Put Some Rubies on That Mom Bod

Linking up with my favorite people at Five Minute Friday today!
The theme?

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There is a mom here at the pool who is in a bikini. It’s flamingo pink and she is tall and slender, and I think, but I’m not sure, she has a six pack.
I am not exactly sure because I need to stop staring. Staring is rude.

It’s just… a six -pack? Really?

I, meanwhile, am sitting over here in the concession stand area, amongst the candy wrappers and fifty-thousand flip flops and towels, and wondering where my six pack went. It’s been lost for a while.
Forever. It’s been lost forever.

She is also very tan. A nice golden glow.

I am not golden. I am more like a connection of freckles.

I know what you’re gonna think. You’re gonna think I’m going to go all “You go, mommies! No matter what size or shape or pack or lack of pack, you rock it, sister!”

And you’d be right. Sort of.
The interwebs is full of Go Mama Go posts, which is fine and dandy and kind of wonderful, for the most part.

But, it’s really kind of nice for me today because, I am actually there, already caught up with the words.

Don’t you ever wonder, with all the instagrams and facebooks and tweetings about Go Mama Go, if ever there might be a time… that the writers might be saying it so they can feel it too? Like, the words provide the comfort, retrospective-wise?

Oh. Just me? Ok.

I have done this. I have written, in hopes that the feelings would come.

Because, maybe, one of the laws of blogging is:
If You Write It, It May Come.

Or something like that.

(Another law of the bloggings? Don’t obscurely quote movies in your text.)

I am comforted by my blog, and you guys, and words that heal. But today? (Who knows how I will feel about all this tomorrow, but for now, thank you) I am comforted by the fact that I am ok-ish in my momsuit. Because I am dearly loved and beautiful and more precious than rubies.

Just let those words sink in. They are more than a comfort.
They heal.

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Momsie as Beauty Blogger is Back! And She’s All Glowy.

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Guys. Remember when I got all beauty blogger on you? It was not my typical genre, I know. But HOLY COW IT WAS WORTH IT.

Here’s why:

  1. I am (air quotes) “getting older.” This means (air quotes) “Things are not the same as when I was 20” and, also, (air quotes) “Chocolate doesn’t fix it.”
  2. As much as tea and sympathy would be nice for aging, that doesn’t really fix the whole (air quotes) “Things start going south because gravity is stronger than hope” thing.
  3. In short, (big, fat air quotes) IT’S HELL GETTING OLD.

No. Noooooo, dial it down, Momsie. We’re supposed to embrace our bodies, and love the skin we’re in… but I would kinda like to make my skin perk up and pay attention a bit better.

It’s not hell getting old. It’s wonderful. It adds wisdom to the already pretty awesome mix that is Momsie, but you know what? If I’m gonna be able to add something to Momsie that makes my skin glow? YES PLEASE. PLEASE ADD THAT TO MY GETTING OLDER LIFESTYLE RIGHT NOW.

Columbia Skin Care uses “Our patent pending probiotic formula — the world’s first for topical skin use —  is comprised of probiotics (‘good’ bacteria) plant stem cells and peptides (amino acids), all of which uniquely combine to enhance the skin’s natural ability to renew itself.” (click here for more website information)

I received two products from the company: The probiotic complex and a more serum-like concentrate. I used both products daily for over thirty days. What I’m seeing is SO COOL.

I have increased elasticity, and less crepey skin. I have tighter skin around my neck. I have, in my opinion, MARKED RESULTS, and this is really quite a find for me. Let me explain. As I walk down the aisles packed full of products that promise to Lift, Renew, and Bamboozle the aging process… products that shout, “Try this and DENY aging altogether! In fact, just SMACK AGING IN THE ARSE! THIS JAR WILL DO THAT, WE PROMISE!”  I tend to smirk.

The smirking has decreased with this product. Granted, I don’t look 22 again, but really?  I wouldn’t want to go back to 22 anyhow. 22 was NUTTY.

So, I’ll live,right here in my 46 year old skin, and glow on.

Would you like a special offer? Got to:
http://bit.ly.2jEEG4B for the specific product page on ColumbiaProbiotics.com

Purchase either probiotic product, and receive a FREE moisturizing cream, a 38$ value!
Use code: ProbioticGift at checkout.

