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Do you remember the first time you got a compliment? I don't mean your aunt praising you for be a good girl at the grocery store, either. I mean a REAL, compliment as an adult, by a stranger, that made you feel good about yourself. I do. I was in Target, I was about 20 and a young male employee told me I had a great butt. I think he actually said, " don't take this offensively, but you have a great butt". He wasn't creepy about it, and after my embarrassed and confused "thanks", he went about restocking the shelves. He didn't follow me around the store breathing heavy, or try to get my number. It was just a highly inappropriate, yet completely self esteem boosting compliment that has followed me for years. While I don't have that 20 year old ass anymore, I often think back to that compliment when I need a little pick-me-up.
I had terrible self esteem as a teenager. I got boobs in the 5th grade. Like, need to wear a bra boobs. I was relentlessly made fun of by the boys, and often by the girls too. I remember one day, while walking home from school, a few boys followed me home singing "you stuff your bra!!" until I lifted my shirt and said "does this look stuffed?!?!". After that I was the 5th grade floozy, by rumor alone.
That loathing and taunting of my prematurely mature body made me awkward and insecure and followed me into high school, where curves can be a fickle friend.
Body image has always been an issue with me. Old habits die hard.
The last year I've been on this constant body loathing rampage. I'm the heaviest I've ever been. EVER. I was already chubby, then I quit smoking and packed on a good 15 lbs. Then Derek came home and on came another handful. I'm 5'2" (on a good day) and my frame just can't handle that kind of weight gain. And I have been stuck, no matter what the diet or exercise regimen, at the same weight for almost a year. No loss, no gain. It's frustrating. And that attitude spills over into other aspects of my life. Let's just say there's a lot of "light off" sexy time at my house. And the "nice ass" compliments from strangers are few and far between these days.
So today I took a friend up on an invitation to take a spin class. It was out of the norm of the treadmill/intervals/elliptical I've been doing. This wasn't my first trip on the spin bike, mind you. I'm familiar with the taint crushing aspect of this cardio craze. And it sucked just as much as I remembered. But you know what didn't suck. Having a friend there to motivate me. Gym buddies are awesome. I had one of the best around a few years back. She was motivating, competitive and FUN. But she PCS'd ... I guess her family was more important than my waistline ( I hate you El Paso). I realized my motivation wasn't cued by a dress a size smaller, or random compliments, but from the good old fashioned female bonding in the gym experience. That's probably why I love derby so much. And that's probably why my gym time has been so blah. Doing something semi suckish is always less suckish when you do it with people you enjoy being around. Being accountable to someone else is always better for me than being accountable for just myself. I have zero problem letting myself down. I'm already self loathing. So plans were made for more gym fun. Kickboxing, maybe some yoga... who knows. My attitude is shifting a bit, and I know my goal is to be more fit and not a slave to a number on a scale.This is usually easier said then done. You know whats almost as good as a compliment on your hind end? Putting on your comfy pants and realizing their slightly baggier than they were a few weeks back.
All of a sudden spin class doesn't seem so bad.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
bowchickawowow
If you are related to me, either by blood or by marriage, or you just don't care to hear about my sex life, feel free to skip this installment of Manic Military Wife.
For those sweet readers brave enough to stick around, what happens in the blog, stays in the blog. Unless, of course, you find it hilarious and need to tell all your friends.
Sweats aren't sexy. Neither are spiky legs and granny panties. but they are a necessary evil in womanhood. Sometimes we're tired, or it's winter, or we're bleeding. Sometimes we're just not in the mood, for anything. It's not a conspiracy against you, men. It's just... being a chick.
Since I am a stay at home-er/chronic volunteer-er many of my days start off with a sports bra and yoga pants, and they aren't even the sexy kind from Victoria's Secret. I've been known to let a week go by without hitting the legs with a razor, and if it weren't for wearing tank tops to derby, my pits would get the same treatment. I rarely wear make-up and my hair spends a lot of time back in a ponytail.I get busy, we all do. Some days I'm running non-stop through out my days from one school to the other taking care of PTA business, or taking the kids to gymnastics, or getting my ass to practice or rushing home to get dinner ready. Some days I'm at my laptop reading about writing, blogging, derby and Google-ing my heart out. Some days I'm just plain lazy.
