I love my friends.

This blog post by my friend Courtney CRACKS me up. And it also made me wonder why I haven’t worn a dress with jeans lately. It’s a very comfortable, yet cute, way to hide a muffintop. As she pointed out, wearing a dress with jeans is definitely a “get-up.”

I work in a very conservative corporate environment and we (my friends and I) get regular comments on our attire. My friend Anna wore yellow tights last Winter that earned her plenty o’ unsolicited comments and stares.

Verdict: Many people in an office setting do not handle “get-ups” very well. This is something I find endlessly entertaining because usually the person who offers the unsolicited comment is, in fact, wearing some misguided form of a get-up as well.

Also … I just feel the need to say this somewhere … teased blonde bangs are no longer okay. There. I said it.

I’ve been thinking lately about my appearance.

White people tend to think that the skinnier you are, the better. Which is why I’ve always felt that

1. I was not attractive
2. I may not be full-blooded Caucasian

I’ve always joked that I’m actually black. Which is funny, because I’m really VERY white … I am just shaped like a black woman. That has always made me feel connected to black society. I also envy the sass of black women, and their ability to cook. I can hold my own in the kitchen, but I don’t fry. Due to the fact that I live in the deep South, I feel like my lack of ability to fry makes me a failure.

I wish that white women didn’t feel the pressure that we do to be skeletons. I have accepted that I’ll never be a skinny girl and I am okay with that, but the pressure is always there. The dissatisfaction. 

My white girlfriends all think they are fat, and I can assure you I’m fatter than every single one of them. On a “good” day, when I feel like my life is under control and I don’t look like a complete mess, I’ll stand back and think that we are all a bunch of stupid idiots who have no idea what is and is not truly beautiful. We all look just fine, just the way we are.

And I still think I might be like 1/4 black. Seriously.

I left my husband with a grocery list today. It contained items like toilet paper, oranges, grapes, brown rice and couscous. He hasn’t been home during the week (because he is still training for his new job), so it’s just me and the Toddler and we love our fiber.

When Husband goes to the grocery store he comes home with junk like chocolate milk, Pop-Tarts, and cheap frozen burritos. He also likes to buy bags of those miniature powdered donuts to go with his chocolate milk. It’s like letting an 8-year-old boy loose with a grocery cart. It used to shock me, but now I just find it funny.

He’s gotten really good at following the list, but I fully expect to come home today to a box of Choc-O-Lantern Frosted Chocolate Fudge Pop-Tarts. And a gallon of this.

Today I am facing three delimmas. Perhaps one of you can help me.

1. My Toddler is afraid to poop. I have done everything I can think of to help him. Prune juice (daily,) fiber supplements, anything with fiber in it … tons of fresh fruit, olive oil, etc. Finally I called the pediatrician’s office and the nurse told me the next step is suppositories. Hopefully that will help him poop with ease and therefore get over his fear.

2. I have a fear of administering said suppositories.

3. My acne cream (Clearasil) bleaches stuff. I never worried about it because I used to have white sheets on our bed, but I just bought 500-thread count chocolate brown sheets. They are AWESOME. I cannot ruin them. What can I use on my pimples that won’t bleach my pillowcases?!

That is all.

Good day.

“How is the Toddler taking to his new bed,” you ask?

Allow me to answer you, in photo.

Note the blurry picture quality. This is because I’m simply too tired to care.

This weekend, my little boy tried to escape his crib. We have moved the mattress down to the lowest level and we were hoping it would last at least 6 more months. But, alas. He figured out that if he stood on his pillow, it made him just tall enough to put one foot over the rail. Luckily, I caught him just before he heaved himself out.

We were faced with a decision: should we buy one of those crib tents to trap him in, or just bite the bullet and convert his crib to a toddler bed?

Knowing the type of child we have, we opted to just go with the toddler bed. I would rather deal with him getting up in the night than worrying about him strangling himself or — more likely — somehow figuring out how to get out of the tent and falling out of bed anyway.

I never thought I would be the type of mother who didn’t want to let go, but I am. I was sad when he stopped using his paci, and now I’m sad that the crib is gone. It’s all so sudden … it’s strange. And next, we will start potty training and soon this tiny boy will be running around in Underoos.

… I can wash clothes.

My husband came home and declared that our new washer is, in fact, broken. I feel validated. It wasn’t that I was too dumb to operate it, apparently buying a floor model wasn’t worth the headache that it caused.

Our attempt to save money was a failure. I just want to wash my clothes. Seriously.

We got a new washer and dryer.