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This is a sponsored post by #ColumbiaSkinCare #probiotics.

 

 

 

 

Skin care, getting older, and bras.

A few weeks back, Columbia SkinCare sent me a new line of products for me to try and review. I thought two things:

  1. I am no beauty blogger. No, my friends. I know this comes as a shock to you, but the concept of strobing for me is something that happens at a rave. Raves are weird dance party things that I might have gone to when I was young and stupid. There was a lot of thumping music and people dancing like they were having seizures. And strobe lights, of course.
  2. Holy freckles. I’LL TAKE ALL THE HELP I CAN GET.

Ok, as you may know, last I checked I am… Well, you know. How can I say this…

I’m… leaning delicately toward middle age.

Oh heck, I drove past middle age about three years ago. I’m a forty-ish mom of two kids under nine years old. I’M OLD AND TIRED.

It’s ok. Acceptance is key.

So, today I’m posting my first in a short series (because, let’s face it, beauty blogging and momsie go together like… rottweilers and pink doggie tutus that you buy at those expensive doggie clothes boutiques.)

Enjoy. Don’t worry. Stay tuned for your regular programming. My posts about how my children are maddening and adorable. Coming soon, I promise. My children will do something maddening and adorable any minute now and I’ll write about it.

But now I give you…

Squeaky Voiced Momsie and Her New Career as Beauty Blogger Extraordinaire

Terrible No Good Very Bad Day. With Whining.

Brace yourselves. Today is for whining.

This post is all:

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WHOA THERE MOMSIE. DIAL IT BACK. NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THAT.

Ok, I promise you, I am not at “Whining Anakin.” And, yes, did you know? The internets is just this fabulous. All I had to do was google “whining anakin” and up popped sixty majillion pictures because EVERYONE HATES HIM.

(This is a terrible tangent, I know, but it’s therapy. Thank you. And please don’t go.)

All right. Here goes. The other day I posted a couple vids on my facebook page of our road trip home. It was fluffy stuff. The husband was singing some song from the 70’s and I was bored bored bored, so, as most people do when they’re bored: I posted stuff on facebook. It’s what we do. We can’t help it.

It seems, also, that people cannot help posting mean comments.

Oh, trolls. I was so not ready for you.

So far, on my beloved Momsie I have not had many issues with the Trolling Ones.

Here’s the deal. The vid is not really all that … flattering of me. Did you know? I am not all that gorgeous when sitting in a car for 6 hours surrounded by junk food and wrappers and 70’s music and highway?

And also this: I am just not all that gorgeous. Boom. It’s true. I don’t mind. I like my face. I think I am in the “Cute and Loveable” level of face- appearance and that’s cool. I don’t really try to be Hot any more, by any standards because who has time for that crap? And also, my husband still calls me his “widdle freshums” which, honestly? I have no idea what that means but it seems kinda flirty so I’ll take it.

I have chins. Most people have just one. I have multiples. It’s like twins. With chins.

Doubly blessed, then?

I have HAD these chins since I was minus one year old. Back then, at baby-hood, the chins thing? So not a problem. Let me show you:

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Now, if that’s not a widdle freshums I don’t know.

But guys, the chins are still there. And even at my teensiest weight (read: before wedding, must fit in dress weight) I had them. And, really? The only way to get rid of ’em would be to SUCK THEM RIGHT OUTTA MAH FACE AND DONT YOU KNOW IT I HAVE RESEARCHED THIS.

You can even see it in the videos. At one point I am holding my chin with my hand (and yes, the angle was awful. What have selfies taught us, people? Shoot from above! Shoot from ABOVE! Any sniper will tell you that!

No. No chin-suckage will happen in this post, I promise you. And neither will it ever happen in my life because EW and also CRACKAMILLION DOLLARS.

So, my chins and my HUGE FRECKLES (read: sun spots) are a part of me. We’re buddies. We’re LITERALLY stuck with each other. So anyone who has to comment on that is kinda… well, stating the obvious, right? Which means… you are kind of dumb or mean or both.

There. I said it.

I know everyone is all frazzled up about gorillas right now. A week ago it was bathrooms and prior to that Starbucks cups and etc. And damn people, could we all just relax? I think perhaps the internet has spawned a great big fat, multiple chinned monster in a lot of folk: the I WILL JUDGE WITH MY TYPING folk.

