I don’t know why I wanted to do it, but I did.  And the more I researched it, and figured out WHAT I wanted to do with it, I was really just angry that I hadn’t done it years ago.

Amy wrote about it better than I could hope to; it is impossible to take a sexy boudoir pic with a self-timer.  OHGOD, HAVE I TRIED.  You look rushed, you look hurried, you look exhausted, and you sure as hell don’t look sexy.  Most of my attempts ended up with half of me in frame while the other half was hauling ass to get there before the time was up.  And then there’s the fact that you’re purely having to guess with what looks sexy on you; at the time I was hellbent on taking my own sexy pic, we had no Tyra Banks or Miss J to show us how to pose ourselves in a flattering position.  It was a sad, dark time.

Regardless, I finally got my ladies together and Monday night was THE NIGHT.

Turns out that a friend of mine from our younger school years was starting to dabble in boudoir photography.  I knew she was a photographer as she had shot my engagement pictures as well.  I was excited that she was moving into this world and thought, “Hey, what better clientele than five drunk theatre women?”  Yeah, God love her.  I’m sure she’s taken the rest of the week off to recover.  We can be .. a bit much.

And in all honesty, I was nervous as hell.  Dude, have you HAD a baby?  Nothing in/on your body is in the same place anymore.  It’s virtually impossible to feel sexy.  Virtually.  Not entirely.

I called Bryan on my lunch break and invited him to visit the local lingerie shop with me to go shopping.  THE BASTARD TURNED ME DOWN, but whatever.  I found some stuff.  Including the most AMAZING shoes, which somehow we never got a pic of, but trust me, HOTTEST SHOES EVER.

Amy and I were the first ones to show up, but Ronda was right behind us.  The other girls followed shortly thereafter and the wine was opened, the chocolate strawberries were devoured, and it turned into a big ole slumber party.  We all pitched in on eachother’s hair and make-up and any time ANYONE struck a pose in the camera, the other four would swoop in and begin rearranging lumps, moving boobies, and repositioning panty lines.  It was pretty awesome.

.. aaaaand we might have gotten a little drunk.

(We didn’t get tattoos.  I just thought that we would’ve, if we had been able to drive.  So I added those.)

We had ENTIRELY too much fun, laughed until we cried, and basically just spent the evening really, really cherishing our bodies.. all that our bodies have done for us, the parts that we loved already, the parts that we hated until we learned that another woman desperately coveted it.. and then we all went home.

Almost all of these ladies were at my wedding, my baby shower, and any other major milestone.  They are my support, often my sanity, and they make me so proud to know them.

The one who wasn’t at my wedding?  Turns out we were separated at birth.  We don’t even like our food to touch.  KISMET, I TELL YOU.

All in all?  I realized that this item on my life list wasn’t about looking sexy on film; it was about spending a couple of hours with women I really and truly adore and us all feeling really good about ourselves.

And that?  Was just what turning 30 should be about.j

(Of course, we are TOTALLY going to be sexy on film.  LOOK AT ALL THE WINE WE DRANK!)

(Okay, so that was only half of it.)

All really pretty pics, courtesy of Amy Mayfield.  Lousy pics, courtesy of my iPhone.

It was as simple as clockwork.  Every Saturday.

We would sleep until ten or so, then roll out to the couch and loveseat in the living room, covered with dogs and comforters, and we’d stretch out there, watching tv until our tummies told us to get moving.  We’d pile into her Montero sport, bra-less, shoe-less, and still in pjs, and drive thru Chick-Fil-A, making sure to get extra ketchup.  We’d drive back to the house, usually plowing through most of our fries before we pulled in the driveway.  We found our places again on the couch and loveseat, and pull the glass coffee table up to the furniture to function as a make-shift table.

We’d lazily spend the day doing nothing; assing off online, running to the mall, maybe doing laundry.  But we really had no agenda.

We’d both be showered and half-dressed by seven p.m. or so.  She’d be in her bedroom, doing her hair at her vanity; I’d be shopping in her closet to see what I wanted to wear.  We’d always be laughing.  Sometimes, we’d be singing duets to whatever Broadway show soundtrack got left at our house the weekend prior.  Hair-in-rollers, barely clothed, we were the epitome of what you thought girlie slumber parties looked like.

Because she so easily got carsick, she’d almost always drive.  We had a few places we haunted regularly, her with a glass of white wine and me with .. whatever I could get someone to buy me.  We would be joined by a staple handful of people, mostly men, and we’d hop from place to place.  Around midnight, the party would inevitably come back to our front porch, huge and always inviting.  I miss that front porch terribly.  People would stay until two or sometimes later; I remember often seeing the paperboy on his route while we were still on the porch, drinking and talking and laughing.

Then after everyone left, we’d retire to our “octagonal hallway” to gossip about the evening, usually over leftover bruscetta.

It was a time when we had nothing to schedule for, and we took everything at our own pace.  We laughed a lot.  Some tears were shed, too, but we almost always laughed.  People knew our door was always unlocked, and we very VERY rarely had that used against us.  Our neighbors loved us.  It was happy, happy home, despite it being jokingly nicknamed The Bitter House.