But this laziness rolls over into other aspects of my life. Such as my sex life. There are times when the hubby and I look at each other and ask ," Do you even REMEMBER the last time we... (insert euphemism here)".
We've been married 14 years. We both have schedules and obligations, and then there's the kids and all the attention they need, and bills and work functions and TV shows and the internet and Angry Birds and all those other things we make time for, that sometimes the really important stuff gets put on the back burner. And we all know that sex is REALLY important. But let's be honest, would you wanna tap that ass if what it's attached to is scraggly?
Today was one of those days where we realized we had been too busy to get busy.
About four o'clock, I was sitting in my sweats after a day of Google-ing and researching and random housework feeling blah, and I know I was looking blah. Blah doesn't make for sexy sexy time. So I jumped into the shower and shaved my Sasquatch-esque legs. I flat ironed my hair, put on make-up and got dressed in something other than yoga pants/sweats. It's amazing how much sexier mascara can make you feel! You know what else makes me feel sexy? Lacey panties and a non cotton bra! They aren't just for special occasions. What better way to package up the goods, than to put them in something that helps them look good? I even fabreezed the bed. I know, it's not really that sexy, but I love the clean smell and I don't wear perfume, so it'll do in a pinch. All this, and on a Tuesday, no less. Now all I have to do is wait for our usual Tuesday night couch date, and the kids to go to bed, and this kitty is gonna pounce...
meow.
So take some tips from me. Get off the blog (after forwarding it to everyone you know and having them follow me), freshen your face and practice your naughty smirk. Lets all make Tuesday night a little more productive and leave those sweats on the floor ;)
For those sweet readers brave enough to stick around, what happens in the blog, stays in the blog. Unless, of course, you find it hilarious and need to tell all your friends.
Sweats aren't sexy. Neither are spiky legs and granny panties. but they are a necessary evil in womanhood. Sometimes we're tired, or it's winter, or we're bleeding. Sometimes we're just not in the mood, for anything. It's not a conspiracy against you, men. It's just... being a chick.
Since I am a stay at home-er/chronic volunteer-er many of my days start off with a sports bra and yoga pants, and they aren't even the sexy kind from Victoria's Secret. I've been known to let a week go by without hitting the legs with a razor, and if it weren't for wearing tank tops to derby, my pits would get the same treatment. I rarely wear make-up and my hair spends a lot of time back in a ponytail.I get busy, we all do. Some days I'm running non-stop through out my days from one school to the other taking care of PTA business, or taking the kids to gymnastics, or getting my ass to practice or rushing home to get dinner ready. Some days I'm at my laptop reading about writing, blogging, derby and Google-ing my heart out. Some days I'm just plain lazy.
But this laziness rolls over into other aspects of my life. Such as my sex life. There are times when the hubby and I look at each other and ask ," Do you even REMEMBER the last time we... (insert euphemism here)".
We've been married 14 years. We both have schedules and obligations, and then there's the kids and all the attention they need, and bills and work functions and TV shows and the internet and Angry Birds and all those other things we make time for, that sometimes the really important stuff gets put on the back burner. And we all know that sex is REALLY important. But let's be honest, would you wanna tap that ass if what it's attached to is scraggly?
Today was one of those days where we realized we had been too busy to get busy.
About four o'clock, I was sitting in my sweats after a day of Google-ing and researching and random housework feeling blah, and I know I was looking blah. Blah doesn't make for sexy sexy time. So I jumped into the shower and shaved my Sasquatch-esque legs. I flat ironed my hair, put on make-up and got dressed in something other than yoga pants/sweats. It's amazing how much sexier mascara can make you feel! You know what else makes me feel sexy? Lacey panties and a non cotton bra! They aren't just for special occasions. What better way to package up the goods, than to put them in something that helps them look good? I even fabreezed the bed. I know, it's not really that sexy, but I love the clean smell and I don't wear perfume, so it'll do in a pinch. All this, and on a Tuesday, no less. Now all I have to do is wait for our usual Tuesday night couch date, and the kids to go to bed, and this kitty is gonna pounce...
meow.
