Wrinkle me this

For the longest time I was so self conscious of my smaller than average chest. I avoided strapless dresses, invested in padded bras and fretted over bathing suit tops. I have a new obsession, I need something for my face. I know that there are a few more lines on my face, but I have never been too worried about them. Up until now... My wonderful mother, in the past several months has pointed out that I need to stop worrying because I am getting frown lines. Yesterday once again she ran her palm over my forehead and told be to stop worrying, stating that she didn't want me to look like her. Now I have a serious complex. My life was hard enough sucking in my tummy, adjusting the occasional creeping wedgie, and now I have to force myself to stop furrowing my brow??? She recommended a product called frownies. I had to check this out. "Facial pads like Frownies work mechanically by stretching out wrinkles and “unwrinkling” them as you sleep." While they do work according to Oprah, I need to keep the following points in mind:
* You will look stupid in bed with them. Apparently random stickers on the face is not very sexy.
* They won’t work if you’re a quitter. You need to follow the instructions and it takes a few weeks for them to take their full effect. I am in fact a quitter, this will be hard.

I am going to head to Steinmart tomorrow to pick a box up. My husband will be thrilled with the new sticker face. Ohhh...that is my new theme song instead of "Poker Face", I am "sticker face". I really need to lay off the wine.

Potty train

The movie UP was fantastic. We sat through the first showing, the place was semi empty. I loaded my giant man purse with small bags of popcorn, juice boxes, fruit snacks and lollipops. I am cheap when it comes to the movies, and I wanted to make sure that the girls were occupied. If they are eating they are happy. Claire was perfect, she actually sat and watched the movie! There was very little drama to report. Three trips to the potty during the film. The movie theater is evil when it comes to potty training. The automatic flush is just terrifying to Ella, and fascinating to Claire. I had to bribe Ella to sit and potty, but I had to bribe Claire to stop waving her hand in front of the sensor. The funny thing about watching a movie with a bunch of other little kiddos is the constant potty train, at any given moment you can faintly hear a "Mommy I have to go potty." " Are you sure sweetie?" "yes!" "You just went 15 minutes ago." "But I have to go now!"

What UP?

Tomorrow I have decided that I will take the girls to see Pixar's new film, UP. I am a little nervous, Ella has been to two other movies in the past and did great. This will be Claire's first movie. It could be pure hell depending on her mood. Tomorrow is opening day and I wanted to get the early bird special, so originally I attempted to order the tickets online. I discovered there was a 1.35 courtesy charge PER TICKET!!! You can shove your courtesy charge where the sun don't shine. I drove over to the theater and purchased the tickets. Traffic was backed up due to not one, but two accidents. My quick trip to save some money cost me over an hour in the car on a 95 degree day. I purchased tickets for the early bird showing @ 10:30. I was informed that this showing would not be 3-D. Thank Goodness! I can't imagine the drama associated with keeping glasses on a two and a three year old. I was so excited to come home with the tickets. I just read a review and it was glowing with praise. The last few lines threw me..."this is one of the first PG movies that Pixar has released". Really?? Are my girls going to have a fear of balloons now? On the other hand it may make a trip to the grocery store easier when the cashier says they have run out of free balloons!

7 year itch

Yesterday we celebrated our 7th anniversary. I have heard several people mention the 7 year itch, I prefer lucky number 7. I scoured the internet for the traditional 7 year anniversary present. Wool...yes the traditional present is wool. I really think that is where the whole darn seven year itch issue comes from. The modern present is copper, a little better but come on. Jeff and I had decided to forgo presents this year and go on a long date instead. Well, with wool as a present I felt that I wasn't missing anything. I did get Jeff a bottle of "Coppertone" and made him a card that I glued dated pennies on to it. 2002-2009. I was pretty proud of my creativity. We went to two different wineries and had dinner at the last one. We had an awesome time. We strolled through the vineyards and talked about the past seven years, the ups and the downs. I noticed a young lady picnicking with her lover. She sat up casually exposing a perky breast. I of course pointed it out to Jeff, didn't want him to miss out on the show. That is true love I tell you!

