Archive for me me me

Next up: Jeans with an elastic waistband.

March 16, 2010 · Filed under home sweet home, me me me, the way I see it · Tagged

A month or so ago, Aura and I were rattling around the latest sale at Kohl’s. Painfully aware that my delicate underthings had lately been looking more threadbare than delicate, I directed Aura to follow me to the lingerie department, where I was determined I would find at least a couple of new bras. 

As I’ve mentioned before, Aura is rather smitten with the idea of bras. Having been informed that she herself will not be able to wear a bra for another 10 or 12 or forever years, she took it upon herself to help me locate one. While I rifled through the underwires, Aura disappeared momentarily, soon popping back with an armful of ruffles and lace and hot pink. I’m telling you, if kindergarten doesn’t work out, I’m shipping her off to those stripper conventions in Vegas and calling her a really short salesperson. She’ll be in heaven, helping Candi/Bambi/Diamond find rhinestone-studded bras to match their g-strings.   

Aura would also feel at home in Frederick's of Hollywood.

After more fruitless searching, I gave up, dragging a reluctant Aura away from the Maidenform racks. On my way out of the department, I noticed packs of Hanes underwear on sale. Normally I’m loyal to Calvin Klein underwear, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I tossed a package labeled “low-rise” something into the cart, too intent on making sure Aura hadn’t stashed a Wonderbra on her person to actually read the package. 

When I got home, I didn’t give more than a fleeting glance to the new underwear as I threw them into the washer. I do remember thinking they looked a little…larger than I would expect. But I chalked that up to 100% cotton and the need to adjust for dryer shrinkage. That Hanes, I thought admiringly. Now there’s a company that thinks of EVERYTHING. 

And then I slipped on a pair. At first, I was just confused, thinking that perhaps I had put a leg through the waist hole? Was wearing them inside out? Had accidentally sewn two together? Then it dawned on me: These were briefs. Unlike the low-rise bikinis I typically wear, or the very occasional thong I don when dressing up to go somewhere without coloring placemats, these underpants were BIG. Like cover-your-stomach-and-some-of-your-hips-and-maybe-a-third-of-your-thigh big. 

So kind of like this. But without Lady Gaga, and bigger.

I really want to say that I hated them right away. Eeeeeeeehhhhhh. Hear that? That’s the sound of me trying to say that.  

But I can’t. And you know why? I LOVE THEM. No, I don’t wear them during the day, when someone might see them peek over the waistband of my jeans or possibly get caught on the hem of my jacket. However, when I change for the evening, slipping on my old sweats and tying back my hair, you better believe I reach for a pair of these babies.  

Such support! Such coverage! Such…stretchability! I tell you, I am a better, entirely more agreeable person wearing these—God help me—briefs. If Adam wants to go out and buy a bottle of rum that costs as much as a small sovereign nation? Sure! A charity telemarketer calls for a donation? Why not? Hell, when I’m wearing these suckers I’m apt to agree to support ALL of PBS’s New England stations, that annoying WordWorld and Antiques Roadshow be damned.  

Big underwear has changed my life. In fact, it reminds me of a story Adam once told me about a coworker named Radu, who hailed from Romania but moved to the United States when he was about 30 years old. Every day at lunch time, Radu would go out and buy himself a big, steaming bowl of clam chowder. This went on for months and months. Finally, Adam asked him why he never bought anything else for lunch. And so Radu explained: “For 30 years, I never knew about clam chowder. Now that I know, I cannot waste any time.”  

I TOTALLY GET WHAT HE MEANT.

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Also, someone should have told me that I have chubby knees.

March 13, 2010 · Filed under me me me, parenthood · Tagged , ,

Look what we finally got around to purchasing:

Yes indeedy, a floor mirror. This purchase was actually a pretty big deal for us, considering that Adam and I have been cohabitating for almost 11 years and have never owned a full-length mirror. Well, technically, that’s not quite true. The first place we rented came with a full-length mirror on the back of a closet door, but there was no light in the closet and the mirror had a ripple distortion thing going on. So if you wanted to check your outfit, you had to bring a flashlight and then convince yourself that you didn’t really have three breasts. We didn’t use it that much, except during parties, when we were like, “FRIENDS! STEP INTO THIS HERE CLOSET AND COUNT HOW MANY BREASTS YOU HAVE!” It was similar to a chummy game of Clue or Monopoly, except more psychologically scarring.

Barring that particular mirror, we never had another full-length. If I needed to check my pants or shoes before leaving the house, I would stand tiptoe in front of the bureau mirror. But mostly I just hoped for the best and then squinted really hard at my reflection in elevator doors or store windows. Grocery-store windows always worked fairly well, though I’d often have to contort my body to keep the Sale! posters from getting in the way. And even then it seemed like “THIS WEEK ONLY! RIB EYE ROAST $3.99 PER POUND!” always prevented a really accurate glimpse of my waist.