So take some tips from me. Get off the blog (after forwarding it to everyone you know and having them follow me), freshen your face and practice your naughty smirk. Lets all make Tuesday night a little more productive and leave those sweats on the floor ;)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
New 'Do
If you happen to be a male sweet reader who wanders onto my blog now and again, take notes. If you're ever in doubt on what to get your special lady friend for a gift, think SALON.
OK Ladies, let's talk hair.
What is it about a new cut or updated color that makes us feel so...Va-Va-Voom-ish? Is it the softer than usual tresses? The way the blow out always looks better than whatever we attempt at home? Is it that no matter what the box promises, the color NEVER looks as lush and glamorous as when we pay someone else to do it? Whatever it is, my new colorist is my new BFF.
It has been five long years since I had my hair professionally done. Crazy right? But like a good OBGYN, or Chinese take -out, finding a stylist you love is tough. All it takes is one bad experience (post yours below in the comments!), and the relationship is over. I'm quite fickle when it comes to salons and usually rarely see the same person three times in a row. I do have a great stylist here in town, within walking distance actually, who does an amazing job on my hair cuts. She always tells me the truth, and has even talked me out of a few cuts. She is a little pricey (for me), but I only see her every 4 -5 months, and it's so worth it. I always leave her chair feeling the need to shake my head from side to side as if in slow motion and tousle my full bodied locks every few minutes to show off how fantastic my hair looks. But, I've never let her color me. Not even when she pointed out my gray "highlights" weren't doing me any favors, and that I was too young to show them off with such audacity. Never having developed a love of the expensive salon coloring, I was happy to DIY my hair with whatever box I had a coupon for. This had been working, with less effectiveness in the last few years until i realized that I hadn't even made it 3 weeks since coloring and already my face was framed with sparkling silver. And I was two toned to boot. It was time to call in the professionals.
I had been sitting on a gift card for over a year and a half for a fancy shmancy salon in the local mall. I just didn't feel right going there. It seemed so up-ity. Often, while walking passed the salon on various mall excursions I would see the women in the salon, dressed in robes, sipping their complimentary beverage, thumbing through a magazine while waiting to be led back to an overpriced hairdo. I usually laughed at these women for being so predictable and cliche, because I'm tragically hip that way, and I'm all about avoiding the high maintenance stereotype.
Unfortunately, my premature graying thrust me into a whole new territory. I wanted to be one of those high maintenance cliche chicks. I wanted a complimentary beverage.
Upon making my appointment, I blurted out how terrible my hair looked from my own hand and that I would wear a hat when I arrived so as not to upset the other clients.While I was reassured this wasn't necessary, I wore one anyway. With a super nervous tremor in my voice, I announced my presence to the host, who was overjoyed that this was my first time there and thanked me, repeatedly, for trying this salon out. What do you even say to that? It was like three minutes of "thank you", "No, thank you". Awkward. He led me to my changing room, to don my smockish robe and check my sweater. I felt silly, but kinda swanky too. I mean, they thought my $20 Target sweater was important enough to check. I immediately lamented standing in line for 10 minutes at Starbucks for a machiatto when he asked if I would like any coffee, or a "water with lemon, perhaps". He actually said "perhaps".
As I was seated in the reception area, waiting for my turn at an overpriced hairdo I couldn't help but mock myself and the situation I was in. Sitting there, one of those high maintenance women I make fun of, with my robe, and my magazine. And then my name was called and I was given access to the promised land. The colorists are in the back of the salon, and this salon was huge. They have a day spa, stylists, tables to wait and sip your coffee, or water, perhaps. I saw primping everywhere and for a split second I felt as if I belonged here in this place of adult women who make time to get facials, and high end haircuts and Brazilian waxes.