Anyhow. I was so whiney about it earlier, the trolls who came and puked all over my page. But now? I’m kind of glad. It at least gives me a moment to realize this:

It could be worse. At least, if I really wanted to, I could suck my chins right outta there.

But you can’t suck away mean and dumb.  That crap holds on.

Good luck with that.

Phew! Whining done, and thank you for listening. Carry on with your day.

Oh, and always remember:

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Lose Weight in Five Easy Steps!

Ok. Just lied. There are not really Super Easy steps for weight loss. Gotcha there. I doubt I could even tie my shoes in Five Easy Steps.

Nothing comes easy. Especially the good stuff.

Or, as my dad usually says, “Life is hard. Get over it.”

Generally, working out to get in shape is, you know, work. It’s one of those sweet sayings that one should cross-stitch on a pillow:

I Could Lose Ten Pounds Today But To Do That I’d Have To Cut Off My Arm.

I know. Kinda grim. Stay with me. It can only go up from here.

So, it’s January. You know what that means, right?

Gym memberships are OFF the CHARTS. Like, everyone and their dog (or in this case, cat) got up, got off the couch, and decided, once and for all, it is time to GET IN SHAPE! Woo hoo!

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And… then, we start to slide into February.

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And before you know it? This.

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By the way? There are a heck of a lot of pictures of fat cats on the great interwebs, y’all. Total time sucker. Fat cats are my spirit animal.

Anyway. Here’s the truth of it. I have not been at my best weight in about a year. Or maybe two. Or seven. Something like that. I have a small issue with perception. I think I’m totally hot.

Well, I am totally hot. But I also think, I am totally in shape  (which I’m not). Could be because I like to wear what we mommies call: “workout gear” a lot. This means: Hoodies and sweatpants. On some days, a bra. There is a lotta give in sweatpants, y’all.

As for the no bra thing? I just do that to keep you guessing.

In reality?

Well, I could post another picture of a fluffy cat that is big-boned, but I think I might have hit my max on that.

This year has been awesome. My book, Bottled: A Mom’s Guide to Early Recovery was published by Central Recovery Press. I got to travel all sorts of places to talk about the book. I even got to be on tv! And I had good hair! It has been awesome.

But along with all that awesome has been a crazy schedule and some hard-core (not the abs kind) stress. And for me? Stress  = cheese.

I am tired. And lately, my body is having a conversation with me that just isn’t working anymore. It goes like this:

Head: Ok! Let’s tackle this day!! Let’s do this!

Body: You go ahead. I’m tired. There’s some cheese in the fridge. I’m gonna head that way and I’ll meet you over at the “this” you keep talking about later.

Head: Impossible. You and me, kid? We’re in this together. Otherwise it gets weird.

Body: Cheese.

 

Lately I have been wanting a change. I miss running. I do run still, but not consistently, and not with any passion. I miss feeling strong. Feeling fast. I miss the simple joy of it.

Let me introduce you to my friend, Jill McKay. I met Jill when I spoke at the Whole Women’s Weekend this past summer. She is a fitness coach,  and I am going to be working with her for the next months or so to try and get my mojo back.

Head: Did you hear that? We’re gonna get our mojo! And then we’re gonna tell everyone about it! It’s called accountability! It’s awesome.

Body: What is this mojo you speak of? It sounds like a drink. The one with the mint.

Head: That’s a mojito and it used to mojo you up all the time. But, now, you drink seltzer and lime. We don’t mojo with substances anymore, remember?

Body: Ok. Can’t I just have some cheese?

Head: MOJO IS NOT BEHIND CHEESE. BACK OUT OF THE FRIDGE.

Jill is a wellness warrior. She has a heart for women who are desperately searching for their mojo, and she is helping many of us find it. Mojo doesn’t really have anything to do with cheese. More on Jill later, but I am going to include this link to her New Beginnings series on her blog. I love it because her goals are VERY similar to mine this year. And, there’s a journal in there, and that is my favorite mojo-tracker ever.

If I write the word “mojo” again I think I might break this post. It’s a funny little word. Like, “qualms.”

Yes. I have no qualms about saying the word “qualms.”