Now, Saturdays are scattered.  Mornings are always unknowns; children have no set alarm clock.  Breakfast is another unknown; children don’t have a predictable palette.  Nap times are a short respite for kids only; the time is used by adults for quick-fire cleaning and laundry and errands.  There are five days of left-over chores to cram into two days.  There is no porch, but we did secure a nice patio set for our backyard that is quickly becoming my retreat.

And yet?  There are moments where it all seems a worthy trade.

And I wonder if I’m the same girl from the Bitter House.. or if the Bitter House is who shaped the girl I am now.

I’m sorry.  I’ve been doing so well with clear, concise, driven posts and all I want to do today is give you random snippets that are not even next-door to entertaining.  They’re not even that annoying neighbor you can hear thru your paper-thin apartment walls as they loudly sob over that girl getting booted from American Idol when, HALLO, she clearly was a bit pitchy, dawg.  They’re not even THAT next-door to entertaining.  No, in fact, these snippets are like, Alaska-to-Russia entertaining. (Ahem, Ms. Palin.)

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I am wearing a patterned shirt today that, when I went to take pictures of my PRECIOUS LITTLE OWL EARRINGS (courtesy of Owlsome Gifts!) .. my own shirt gave me a massive headache.  I don’t think I should’ve worn this shirt.  I’m pretty sure I’m causing epileptic seizures to the general public by wearing it.  I apologize in advance if I see you today.

Or if you’re really brave: BEHOLD.

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I had to just count how many asterisks I used earlier so I could be consistent.

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I’m pretty sure we had a flash mob at our office today.  Except it was just one girl, yelling loudly about “HOW ABOUT THEM BRAVES?! WHO WANTS SOME BRAVES TICKETS?! OH YEAH, YOU KNOW YOU DO!  HOW ‘BOUT YOU GUYS?  Y’ALL WANT SOME BRAVES TICKETS?  CLIMATE CONTROLLED SEATING, BABY!!”, but we’re all pretty poor here and so she left. I’m not so sure it was a flash mob as much as it was a homeless lady that had tourettes.

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Y’all, last night was Ladies’ Night/Happy Birthday to Jamie Night at our local fondue restaurant, and it was super yummy and .. Ronda and I *may* have had two too many martinis and we got this brilliant idea to go “tag” G.I. Joe’s car.  This seemed like a REALLY great idea at the time.  Personally, I am EXTREMELY impressed at how ninja-like and stealthy we were considering that we did this at 9:10 at night in the dark, all while being tipsy.  I think that’s a testament to how far Bootcamp pushes us.  However, our master plan had a few holes in it.

1) That is not G.I. Joe’s car.

2) Our cover was blown by using our signature colors.

3) I apparently signed our name to it.

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As many of you know, I don’t wear a wedding ring.  It’s a long, drawn-out story that starts with me having weird skin allergies to common metals and ending with me losing so much weight that my favorite ring just fell off, but it’s a puzzle ring so I can’t size it and yeah, this is pretty much the drawn-out story right here.  So I would like to remedy this whole wedding ring thing.  I have a gorgeous diamond that has been passed down through generations (okay, like, one generation, but still) but it’s a marquise cut, and I can’t find a ring “enhancer” or “guard” that I like enough to wear with it.  Have any of you ever had a ring created for you?  Was it crazy expensive?  I need suggestions.

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FOR THE RECORD: Bryan and I have nothing planned for the weekend.  This hasn’t happened since .. geez, God only knows .. and I’m rejoicing in the fact that we might actually  manage a date night.  And I want us to go somewhere fancy and yummy.  I’ve heard good things about our local fondue restaurant, although maybe they should rethink handing out glass chalk as you leave, especially in signature colors.

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Yesterday, in general, was just awesome.  I had lunch with some amazing women, and there is just NOTHING better than sitting around a table of diverse, strong, funny, beautiful women.  We noticed that business men kept finding reasons to hover around our table.  It was funny.  Also we were talking about blow jobs, which might have had something to do with it.  Then last night was the Ladies’ Night/Birthday Extravaganza for Jamie and that was so awesome too.  I sometimes get so bogged down in the day-to-day that I forget how badly I need that time.

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Lastly, I leave you with this amazing piece of news.

Most of you know that I’ve got a baby over at Southern Fried Snark; our weekly webcast is SO MUCH FUN, and if you haven’t joined us there, then BY GOD, go.. GO NOW.  It’s a blast and we love all of you and thanks so much for making that all that it is because we do it for you, and I believe the children are our future; teach them well and let them lead the way.

On top of our video exploits, I’m also now going to be writing for the illustrious MamaPop as a gossip writer.  Don’t know if we’ve met, but this is like peanut butter & chocolate, baby.  I think we can all agree that MamaPop is indeed the Holy Grail of pop culture online, and Southern Fried Snark is now the Monty Python.  Together, they joined forces and created ME, THE ULTIMATE QUEEN OF ALL MEDIA MWUAHAHAHAHA.

Not really.  But I’ll be there.  And I’m so full of squeee that someone should bring a mop.