Which, if I’m being frank, was the point. I don’t like looking at my reflection all that much. And if I do get too good a look, then I immediately find something lacking, whether it’s the width of my thighs or the shape of my lips or myriad other issues. I’ve always been this way with photos of myself, too. It was only recently that I realized this little phobia now involves someone other than just me.

“Mommy, why don’t you let Daddy take more pictures of you?” Aura asked during a family outing a few weeks ago, as I was ducking away from Adam and the camera.

“Oh, well, I don’t always like the way I look when I see the pictures,” I replied.

Then it struck me. A lot more comments like that might lead to a lot less of this:

I don’t know if being dissatisfied with your own appearance is the result of too many supermodels in magazines, or a misunderstanding of modesty, or simply a hallmark of being a woman. But in this household, it has to stop, or at least start to stop. I may not be able to guarantee that Aura will always be as carefree and content with her appearance as she is now at three years old, but I damn well have to try.

Step 1:

Thank God for baby steps.

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Well, at least we’ll go down smelling nice.

February 4, 2010 · Filed under me me me, nutrition schmunition · Tagged , ,

As far as vices go, I’m not exactly overloaded, at least in terms of wild vices that will lead to my downfall and eventually a heartwrenching yet ultimately inspiring true-story movie. I do drink what has to be an unhealthy amount of Diet Coke. Yet somehow I don’t see that translating into an award-winning screenplay. I mean, would you watch How I Said No to Aspartame: The Kate House Story? Nah. Neither would I. Unless the studio cast Philip Seymour Hoffman for it, perhaps as my soda-abuse counselor. That guy is like cinema GOLD.

All joking aside, I really should try to wean myself from Diet Coke. I did go cold turkey when I was pregnant and nursing. But the day Aura wiped the last drop of breastmilk from her mouth, I had a can in my hand. I don’t drink coffee, I don’t like coffee. So I justify my soda habit as “my coffee,” the way I get my caffeine fix.

I’m not kidding myself, though. I’ve read enough about aspartame and other artificial sweeteners to know that they can’t be helping my health. And whenever Aura edges my glass toward her and asks if she can have a taste, I answer with an unequivocal “No!”

“Why not, Mommy?” Aura will ask, having been allowed to sample other carbonated beverages on occasion, including root beer, which she now believes is the nectar of the gods and potentially almost as good as chocolate milk.

“Diet Coke’s not good for kids,” I explain, passing her a bowl of organic broccoli and a plate of free-range, antibiotic-and-hormone-free chicken.

“But is it good for grown-ups?” she returns.

“Well…it depends…hmmmm. Maybe not,” I stutter, disgusted that kids these days are so LOGICAL. I tell you, it’s this focus on critical-thinking skills in American education. The U.S. school system will soon be the ruin of the good old-fashioned parental lie.

Yet I’m just not ready. There are some afternoons when only a swing through the drive-thru for a large Diet Coke, so bubbly and delicious in its fountain-drink form, gets me through the rest of the day. I have a sip and I’m better in so many ways. A better parent! A better wife! A better friend! (I believe Meg Ryan presented this exact same argument in When a Man Loves a Woman. Or maybe it was Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting. Someone said something, I know that.)

But I do need to make some changes to my diet. As a first step, I gave up chocolate this week. There’s no specific reason, except that I eat way too much sweet stuff and most of it seems to have chocolate in it. Sometime last weekend, I decided that if I cut out chocolate for a little while, then it would follow that I would also cut down on snacking and desserts.

Four days in, I’m on the fence as to the success of this plan. Turns out you can bake and buy all kinds of yummy stuff that does not include chocolate! Macaroons, for one. Large bags of toffee bits, for another. (Do not be fooled by the toffee-bit manufacturer’s claim that they are for baking. After all, baking is a state of mind. You put yours in your cookie dough, I put mine straight into my mouth. Que sera sera.)

It’s not easy, though. Everywhere I look, there’s chocolate. The grocery store is obviously a minefield. The restaurant at the children’s museum is teeming with cacao-based treats. Even the mall! You walk into a candle store, you’re immediately surrounded by Chocolate Chip Cookie candles and Chocolate Cream Pie candles and Triple Chocolate Candied Chocolate Drop candles. I will never again be shocked by the American obesity rate. I now see that it’s a miracle the United States still has a population at all. With all these candles burning, tempting us to hit up the cookie jar, it’s a miracle we haven’t keeled over collectively, the resulting THUMP! softened by our sweet-scented rolls of fat.

You know what? I kind of like it up here on my new, chocolate-free soapbox. If you bring a Diet Coke with you, it really does feel just like home.

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