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(Not me, mind you. If I had a 2 yr old, I'd be dead by my own hand within the hour.)
Two-year-old (staring at my chubby gut): Mommy, who’s in your tummy?
Me: Well, the baby WAS in my tummy, but he’s out now.
TYO: But WHO is in your tummy?
Me: Nobody. There’s nobody in my tummy.
TYO: Mommy, WHO IS IN YOUR TUMMY???
Me: Ahem. Nobody. Really.
TYO: . . . .
TYO (to herself as she walks away): Maybe it’s just food . . . .
I have been a bad brigade leader. I have ignored my ladies (and gents). As much as I hate excuses, here is one: I'm in the middle of some heavy duty work-related stuff right now, making me worthless to everyone who isn't paying me to do something.
I leave you with the following rant:
When I left work today and got to my car, I found that the person who had parked next to me hadn't left enough room for me to both open my door and get in my car. I was left with one of two options: crawl in from the passenger side or suck it in and wedge myself in my car the way GMC intended, most likely leaving a nice big mark on the car parked next to me, and possibly setting off the car alarm.
I thought to myself, "I should ask the CGB what they would do in a situation like this."
And just so you know, there was no car alarm.
I need swimsuit/beach attire advice from you ladies. I am a northwest gal (read: pale, pale, PALE) used to my beloved rain and cold. I own a bathing suit, but it is ill fitting and not suitable for my upcoming mini-holiday to Florida. I am loathe to wear flowing garments to cover my naughty bits (including, but not limited to, everything below my neck) because I can't stand heat of any kind. I also hate those bothersome skirt-thingies on fat-lady suits. What can a girl wear that is light and young (I'm 28) and flattering?
What to do??
I've kind of been forced on this trip (anything free compells me to do the strangest things), but I want to enjoy myself while I'm there. Still, a fat chick on a Florida beach?? *shudder*
What should I do? I'm scared and need your help. :D
The Set-up: Say a fat chick has to go to the grocery store for just a few things. She also wants to go on a long walk. She decides to combine the two pursuits and grabs her daughter's purse/itty-bitty-backpack for use in transporting 3 jars of whole mushrooms and one onion home from the store.
All is well on the walk to the store: the weather is mighty fine, and despite not having showered and wearing clothes to sweat in, she is feeling well-put-together.
She purchases her necessities, plus one Lindt chocolate bar for later consumption as a reward for walking and having a salad and a small plate of chicken for lunch (she realizes that rewarding herself often has forced upon her a one-way ticket to ChubbyLand but she sighs to herself, "oh well"). She places the jars, the onion and the chocolate in the purse/backback and heads out of the store.
The Problem: Because of the length of the straps and the weight of the merchandise, the bag now hangs right on our subject's gluteal cheeks. And because of the springy gelatinous constitution of her sit-upon, as she walks, the bag bounces merrily like a hyperactively disordered child on a trampoline. She finds this highly annoying and fears that she looks like she's in the middle of a backpack booty call.
The Solution: Here is where the advantage of a largish pair of ta-tas becomes apparent. Hoist the two straps around each mammary. The size of the beast (yes, the r is left out intentionally) 
will hold the strap in place. This also separates the "girls" so that sweat evaporates rather than collects in the cleavage and dampens the woman's sports bra, and drips down into her waistband. This also leaves the hands free to swat at flies, release a wedgie, 
fend off the yappy Pomeranian on a walk with the near-sighted old lady, or pinch the rears of cute men who jog past.
It also makes 16- year-old daughters who are home sick laugh as they take these pictures. Yes, I may look like a dork, but at least I'm a non-butt-bruised dork.
I had this going through my mind before the PMS hit, but the PMS pushed me over the edge. Add to PMS that I'm finishing school, so I have a paper and final exam Tuesday and a LONG paper due next week. So, a lot of work. Add conversations with Ty about the wonder that is cake.
And so I bought a cake. I needed (yes, NEEDED!) vanilla cake, chocolate judge layers, mocha cream
outside, and flowers, which in turn required me to custom order it.
Here's where it's embarrassing: The bakery asked me what they should write on the cake. I hadn't thought about how to answer that! I panicked. The first word that came to mind was just "congratulations". The bakery man on the phone paused, so I went into a long rambling lie about buying the cake for my friends because school's ending. I felt pretty stupid having to lie to the bakery guy about my cake, and so on the walk back home I figured I should email it in.
Then I got to my building and went to check my mailbox here an old and somewhat deaf man asked me what the cake was for. I launched into my rapid fire "myfriendsarefinishingourfinalsandschool'salmostoversoIgotuscake!" I then had to repeat the lie slowly, clearly, and loudly.
He told me not to eat the whole thing myself.
This is Zippy's latest diet. It works for me, not because it's delicious and filling and low calorie, but because with a single glance, I completely lose my appetite.
This is disclaimered with the strictest of disclaimers. After the jump, there is some serious TMI going on.
Also, it's not me. Because I know some of you will think that.
Let's do it. Here at 6 pm Oregon time.
Be there or be cool.
(I'd like to get your opinions on some things.)(And chat with my homies.)(My kids are going to hate that I said "homies" on the internet.)
Several years ago, my mother-in-law looked at me one day and said, "Do you fall down a lot?" She had recently been through a period where she was falling on a regular basis.
I laughed at her crazy old-lady ideas and replied "No."
The very next day, I was attending a parade in downtown Medford and I tripped and fell flat on my face in front of about 3000 people, skinning my knees, bruising my ego and starting a lifetime tradition of klutziness.
I fell once taking my kids to school on the first day of class. I was walking them to the front of the school, when I tripped over a microbe and smashed head first into a cement pillar. I ended up with a shiner and a knee injury that didn't go away for months.
Another time, Zippy and I were walking out to the chicken coop when I took a wrong step in my flip flops and wound up plowing into the shed instead. One minute I was there and the next, I was one of those cartoon characters that runs into the broadside of a barn—all splayed out and slowly sliding down the wall.
Yesterday, I fell again. I was at work, and I'd just sent something to the printer. I got up to get it and tripped over my dog (who goes to work with me every day). Turns out canines are an even better catalyst than microbes or faulty footwear when it comes to concocting the perfect trip impetus. (Does the preceding sentence say "thesaurus" all over it? My internet history says "yes!")
As I was performing my dance with the dog and tumbling to the earth, the following thoughts went through my head:
"I hope the people on the floor beneath me don't hear the thud."
"Maybe nobody will notice if I fall without making noise."
"Oh, I'm wearing a dress. Must. fall. with. modesty."
"Oh, dear. In lieu of modesty, I better have a good explanation for my underpants."
"Oh, thank goodness I missed the desk with my head."
"Oh, I really am going all the way down."
"Maybe if I roll to my back and lay down, this will simply look like an elaborate dog training exercise."
"Did I turn off the stove?"
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