The Chicken Came Before the Egg

I’ve been spending many days and nights around here researching ways to get this body of mine back into tip-top shape…and I’ve come to only one answer in defeating Lupus:

Chickens. 

Somewhere in Santa Monica, at a nice desk near the ocean, my husband just laid his sweet head down on his keyboard and is wondering when the sweet relief of death will come save him from this life of marriage to this crazy lady.

Now hear me out just a minute or three here. Or go read something else, I don’t really care.

I want the best possible food to go into the bodies of the people who live in this house. Heck, even those of you that just visit. Eggs are a great source of protein- which the doctor says I need A LOT of. The doctor also wants to see almost NO processed food, no chemicals, no dyes, no … well, nothing.

Now, shopping organic and finding recipes and all that fun grocery love is all well and good. But it sure is missing that certain…JAZZ HANDS quality. The one that makes me want to leap out of bed (and mark these words- I WILL LEAP OUT OF BED SOMEDAY) and get a great and healthy breakfast going for the family and myself. You know, after I have already worked out during sunrise and walked the dog and packed lunches and sat quietly with my tea and book, awaiting the husband and children to come downstairs from their slumber.

Yes, THAT Is how I plan on starting my life over once my body cooperates. Early morning exercise! Nothing but fresh, home cooked food! Total organization!

And where does it all start? The chicken, or the egg?

THE CHICKEN OF COURSE!

Which means I want a chicken coop and chickens. But I’d like the magical kind that get along with my dog as though they are best friends and have zero nasty stink …oh, and clean up after themselves.

See…I already have the cute ranch hand:

Howdy

So really I would just like cute, fluffy, egg producers in my yard that cause zero issues and require zero care. OH…and the home owner’s association won’t mind or notice.

My daughter would be so so so happy if we got chickens. My son will freak out initially but only for about two minutes. Then he will freak out about all the other animals around who might hurt the chickens and then we’ll have to fortify the chicken coop with military grade fencing. But THEN it will be ok.

The point is. I want fresh eggs. I want fresh air. I want clean water. I want food that does not come out of a box. I want the chemicals OUT of the systems of my family (and your family’s systems too) and I want us all to live like we were meant to live: naturally.

Well, naturally within reason. I still need some take-out here and there and a good mani/pedi.

I’m not saying let’s start a commune in my very tiny backyard or anything (although that’s another idea I have for when this whole chicken thing doesn’t pan out) I’m just saying I think half of the reason my body is not fighting as hard as I want it to fight against this disease is a lifetime of food-flavored food being shoveled into my system. No really…FOOD-FLAVORED FOOD instead of fruits and veggies and meat that has no FAKE ingredients hidden inside.

We’re trying things out over here. It’s not easy. We like our junk food and we like our packaged food – but we are working on buying the cans of veggies with organic stuff inside and totally LESS sodium and with NONE of the things on the label we can’t pronounce. Or that Count Waffles CAN pronounce but he heard it on ‘How the Universe Works.’

Back to the chickens.

Who wants to buy me a chicken coop, chickens, and then come take care of them for me? I just want to pet them and eat their eggs.

Also…if the HOA asks, we got a TENT and that noise is simply our silly dog Nicky doing his new IMPRESSION of a chicken. We’re training him to be a Hollywood dog.

Totally plausible. We live in LA.

An open letter to pollsters, stat takers, and survey pimps

What the HELL is this crap? Are you serious? A poll asking South Carolina voters which presidential candidate is the SEXIEST. Really?

I’m just curious what is accomplished by a poll like this, why any polling company would ask this question, and why the hell they think I care.

The President of Public Policy Polling, Dean Debnam, agrees this is silly, “Politics doesn’t always have to be completely serious,” he says in the press release. “We did this survey to remind folks to keep their senses of humor during this intense election season.”

Yeah, I’m not laughing.

If you want me to keep my sense of humor, how about asking me which candidate tells the best joke. Or which candidate is mostly likely to have a beer at the local pub. Draw me a funny political cartoon. Let me just state I’m stretching with those examples, because I really am not sure this election needs to have a sense of humor. Some “light” moments-I’ll give ya’ that…but my sense of humor just doesn’t come into play with dead soldiers and Iraqis, families struggling to pay their mortgage, lives-hanging-in-the-balance, fate-of-our-country politics.

But let’s tackle the bigger issue here and why this poll makes me roll my eyes and want to move to Canada-ENOUGH with the sexy crap. Obama girl, Hillary boy, Edward’s hair, Clinton’s cleavage-ENOUGH already.

What does even discussing which candidate is SEXY accomplish in the bigger picture aside from the few chuckles the polling folks were hoping for?

It reinforces that “sexy” matters.

It reinforces the idea that Americans care more about Oprah than Obama.

It reinforces to my daughter she needs to be thin, beautiful, and slutty.

It reinforces to my son SEXY counts when trying to win over the world.

It reinforces to ME some voters care more about American Idol and Britney’s custody case and will actually cast their ballot for the candidate who has the best stylist.

It reinforces to the candidates the false notion 8.3 million readers of BlogHer.com care more about fluff than the issues.

Maybe I have no sense of humor this morning. Maybe I woke up to find this poll and am overreacting. I’ll admit I’m feeling rather cynical this weekend.
Or maybe I’m tired of some woman shaking her ass all over national tv for Obama and the media discussing necklines and skin.

We have quips about looking “too” feminine or “mannish”-leading to snark about tears in New Hampshire. We have polls measuring the next leader of the free world’s SEXY.

