked, when in frumped one of the worst offenders I’ve seen in a long time. Let’s start at the top, shall we? She was wearing a circa-1982 bright pink headband worn in the actual style of 1982 – low on the forehead like Oliva Newton John. Actually, come to think of it, it was more like David Lee Roth because the headband was pushing up her long, unruly, rocker-length hair. At least Olivia had the wherewithal to pair her headband with a nice, short, sporty hairdo. Moving down, she had on a hoodie, which was all fine and good until she turned around and it had a giant, pink peace sign on the back along with the words, “Peace & Love”. Now that’s just confusing. 80’s up top and 60’s in the middle? And I’ve just never understood why people who clearly never lived during the era of hippies would don their clothing. It’s not like we see people our age running around in poodle skirts. Now, the pants. They were exercise pants—Capri-length exercise pants that were pretty fitted and very worn yet have probably never seen the inside of a gym. (No judgement here - my exercise pants haven't been to the gym in a long while either. But I'm not donning them as daywear!) And capping off the look were ankle socks worn completely pulled up (did I mention the pants were Capri-length?) with, yes, sandals. I don’t think they were Tevas but the effect was exactly the same. She rushed in, pushing a giant stroller filled with children and looking frazzled, took one look at the line and exclaimed, “Is this the line?” (Not sure what else it would have been.) Then she made a frustrated noise that sounded like “Bfffffffffffff” and rushed back out. Little did she know she made my day.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

They Promised Me Smaller Boobs

Ever since I got them, in like 5th grade, I've wanted my boobs to go away. They are far too bodacious for my liking. I realize that, to most women, this is a little like the rail-thin model who says, "I really want to gain weight, and I just can't! I keep eating Big Macs and losing weight!" But seriously. I hate my big old brown-eyed fun bags. Always have. And so, when I heard moms lamenting that they "went down at least a cup size!" after nursing, a little bubble of hope started to surface. Aha! I will be one of those moms whose bodies totally changes after having a baby! My boobs will get small (and will magically become the same size), my legs will get long, my hair will get thick, and my shoulders will shrink into the wiry little shape of a hanger. Or at the VERY LEAST, my boobs will go down one teeny little cup size. Everyone says so!!

Fast forward to now, 18 months after having a baby who I nursed for TWELVE MONTHS, my boobs are bigger. And lower. And still so very lopsided. Why, oh why?? Why am I quite literally the only woman I know whose boobs have not shrunk even the tiniest little bit after nursing? It is so cruel. I have so many friends who are sad about their baby-related boob loss and it just makes me neon green with envy. What I would do for the same post-partum effect.

The only positive side effect is that, because my lady friends have indeed dropped at least a good solid inch, I don't have as much cleavage. Or rather, I do, but it is no longer visible in my shirts' necklines. Because, last I checked, most fashion designers aren't making necklines that go halfway down to your navel. So I can wear normal necklines now. Wa-HOO.

If my husband were reading this post, I'm sure he'd see this in an entirely different light. HE is thanking his lucky stars. I, on the other hand, am trying to squeeze my ta-tas into bras that don't fit because I'd rather live in denial than buy bigger ones. Does anyone know of a "I must, I must, I must decrease my bust exercise" I can try??