Archive | May, 2010

Momma Was a Looker, Pt. 1

I was looking sadly at the pictures I had from this date a year ago..

Where I had reached a very significant goal.

And I looked slender and fit.

And I was so, so proud of myself.

And I had such promise on the horizon.

And I was going to do this FOREVER.

I ran an average of 12 miles a week.  A WEEK.  I made smarter choices.  I slept great.  I was wearing my pre-maternity skinny jeans.  I was looking forward to swimsuit season.

And now?  Here we are.  A year later.

I am not satisfied with my level of health right now. That is the nicest, most all-encompassing way to caption where I am in my journey right now.  Last summer, I began to train for a half-marathon, but one long run in the summer heat and I was pretty sure I was going to die.

I was talking online to a birthday twin last night and we’re both at that point.  You know, that point where you’ve hit the wall?  You’ve just had enough?  Where the chub is winning and you’re tired of losing that battle?  Yeah, that’s where we are.

Thus began Project Momma Was a Looker. (Patent pending.)

Also, please spare me the whole “Don’t beat yourself up!” and “You look great!” and all of that great stuff that you people are so amazing for saying and I really do find it sweet, but I’m not where I was, and I want to get back there.  I had great abs before the baby.  I had THE hourglass figure.  I was less of a pear and more of a .. well, hell, I’m not even sure I’m a pear now.  More like a sausage?  Or a .. starfruit?  I dunno.  Something that looks weird on the outside but is totally worth peeling and preparing.  That’s me.

So we’re giving ourselves a couple of months to live on the straight and narrow.  And this internet diet has been making the rounds and promising results from public humiliation.. and as it turns out, I confessed, I did much better with my life when I did the daily bootcamp diaries or participated in the Accountability Flickr Pool, so I had to agree that it works.  So we both agreed to post monthly status reports and then find some way to give daily weigh-ins. (I’m still looking for the latter, btw. If you know of a good widget or tracker to put on my sidebar, hit me up!)

So today starts the journey of Momma Was a Looker.  I’m excited to see the other side.

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Bryan is not a spontaneous kind of guy.  He’s just not.

He finds comfort in routines.  I’ve known this about him since .. always, really .. and while I dance between routine and WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT TO DO, he’s always happily bunked down in the camp of routine.

So last night, I took him out for his birthday.  I had really high hopes.

I had planned to take him to the Melting Pot, since the girls and I ALWAYS go there, and he says everytime when I come home, “I don’t ever get to go to the Melting Pot,” and I thought, Well, he’s right.  So let’s stop that bitching right there.

And then, most excitedly, Nonna (my momma) had arranged to spend the night with Tony so that we could spend the night out.  THE ENTIRE NIGHT.  We never, EVER do this.  It’s literally been since early December that we’ve done that.  So I made reservations at the Westin, mere steps away from the Melting Pot, and was just giddy with the luxury of it all.


When I finally told Bryan what his birthday surprise plans were, he .. he wasn’t really happy.  First of all, he didn’t want to stay at the Westin.  He had a free night at the Comfort Inn.  Which, okay, fine.  Sleeping is sleeping, and we could sleep anywhere and still be happy.  So I canceled the reservations at the Westin.

Then, about one course into the Melting Pot, he decided that he really hated fondue.  And we should never bring his parents here.  And he’s just not good at fondue.  And his stomach was getting upset.  And..

And I?  Was about to cry.

Because I had built up such hopes for this ONE night.  This one night, for us to have TO OURSELVES, which we NEVER get, and I wanted it to be new and exciting and fresh and something fun.  And it was just not going that way.

“Don’t get mad at me,” he said over the boiling oil.

“I’m not mad,” I lied through my teeth.  Damn.  For someone who considers herself an actress, sometimes I’m a freaking open book.

We sat there in silence for a minute, me stewing and him .. hell if I know.

“Should we see a movie?” he asked.

“I don’t even know what’s playing,” I answered.  I didn’t want to see a movie.  Hell, if I wanted to sit in silence, we might as well just go back to bed.

We walked over to the movie theatre, and weren’t impressed by the choices, so we left.

I was still upset.  And I was tired of being asked what I wanted to do when it didn’t really matter.

“What if,” he started.  Yes, I thought, let’s just go back to the hotel and watch tv.  THAT’LL be fun. “What if I got a tattoo tonight?”

I think I gave myself whiplash from the WHAAAAA?! that followed.  I know I must’ve illuminated.

And that gave him pause, and the backpeddling started.  “Well, we probably don’t have the money right now to do that..”

“Bryan, you don’t know that.  Let’s go have it priced out.  You’ve already gotten one picked out.  LET’S DO IT.”

“But the money..”

“We just saved a ton by not paying for a hotel room.”

“But we could..”

“I’m over the BUTs, Bryan.  We’re going.”

Bryan had picked out a very simple but cool design of a Ghost Light, which is an invaluable tool in theatre.  You are never supposed to leave a theatre dark, for many reasons.. namely so that no one falls off the stage, but there are darker, more superstitious reasons as well.  So you always leave a ghost light running.  It’s also a nice thought that you’ll never totally be in the dark.