Stage Mother ...Oh Brother!

I fear I may have mentally become one of the dreaded stage mothers. I did not act on any of my thoughts or desires, thank goodness. The other day Ella had her first dance recital. I scoped out the front row of seats early so I would be able to see Ella up close. The auditorium was filling up. My sweet little Ella was in the hall with her teacher and fellow classmates practicing. After watching three other routines, I was ready to see my star! Remember, this was a recital for the 2 and 3 year old classes. My definition of "star" was a child that did not pick her nose, grab her crotch, suck her thumb, or cry during the short three minutes on stage. Out stomped her little gaggle of hot pink tutu clad ballerinas. My little star was in the back, I couldn't see a darn thing, my husband threw himself on the floor in order to attempt to get her on video. Ella must have thought that she was in a line because she stayed directly behind the little girl in front. I couldn't help but think if I could only slide the little girl two inches to the right. Perhaps next year I need to slip the instructor a 20 to have my girl in the front row. See what I mean, and we only have another 13 years of recitals!

Dance Fever

Why Not

There is nothing like coming home from a day long bachlorette party at 1:30 am thrilled that you didn't spend much money and discovering a 250.00 new toy in the garage. We are the proud new owners of a pink, two seater, working radio, Barbie Jeep. I am attempting to muster a tad bit of enthusiasm here. Poor Santa is screwed now, how will he ever top that? The girls however, are thrilled...with the box. I am almost to the point that I am over the fact that this was not in the plan, it was not discussed, we don't have 250 dollars just hanging around. Thank goodness for wine and a lot of it.
Anyway, I survived the 20 something bachlorette party and think that I just may have been cool. I will emphasize the fact that I may have though that I was cool. I wore a little mini jean skirt from Old Navy. It was a bit hoochie mama, but the gentlemen that we met at the restaurant didn't mind. I was showered with more compliments than I can count. They couldn't believe that I had two kiddos. They were in their late 30's and so nice... granted they all admitted they were on their third wife. My soon to be sister in law worked it and got them to pay us 40 dollars each for a knee lick. Hold it... it was innocent I thrust my leg out and the married guy gave a quick lick to the back of the knee. He was certain that I would swoon over it. My dog Sadie could do a better job.

Beautiful Nail

Basically...I got home at 2:00 am this morning from a Bachlorette party, a few hours later watched the girls sing at church, and then a few hours later went and saw Rent. I am TIRED! I will leave you with this you tube video that a friend posted on my Facebook after reading my post on the nail salon. Tomorrows topic...Bachelorette party and back of the knee licking.

Back in the day...

Tomorrow I am attending my soon to be sister in laws bachlorette party. I am a bit nervous, I will be the oldest by a little less than a decade. I hope I don't make an idiot out of myself. I have a tendency to become a little too verbose when I have a drink or two. I have to remember not to say, "back in my day...". I will not make reference to the early 80's. I'm sure my Max Headroom joke would fall flat. I have to remember not to point out my stretchmarks, varicose veins, or c-section scar. Give me strength not to talk about my kids, my husband, or cleaning the house. I have to embrace my inner 25 year old.

Free to be you and me

Those of you that grew up in the late 70's may remember the "long playing record" Free to Be You and Me. It provided a positive musical message regarding equality and self esteem. I was listening to it the other day and wondering, what age is it that you become self conscious? Yesterday, we took our girls to the neighborhood pool. Poor Ella's swim suit was having a terrible time covering her fanny. I looked over and she had a full on wedgie, I am talking about all of the material had migrated to her crack. She could care less, she was bending over, skipping, splashing without a care in the world. I felt compelled to arrange her suit several times. Why? She was content, didn't care, and she has a pretty cute bum. I only wish that I could be as care free as she is. Instead, here I am adjusting, tugging, and feeling for a phantom wedgie while wearing my swim suit. I hope that she never loses that self confidence.