But as I sat in that super comfortable salon chair,I started to feel like a fraud. When asked what I wanted to do with my hair, I panicked. I mean, I had already told the receptionist... was I being quizzed? I let out a long breathe and confided that my premature gray had led me to this point. It had been 5 long years since my last professional color, and I had never, NEVER, in my adult life had my hair highlighted. I'm 36 for craps sake. I felt it was time. I don't know if it was the high from walking through the salon, or the adrenaline, but when she asked what color I wanted for my highlights, I blurted out red, like fire. We discussed hair color and technique and the foils started to line my head.
We talked about other things, the colorist and I. We talked about what we do for fun, and roller derby, and pets. We talked about how to handle friends with douchey husbands, and Botox.
And then the foils came out, and as she was blow drying my hair perfectly, as if she had known me forever, adding a curl here, and volume there and talking me though the entire process, I got a glimpse of what other women see when they look into her mirror. Transformation. My silver was gone, the color was perfect and my fire red highlights were sexy. I looked, and felt, 5 years younger. I seriously almost teared up.
I can't explain the self esteem boost a great trip to the salon gives us. But I can testify that that's why we spend the money. I will do it again. I am a believer in the colorists now. I can't go back to the box. I just can't.
I strutted out of the mall that day, my head high, my face aglow, my hat in my purse. I'm now officially "high maintenance".
OK Ladies, let's talk hair.
What is it about a new cut or updated color that makes us feel so...Va-Va-Voom-ish? Is it the softer than usual tresses? The way the blow out always looks better than whatever we attempt at home? Is it that no matter what the box promises, the color NEVER looks as lush and glamorous as when we pay someone else to do it? Whatever it is, my new colorist is my new BFF.
It has been five long years since I had my hair professionally done. Crazy right? But like a good OBGYN, or Chinese take -out, finding a stylist you love is tough. All it takes is one bad experience (post yours below in the comments!), and the relationship is over. I'm quite fickle when it comes to salons and usually rarely see the same person three times in a row. I do have a great stylist here in town, within walking distance actually, who does an amazing job on my hair cuts. She always tells me the truth, and has even talked me out of a few cuts. She is a little pricey (for me), but I only see her every 4 -5 months, and it's so worth it. I always leave her chair feeling the need to shake my head from side to side as if in slow motion and tousle my full bodied locks every few minutes to show off how fantastic my hair looks. But, I've never let her color me. Not even when she pointed out my gray "highlights" weren't doing me any favors, and that I was too young to show them off with such audacity. Never having developed a love of the expensive salon coloring, I was happy to DIY my hair with whatever box I had a coupon for. This had been working, with less effectiveness in the last few years until i realized that I hadn't even made it 3 weeks since coloring and already my face was framed with sparkling silver. And I was two toned to boot. It was time to call in the professionals.
I had been sitting on a gift card for over a year and a half for a fancy shmancy salon in the local mall. I just didn't feel right going there. It seemed so up-ity. Often, while walking passed the salon on various mall excursions I would see the women in the salon, dressed in robes, sipping their complimentary beverage, thumbing through a magazine while waiting to be led back to an overpriced hairdo. I usually laughed at these women for being so predictable and cliche, because I'm tragically hip that way, and I'm all about avoiding the high maintenance stereotype.
Unfortunately, my premature graying thrust me into a whole new territory. I wanted to be one of those high maintenance cliche chicks. I wanted a complimentary beverage.
Upon making my appointment, I blurted out how terrible my hair looked from my own hand and that I would wear a hat when I arrived so as not to upset the other clients.While I was reassured this wasn't necessary, I wore one anyway. With a super nervous tremor in my voice, I announced my presence to the host, who was overjoyed that this was my first time there and thanked me, repeatedly, for trying this salon out. What do you even say to that? It was like three minutes of "thank you", "No, thank you". Awkward. He led me to my changing room, to don my smockish robe and check my sweater. I felt silly, but kinda swanky too. I mean, they thought my $20 Target sweater was important enough to check. I immediately lamented standing in line for 10 minutes at Starbucks for a machiatto when he asked if I would like any coffee, or a "water with lemon, perhaps". He actually said "perhaps".