He had it placed on his shoulder, while the artist worked out my design for my neck.  I stood beside him as they started the needle up and watched him flinch when it touched skin.. but he never made a sound.  He stayed motionless through the whole thing, and?  IT IS FREAKING SEXY, IS WHAT HIS TATTOO IS.

He wandered around while my tattoo was done, trying his best to not turn green at the sight of having a detailed, shaded tattoo carved into the back of my neck.  Not gonna lie.. it hurt like a BITCH.  But like all ink and most childbirths, the pain is momentary and the love of the result is forever.

We left the shop, having spent only half of what we saved on the hotel, so Bryan was happy.  He had done something new .. something downright scandalous .. so I was happy.  With both of us happy, we grabbed some hot Krispie Kremes and headed to the hotel.

Bryan spent most of the night and the next morning grinning from ear to ear.  “Thanks for making me try stuff last night,” he said.  I was so proud of him.  So, so proud of him.  I know he hates getting out of his comfort zone.  But he did.

I might just make a spontaneous guy out of him yet.

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Ole Cooterhead Comer.

There were a few things about him that immediately caught my eye.

The first was a picture that I can’t find online .. and while I was searching for it, I read some OLD, OLD posts he wrote when I was newly pregnant.  The picture that caught my eye when we had just met was a picture of him introducing Jack to the theatre. (Specifically, the fly rail, which is a very scary series of ropes that hold very heavy things.) 1) his arms look TOTALLY hot in that pic.  So strong and stable and cut and just right for a huge bear hug. 2) it totally clued me in to what an amazing father he was.

I couldn’t find that pic, so I’ll show another one that demonstrates.

Also, please to note that that is JACK in that picture.  JACK, who is about to be TEN next week.

Another thing that caught my eye was how he handled himself in theatre.  Call me lame, but if you handle yourself like a pro in a room full of community theatre amateurs?  I’m an immediate fan.  He was stage managing a show I was in, and from the moment he stepped in and helped us get off-book.. I was pretty much smitten.

One day, backstage in that same show, he offered to give me a backrub.  Look, I was a single gal at the time, and I was kind of attractive .. see evidence from said show:

And I often received offers such as these.  And usually?  THEY SUCKED.  I’m a big touch person, and if your touch is bad, I don’t give you a second chance.  But he offered me one, and I was too tired (and .. intrigued) to say no, and MY GOD, I MELTED.  Amazing chemistry from touch, not to mention a natural knack at massage.

We met for coffee one really rainy night at a corner Waffle House.  It was seriously just to talk, since we found out we had attended the same college, and he had done a LOT of professional theatre, which I was eager to hear about.  But during the conversation, he held my hand, and I thought I was going to die from the chemistry.  JUST HOLDING MY HAND.

He is a handyman extraordinaire, who when faced with a task he’s never tried before, will buy a book or watch a YouTube and then just jump in.

He’s an amazing father.  Even “amazing” is not enough of a word.  Part of me is glad we have only boys because I feel that he raises them right and will send out great men into the world.

He doesn’t mind being goofy with me, which is totally important to me.

And he’s probably the sexiest man on the planet.  I say probably because I’ve never been to Australia.

Today is his birthday.  I wish I had a fitting gift to give someone who made me completely rethink what I wanted in life and how I’d choose to get it.  Maybe I can get a “Today I Turned 38 and All I Got was This Lousy Blog Post” shirt printed up.

I love you, hohnay beeyar.  Thanks for making this eternal bachelorette see what she’d been missing.

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Asking for Help

Y’all remember that movie with Sandra Bullock where she was a drunk and she had to go to rehab and then Azura Skye killed herself (SHIT, I FORGOT TO SAY SPOILER ALERT) and there was a really funny gay German guy?  That movie?  Well, the only thing that I really remember from that movie was that they were trying to teach her to ask for help.

Now, I’m no Sandra Bullock (although one director did compare me to her in the looks department and then I openly offered to have his babies), but I am so in the same boat.  I have no idea how to ask for help.

Or, as I realized today, I do know how to ask for help.  I just choose not to.

Because I rarely get it.

Now, this is not a pity party for Sarah moment, by any stretch of the imagination, but I think sometimes in one’s life there’s a lightbulb that flashes on and you realize that, hey, maybe that’s just not working.  And instead of repeatedly enduring the heartache of being flat-out rejected, maybe you should just stop putting yourself in that position.


And because I’m fiercely independent (to the point that it’s a flaw, not an asset) and a crazy perfectionist, I just keep moving from that rejection and think that I’ll be fine.  I’ll find another way.  I’ll try something else.  But in reality?  It catches up with you.  You start to look around and wonder why?  Why don’t I get a little fucking help when I ask?

But then you realize that you’re still at work and sobbing at the keyboard is probably not kosher.

And you could probably use a nap.

The Hypothetical You.

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Life List: Boudoir Shoot. CROSS THAT BABY OFF.

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.

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