Ok! Well! I think we’re about done here. I’ll just excuse myself to get some more coffee, before this post turns into Words with Friends. Lacking focus today. Could be the cheese.

Click here to read Jill’s post on doing These Two Things for our health. You’ll be glad you did.

Oh, and also this. Because. He’s not fat. He’s fluffy.

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Hey! did you know I wrote a book? Yep. Click on the pic if you would like to know more!

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6 am is never a time to argue with anyone. #Mommitment

I am not gonna lie.

I am terribly judgmental. I am completely up in arms about how some moms could do it better. Do it nicer. Neater.

Cuter.

And by “some moms” I mean, uh, me.

I cannot even hear the noise of what other moms are saying out there over the bellow emanating from MY inner umpire.

Let me introduce you to what I stared down in the mirror this morning:

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I was gonna try to add some cute graphics to this pic but holy hand gestures, I am not risking ticking this guy off. He seems upset.

Anyhow. My situation in the morning is this:

I stumble down the hall and end up brushing my teeth to this guy. It’s not a good way to start the day.

Me: Oh hi. You again. So, how’s things?
Disgruntled Judgy Umpire Guy: You suck.

Me: Wow. You’re just gonna jump right in there. Huh. Dude. Let me get some Crest on my toothbrush first at least.

The yelling continues… The bags under my eyes could be checked by United Airlines. My breakfast for the boys was festooned with too much syrup and no wheat germ. The morning did not involve yoga.

And on and on…

Here’s the thing. When we judge ourselves this mercilessly, the next step is to find some other mom out there who doesn’t seem to be doing it any better than us.

It’s the classic bully thing – we find the mom on the playground who struggles, and we think, “I am better than THAT.”

So, my angry umpire dude is basically an agent, searching out some hapless rookie to join my team.

Team Loser Mom. I am the captain, the mascot, the owner and also, the umpire.

I know, this is getting weird, but I know you get what I mean.

So, this morning, as I am walking in to school with my boys, I see this other mom, in her faded Sponge Bob jammie bottoms and hoodie, unpacking kids from a mini van. And Umpire Guy thunders: “You didn’t wear pajamas to school! You actually have on real clothes that have buttons! You win. SAFE!”

And just like that, I have become the Loserest of them all. I just won the World Series of Loser.

So, spray some champagne on me and call me done. Or, well, maybe not. The champagne thing. I have an allergy. Not a good idea. But that’s a blog for another day.

Ok, listen up. I got a bit of wisdom for you:

Judging begats judging, y’all. I think that’s in the bible.

(Tweet this)

It is USELESS to start the day with all these arguments! Nobody should be yelling at anything at 6 am. In fact, I would venture to say, my umpire should just take a flying leap off a short home plate and shut up forever.

So, Vito says, “You are ugly. You need to lose like forty pounds. Today.”

You say: “Uh, dude? Your voice is uglier. God made me. And what He tells me is that I am beautiful.”

Vito: “Yea, but-”

Me: “My God is bigger than you. He trumps you. He trumps your ump. YOU’RE FIRED.”

“But here. Let me hug you first.”

God makes beautiful things. even at 6 am.-1

 

I am making a commitment, a #mommitment, to take part in this very important Kindness Campaign. Want to join me and #EndMommyWars. Most importantly, end the ones on ourselves, because:

Judge yourself and you will eventually cave and judge elsewhere, to take the pressure off. It’s Vito’s favorite little spin cycle called:

Team Nutball.

Let’s join a new team. Besides, the Nutball uniforms make me itchy.

Want to know more? Click here to sign the petition and learn about The Mom Movement!

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First, when there’s nothing but a slow glowing dream.

Warning: Unless you know your 80s music, this post is gonna make about as much sense as listening to five year old try to describe the Super Mario Dragon Ballz video game he played at a friend’s house. Lotta passion. Not a lot of point.

Walking into Zumba class…

Cue the music…

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That your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind

I snap my spandex back into place, check my bangs.

There is music in my soul, but it’s the polka.

All alone I have cried, silent tears full of pride
In a world made of steel, made of stone.
Ok, I get it. This is metaphorical city talk.  She’s alone, in a gritty world of welding and tiny, frayed outfits that only fit on one shoulder.
I live in a small town in the Midwest. There is corn.
Also: I cannot take off my bra while my shirt is still on. If I attempted this while my husband was watching he would:
1. Say, “Oh, honey. You poor thing.”
B. Start laughing because you got the clasps stuck in your hair. Again.