zip it

The other day, I took my mother in for a mother and daughter pedi. The evening before, I had showered and gotten ready for bed. I had just laid down when, to my horror realized that I had forgotten to shave. I rushed to the side of the tub for a quick shave. The next morning, I realized that I missed a ruler sized strip on my leg and completely neglected my toe hair. It was too late to do something about it, so I just let it go and headed to the salon. Immediately after entering the salon, my mother and I got busy picking out our polish. I am horrid about picking a good shade. I end up with 80's hot pink or stripper red every time. We went about getting settled in our chair and figuring out the massage remote control. I managed to get mine stuck on some "karate chopping" mode and spend the first 5 minutes of relaxing lurching about spasticly in my chair. The pedicurists got to work. This brings me to my pet peeve about pedicures. I know the employees are talking about me. Just because they are speaking in a foreign tongue, pointing out my impressively long toe hair, cackling with the employee on your right, doesn't mean that I don't get it. You are talking about me! The two ladies attending to our feet were having a hay day with our sad, pathetic, rarely pampered feet. One got a little too aggressive with her cuticle tools and drew blood. My mother let out a surprised "ouch". The the women looked at each other and laughed, jabbering back and fourth. Really, I am paying for this? Apparently, a few miles down the road there is a salon that is rumored to have a no talk policy. The employees cannot talk to each other while they are working. I am so going there next time.

Gianalogue

I don't know if you watched Oprah several weeks ago, the topic was how to talk about sex with your child. It was really eye opening concerning the misinformation flying around out there. I'm not sure why it surprised me, since I too was exposed to a discussion in first grade about a cat having sex. I came home mortified, I was under the impression that there was a serious amount of poop involved in the whole baby making process. My poor mother attempted to skirt around "the talk", that was until I managed to check out a sex book from the public library. Granted the information was in comic book form, but there were still some fairly explicit pictures. The poor librarian who allowed a six year old to check out the book, got quite an ear full from my mom. Anyway...the psychologist on Oprah recommend using the correct words to label private parts. My husband had been calling them "bits" since the girls were small. Girls have "bits" and boys have "bits and pieces". Why I chose this week after the boobies fiasco to introduce a new word is beyond me. I was about to say the word, but just couldn't. I morphed the word into a much cuter, "giana". I told the girls to wash their "gianas". They looked at me, confused. I pointed to their girl part. They happily excepted the new word. Ella has taken it upon herself to now be the boss of the "gianas" in the bath tub. Today she ordered Claire to wash her giana well, or she would get an rash. Claire dutifully followed her sisters orders.

Mouths of Babes

My hubby came through! Breakfast in bed, a small gift, and brunch with my parents. A fantastic day. Ella sat through church with us for once, she is usually in the nursery. She was fascinated with the pastor,lay minister, and acolytes all dressed in white robes. She looked up at me with her big brown eyes and asked, "Mommy why do those doctors go up to the front and talk to themselves?" After the service, the girls practiced walking down the aisle. In July, they will be flower girls in my brother's wedding. They walked slowly down the aisle and then carefully climbed up the stairs, then turned around and enthusiastically hopped down each stair. Ella of course managed to fall down the last two stairs and ended up wailing. I love my girls, I can't imagine what my life would be like without the 24/7 drama. When I tucked Ella into bed, I told her that since I was a little girl I always wanted to be a mommy. She made me a mommy. Then of course, she asked me how she got out of my stomach. I have an easy explanation since I had a c-section. She wondered if it hurt, I told her that yes, it hurt a little bit but she was worth it. She looked at me suspiciously and said, "Mommy your should have just let me come out of your mouth since throwing up really doesn't hurt." Hmmmm....