As I was seated in the reception area, waiting for my turn at an overpriced hairdo I couldn't help but mock myself and the situation I was in. Sitting there, one of those high maintenance women I make fun of, with my robe, and my magazine. And then my name was called and I was given access to the promised land. The colorists are in the back of the salon, and this salon was huge. They have a day spa, stylists, tables to wait and sip your coffee, or water, perhaps. I saw primping everywhere and for a split second I felt as if I belonged here in this place of adult women who make time to get facials, and high end haircuts and Brazilian waxes.
But as I sat in that super comfortable salon chair,I started to feel like a fraud. When asked what I wanted to do with my hair, I panicked. I mean, I had already told the receptionist... was I being quizzed? I let out a long breathe and confided that my premature gray had led me to this point. It had been 5 long years since my last professional color, and I had never, NEVER, in my adult life had my hair highlighted. I'm 36 for craps sake. I felt it was time. I don't know if it was the high from walking through the salon, or the adrenaline, but when she asked what color I wanted for my highlights, I blurted out red, like fire. We discussed hair color and technique and the foils started to line my head.
We talked about other things, the colorist and I. We talked about what we do for fun, and roller derby, and pets. We talked about how to handle friends with douchey husbands, and Botox.
And then the foils came out, and as she was blow drying my hair perfectly, as if she had known me forever, adding a curl here, and volume there and talking me though the entire process, I got a glimpse of what other women see when they look into her mirror. Transformation. My silver was gone, the color was perfect and my fire red highlights were sexy. I looked, and felt, 5 years younger. I seriously almost teared up.
I can't explain the self esteem boost a great trip to the salon gives us. But I can testify that that's why we spend the money. I will do it again. I am a believer in the colorists now. I can't go back to the box. I just can't.
I strutted out of the mall that day, my head high, my face aglow, my hat in my purse. I'm now officially "high maintenance".
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Mom, mom, MOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!!!
Well, I thought I was ahead of the game, as it is Wednesday and I'm a-bloggin'. But then I realized I didn't blog last Thursday. Please forgive my offense, as it was Gracie's birthday, annnnnd she was sick all week which means mom didn't get much done but snuggling on the couch.
So today as I was on the elliptical, catching up on some DVR, Gracie walks downstairs and informs me she needs immediate help with her homework. I find this odd for two reasons; the first being she had already told me her chores (including homework) were done when she was planted in front of the television getting her 'Good Luck Charlie' fix not 20 minutes previous to this new discussion, and secondly, because every time I get on the elliptical (or net book, or telephone) she needs my attention. Immediately. So just like any other day I'm on the elliptical and she tries to interrupt, I tell her " This is my time. In 45 minutes you can ask me all the question you want, but you have to wait". Big frown. Because, of course, her need is immediate.
She isn't the only one in my house who is guilty of this offense, so I am left asking myself, where in the heck did I go wrong in the parenting I do, to make my kids so dang insensitive to my needs and my time.
Of course, I know that I'm the perfect parent, so it can't be MY parenting skills {looks over at husband}.
I realize, it's kids in general who are self involved, because that's just where they are in their development. Even Patience, who is 17, is still very much self centered and oblivious to respecting anyone elses time. When she asks for something, she needs it 10 minutes ago, and she expects everyone to comply. I can't even begin to describe how annoying it is. Even more annoying is after fighting with Gracie for a good 2 minutes on why she needed to skip the area in her homework she was having issues with and move on, when I did go up and help her, she could actually do it on her own. Big frown again, only this time from me.