Enough. Please. Enough

crossposted at the Huffington Post

My Hippo Ass, part 3

Once again it’s come to my attention I am STILL carrying the baby weight from Princess Peanut. Once again I am determined to do something about it. And once again, I have no doubt, I will fail miserably.

The weight from Count Waffles came off so much easier. Sure, I actually worked at it…but it DID fall off once I got going.
This time…um…not so much. There seems to be some sort of unwritten rule that your ass and stomach are NOT allowed to shrink after more than one child. One..sure, you can get your body back…two…forget it.

I could blame my stupid thyroid medication. I could blame that horrible Paxil that seems to keep me sane yet sends one bite of cake directly to my thighs. But who are we kidding…

I’m going to the gym.(**edit by way of Kaiser calling me out: I go to the gym occasionally and NOT on a regular basis) I’m not eating horrible. It’s not all salads and fat free rice cakes around here, but I’m not eating ice cream at midnight either. The baby weight just is NOT coming off. Can I even call it baby weight after 2 years? Is there some sort of rule, that after the baby is a year old, it’s officially YOUR fat?

All I know is, I walked in Santa Monica yesterday and felt like the frumpiest, fattest, most unsexy mother in California…who had trouble finding anything that fit in those great stores.

I am normally NOT some one who has self confidence issues…but lately, WOW…I think I’m willing to discuss plastic surgery, drugs, whatever. If only I could come up with a way to finance it…hmm….

I’m so tired of this. So tired of trying to get the weight off. So tired of caring. So very freaking tired of wondering when, if ever, I will get my body back. So tired of wondering when I will be able to get that super cute dress over my hips. So. Very. TIRED.

I’m in such a crappy mood over this…and I would LOVE to hear how you got your baby weight off. Because I totally give up.

The post in which I admit I need help

I just fed my daughter’s corn dog to the cat.

Now, before you get all up on my junk about giving my daughter (or the cat for that matter) a corn dog, hear me out.

I had never even had a corn dog until I was in my 20′s. And when I discovered how yummy they were with mustard, I vowed that my children would not grow up without their white trashy goodness. As for the cat, he got the corn dog because I was going to eat it. And I really, really didn’t want to eat it. But I did really want to eat it. But I knew I shouldn’t.

Yes, I’m dieting again. And feeding the cat the corn dog was an act of a desperate woman. It was that or I was going to eat it.

God I love food. I’ve officially been dieting since I woke up this morning, and all I can think about is the box of corn dogs in the freezer, and the package of lemon, sugar glazed scones on the counter.

And then I remember I just want to fit into my jeans. That’s all. Just my jeans.

Help me. Help me. Help me not eat.

…that she wore for the first time today

Deep Breathe.

Iworeabikinioutinpublictoday.

Whew.

It started very innocently. My happy summer by our California pool and now at the Florida beach has given me golden arms and a very freckled face. Lifting my shirt for the 30th time to nurse while casually lounging on my parent’s patio, my little girl patted my pasty white belly and screeched, “BeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!� as though it’s sheer glare blinded her for life.

I have covered my womb and its stretch marks since well before I gave birth to our son over three years ago. Even when I lost all the pregnancy weight the first time, I wore a one piece.

Mothers of my age shouldn’t go around in a two piece. We’re not 19 anymore. And we have children, for goddsake.
 

At 128lbs (my thinnest ever) I wore a modest one piece bathing suit. Ok, a little high on the side, and a no/low back going on. But other than that, it was just a black one piece.

Baby #2 is now almost 17-months old and I’m 148lbs. The belly is carrying that 20lbs. My laptop is sitting below it, currently, and if you didn’t know any better you would think I was still 4 months pregnant.

So why, in the hell, would I put on a bikini? And then actually leave the house???

I blame my mother. Easy, I know. But I blame her for everything, so this works too. And because I saw one on the Target clearance rack and figured I could wear it in my backyard only. When no one was around. And I was in my own, private, backyard. Then my tummy could get some sun and the façade of being a modest mother could continue. (Insert your own joke here)

I tried it on this morning and my mother insisted it looked great and I should wear it to the beach. THE BEACH.

So I did. And I spent the whole beach trip pulling it up. Fussing with the skirt/cover up so it showed less ass and less tummy, taking on and off my tank top. Then, finally, just not caring anymore. And that’s when the trouble started. Or in my case, when I had to forget about me for a bit and focus on, oh, say…the safety and well being of my children.

…my son decided to chase some birds. Far. Far. Away. Being the typical male that he is, and the progeny of his dear old dad…a 2-year-old girl-there with her elderly grandparents-followed him. Of course my mother was busy tending to my own daughter, and the elderly grandparents of the girl were in no shape to chase. So off I went. And I had to move fast, because both the tiny girl and her Pied Piper were headed to the seawall and it’s steep drop off into nothingness and tomorrow’s tragic news headlines.

Bizzaro Baywatch Mommy went running (feel free to mentally add the slow motion) in a bikini, in front of dozens of svelte locals and tourists, after two small and in-deep-shit children.

I had to do the boob hold. You know the one I am talking about. The one where you have to run, so you either grab your tits or what is holding your tits (in this case the halter top of the bikini) so as not to give yourself a black eye or flash the young and impressionable Floridians.  

I’d also like to point out that running in sand is in no way romantic, easy, or fun.

I shall now crawl back into my one piece and start the revised hippo diet. It will begin next week (when my vacation and mother’s cooking ends) and involve many green veggies and fruit.

…or maybe just lipo and booze. We’ll see how it goes.

Until then, our beach photos are up on Flickr. Lucky for you, I’m wearing my tank top.