You lost them mommy

Let me preface this by saying that my 2 year old has always been very curious. At a very young age, she was fascinated by nipples. She pronounced them "Nepals". Often times when she was younger she would ask in public places who has "Napals". She would announce who had them, speculate on the size of the "Nepals", and expose her own. I could easily spin the conversation by saying...Nepal is on the other side of the world. Not everyone has been to Nepal or is interested in discussing Nepal. One day her interest waned and I was thrilled. Last week she reconnected with her burning desire to discuss them. Unfortunately my two year old no longer uses such cute phrases as "Nepal". She has embraced the term "boobies". Today we stopped at the grocery store. I was holding her and she reached down my shirt. I was wearing a sports bra since we had just come from the gym. Ladies, as you know the sports bra does nothing to enhance an already pitiful size bra cup. So yes, I suppose I was looking unmmm a little prepubescent. My adorable 2 year old is determined to solve the mystery of the missing boobies. She announces in her tiny shrill voice, "Where did your boobies go mommy?" I gently pulled her hand out of my shirt and told her to not talk about boobies. That was my monumental mistake. Had I just made something up like...Victoria's secret has the day off, or the miracle bra is too tired, she would have probably let it go. Instead she began to literally panic.... "Oh no mommy, your boobies are missing, go find them mommy." There were several chuckles from the customers in line. I was mortified. Claire reached down for another investigative feel. I yanked her hand out of my shirt, no more Mr. Nice guy. She began to howl and scream. The cashier asked if she wanted a "buddy buck" to calm her down. She took a deep breath and took it. "Here mommy, go buy boobies." Nice...

Odd

I had my 6 month dentist appointment yesterday. I was just there two weeks ago with Ella. Ella has determined that anyone that attempts to put a foreign object in her mouth deserved to be kicked and bit. It was miracle that the poor dentist was able to open up her mouth. I had to pin her down on the chair while she thrashed her legs. I still have a few bruises to prove it. She screamed, she cried, she attempted to bite down on the courageous dentist's hand. After the "cleaning", I was assured that next time it would be better??? So back to my appointment...I have been blessed with great teeth, I have never had a cavity or braces. I really don't mind going to the dentist, sadly I find it relaxing. I did, until I met the dental hygienist with a gift for gab. She talked, and talked, and asked me question after question. Hello, you have your hands in my mouth...do you really expect me to answer. At first, I attempted a few grunts "answering" her questions. After the fifth question, I just tuned her out. She did not take the hint and kept talking. After she was done, she looked me up and down and said,"You have lost so much weight! I really need to try the diet you were telling me about." What? I am the same weight that I was 6 months ago and I know darn well that I didn't tell her a darn thing.

Gay old time

I must admit that I just may have a new crush. Yes, I know I am married and the guy is so NOT into me, but he is just so damn cute. Ohhhh... and he smells great and gives an amazing scalp massage. My new hairstylist appeared in my dreams last night. He cleared out my circa 2000 wardrobe, hung a few pictures, and gave me tips on make-up application. He accomplished all of this with some fabulously snarky comments. Really...I want him to be my friend. I actually have gotten my hair cut by him twice and am sticking to the every six weeks schedule that only the truly vain can afford. Why am I doing this? Granted the hair cut is great, but he makes me feel like a million bucks. He compliments me and gushes over my sense of style. (little did he know that I changed 3 times just to feel semi "in") The best and greatest part is that he is my very own Perez Hilton with a sense of style and a gorgeously boyish face. He looked at one woman that walked past up and down, we both giggled. Once again...leggings are not pants and there comes a time in your life that you should not have long hair. Botox just may be a better investment than hair color.
Enough of my pathetic crush...

Talk Derby to me

I am back from my blog ban. In the past week I have thrown two parties and I am pooped! On Saturday we hosted a Derby Party. It was a blast, my hubby is from KY so the derby is something that we always watch now. For the seventh year in a row I managed not to win anything. Tomorrows blog topic...why I love my new gay hair dresser. There is just something endearing about a man that says, "I'm not making fun of anyone's clothes...I am just pointing out the obvious."