Sometimes I want to scream "do you even realize how much time I spent doing things for YOU today!?" Sometimes I do actually scream that. And then everyone looks at me like I'm a crazy person, because of course they don't know how much time I spent doing things for them, they were too busy doing there own thing. They don't see the hours put in at PTA, cleaning the house, grocery shopping, planning, organizing schedules. That's just what MOM's do, right?
I think, by far, the most frustrating thing, though is when I am clearly in the middle of something, be it typing, talking,cooking, what-have-you, and Derek will be in THE SAME ROOM and the kid(s) will shout "Mom". "Mom, can you (insert dumb question here). Mom! Mom! Mom! Are you kidding? Why don't they ever shout "DAD!"?
We try so hard, when they're cute little balls of baby chub, to get them to say it. Constantly repeating "mama, maaaama, ma-maaa", and always so dejected when they inevitably say "da-da". Ohhhh, but not to worry, as they will spend the next forever years shouting "MOM!" There are days when I really think I can't handle one more mom call.
The funny thing is, I can't remember a time when I wasn't "mom", because I've been one for so long. And no matter how frustrated I get at those little shenaniganizers,
my world revolves around their goofball antics.As much as I'd like for them to use "Dad" more, we all know it just won't happen. I'm mom. I make things happen, I get shiz done, and I answer when they shout out.
Hey, out of all the things I've been called, "Mom" is by far not the worst.
So today as I was on the elliptical, catching up on some DVR, Gracie walks downstairs and informs me she needs immediate help with her homework. I find this odd for two reasons; the first being she had already told me her chores (including homework) were done when she was planted in front of the television getting her 'Good Luck Charlie' fix not 20 minutes previous to this new discussion, and secondly, because every time I get on the elliptical (or net book, or telephone) she needs my attention. Immediately. So just like any other day I'm on the elliptical and she tries to interrupt, I tell her " This is my time. In 45 minutes you can ask me all the question you want, but you have to wait". Big frown. Because, of course, her need is immediate.
She isn't the only one in my house who is guilty of this offense, so I am left asking myself, where in the heck did I go wrong in the parenting I do, to make my kids so dang insensitive to my needs and my time.
Of course, I know that I'm the perfect parent, so it can't be MY parenting skills {looks over at husband}.
I realize, it's kids in general who are self involved, because that's just where they are in their development. Even Patience, who is 17, is still very much self centered and oblivious to respecting anyone elses time. When she asks for something, she needs it 10 minutes ago, and she expects everyone to comply. I can't even begin to describe how annoying it is. Even more annoying is after fighting with Gracie for a good 2 minutes on why she needed to skip the area in her homework she was having issues with and move on, when I did go up and help her, she could actually do it on her own. Big frown again, only this time from me.
Sometimes I want to scream "do you even realize how much time I spent doing things for YOU today!?" Sometimes I do actually scream that. And then everyone looks at me like I'm a crazy person, because of course they don't know how much time I spent doing things for them, they were too busy doing there own thing. They don't see the hours put in at PTA, cleaning the house, grocery shopping, planning, organizing schedules. That's just what MOM's do, right?
I think, by far, the most frustrating thing, though is when I am clearly in the middle of something, be it typing, talking,cooking, what-have-you, and Derek will be in THE SAME ROOM and the kid(s) will shout "Mom". "Mom, can you (insert dumb question here). Mom! Mom! Mom! Are you kidding? Why don't they ever shout "DAD!"?
We try so hard, when they're cute little balls of baby chub, to get them to say it. Constantly repeating "mama, maaaama, ma-maaa", and always so dejected when they inevitably say "da-da". Ohhhh, but not to worry, as they will spend the next forever years shouting "MOM!" There are days when I really think I can't handle one more mom call.
The funny thing is, I can't remember a time when I wasn't "mom", because I've been one for so long. And no matter how frustrated I get at those little shenaniganizers,
my world revolves around their goofball antics.As much as I'd like for them to use "Dad" more, we all know it just won't happen. I'm mom. I make things happen, I get shiz done, and I answer when they shout out.
Hey, out of all the things I've been called, "Mom" is by far not the worst.
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