Well, I hear the music close my eyes, feel the rhythm

Nope. Nope. Nope. Well, there’s rhythm and yes I can hear it. But as far as feeling goes? I am still a white girl that has switched from the polka to The Muppets Show theme song in her head.
I am trying to shake my booty. I really am. The instructor is shaking hers. Where is mine? I look about as if it is going to come up and tap me on the shoulder and say, “Hi there. I am your booty. Please SHAKE me and get DOWN with your bad self. Ok? If not, let’s just step-ball-change our ways outta here cuz there is Latin music all OVER the place and you are doing your old drill team moves from 1987. It’s embarrassing.

Wrap around, take a hold of my heart

Pretty sure I shouldn’t have worn a thong under my yoga pants. Alas, yes, there is wrapping. The thong has rhythm, y’all. In fact, I think it’s starting to hum along and is gonna dance for its life right out from under the spandex. It’s facing south, southwest. I am sort just facing west… We are not in sync. But at least it’s taking hold of something, just pretty sure it’s not my heart.
What a feeling, being’s believin’*
Well! That’s true! Whatta feeling!
Now if only I could manage to get everything feeling in the same direction!
Oh Lord have mercy now she’s shaking her bosom all over. And this, I guess, means we are to do this as well.
I look like I’m having a seizure. There is nothing there to shake. It’s like trying to get coconuts down from a maple tree.

I can have it all, now I’m dancing for my life

She just did a grapevine! Hello step aerobics from 1995! I can do this! I am music now!

Take your passion and make it happen
Pictures come alive, you can dance right through your life

Well, I don’t know about passion but I just did a booty shake AND a bit of a twerk in the same 8 count and I think I am just the sexiest thing to happen to middle aged white moms since… I don’t know…  There are no television moms that I can relate to anymore!
Well, not since… Samantha from Bewitched? Or maybe what’s her face, the I Dream of Jeannie lady? And I do realize both of these have supernatural powers so I am thinking there is some therapy that need doing in there somewhere…
OH! I know! Lucy! I am Lucy Ricardo! Because also, Latin music! Now let’s go drop it like it’s hot!
Now, I hear the music, close my eyes, I am rhythm
Don’t, whatever you do, close your eyes. This will only cause me to injure to the other poor souls in this class. Except for the blonde chick who is so good at this that I think I might have to try and trip her before the hour is over. She is all about the rump shaking and I don’t think it’s appropriate.
Great thumping bass there she goes with the hip stuff again. I didn’t know this was Bollywood film, people. I just wanted to lose a few calories.
Hmm. I think I am doing what is called, “Sexy Dancing” now.
It is a moment in history.

In a flash it takes hold of my heart 

Not really my heart. I am thinking I have a side stitch, so that’s all.
My booty is on one side of the room, and I am still over here. That’s different.
Helloooooo chest shaking again. Paired with some “Ieeeayyyyyeeeeeee!!!” That sound does make the chest shaking part work better for some reason.
I can have it all
My Lord. Please forgive me.
I just twerked a little. I really can have it all.
Zumba is fun. But not for the faint of heart. If you have no booty? Dust it off and shake it anyway.
Thank you, Irene Cara for your constant input. At one point in the class I finally, FINALLY started to enjoy myself and let’s just say I started to bounce what the good Lord gave me all about, all willy-nilly. When I did look up the entire class had moved on to a softer, gentler step-ball-change, and there I was all Showgirls in the corner. All I needed was some hair glitter.  “I am a DANCER!” I hissed at the others, and sashayed to the front.
And then reality smacked me upside my vibrating bum,  and we took it down a notch. My bum thanked me later, as we both collapsed on the couch and felt a bit sore. “That was really crazy back there,” my bum said. “Thanks for not, you know, overdoing it.”
“Safety first,” I responded grimly. And sat on an ice pack.
But deep down.. I know. I KNOW. I can have it all.
I am dancing for mah life.
And now I must go. It’s time to shake what my momma gave me. Thank you, Zumba.
*Being’s believin? WHAT ON EARTH DOES THAT MEAN?