So here’s the thing. After four straight hours of 24 (because I saved the first two taped hours that aired in November until last night) and a lot of ruminating about Old Jack in general, I have something to say.

Personally, Keifer Sutherland does nothing for me. He’s not particularly attractive in any way, shape, or form, he’s kind of short, his body is average, all in all, the man is blah.

Until he pulls out a gun and says, “I’m Jack Bauer. You’re alive only because I say so.”

Um, hello? When did cold-blooded, willing to stick a pen in your ear to get information behavior become so completely attractive? Of all the special agents I know, Jack is kind of the specialist.

When Jack goes into play, everything he does is raw and harsh and “I’ll bite your ear off if you don’t tell me where the bomb is!” It’s so worthy. And of course, the entire time I watch him I think, “I wonder if Jason could do that?” Because come on, let’s face it.

Jack is good for Jason’s love life.

I gotta say, the moment we enter a mall/sporting event/Cafe Rio, I am instantly aware that at any given moment, a terrorist might try to take us down. And if that happens (Heaven forbid but not really), I am confident that my husband has seen enough episodes of 24 to perform accordingly (and I have seen enough episodes to know that my role is to quickly hide inside a garbage can until the coast clears).

Because we all know that in times of crisis, all special agents should ask themselves one question: What Would Jack Do?

Real fast. So during one of my rare good mommy moments, I was helping my boys put a puzzle together. For the record, this is one of the most patient-trying practices known to modern mothers. I will certainly get tripple points in Heaven for that nail biting twenty minutes.

Anyway, Rexy (3) is chattering away in my ear about who knows what, when he says, “Hey Mommy, I wanna show you sumfin’!” Harrison immediately corrects him. “Rex, it’s not ‘sum-fin’, it’s ‘sum-feen!’

Kids.

If you clicky click on my face, you can read this week’s column. For free.

Let me start by saying that I should never have posted about my dress size. I only did so because A. I have diet secrets to share and wanted to give people an excuse to believe me, and B. at the time I didn’t realize I’d actually lose friends over a cut of cloth. Tanya. 

Now for the proof. The little black dress I so lovingly spoke of in my last post was not purchased; the hem line was a wee bit too short. Yes, this made me slightly tearful (because we all know how much I love a short hemline). However, the Lord rewards modesty, and I was not left empty handed. Shortly after parting with that glorious piece of cloth, I was practically handed two other size “2”s, both longer, wiser, cheaper choices (one of which is pictured below).

Since you’ve already scrutinized the photos, don’t you feel better? See how awful I look? See the idiotic expression on my face? One of the many side effects of too much salami. The dress, however, is really cute. It is actually much cuter over something other than my pit-stained jamie shirt, but you asked for it. 

I thought I’d throw in the backside view so you can see that yes, it does zip. Personally, I don’t think size “2” is as small as we all think it is. I don’t look undernourished, underfed, or unhealthy. Just slightly simple minded (what is with that look?). Plus I refused to pick up (kick out of sight) the toys at my feet so you wouldn’t get the wrong impression and think that my playroom is clean. It is not. 

Sometime in the near future I will share an updated version of my Salami Secrets, unless you don’t want to hear another word about it. If that’s the case, I’ll gladly keep the sausage to myself. 

And by the way, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more scrutinized than I do at this very moment. Even standing in front of 2000 people in a swim suit wasn’t as bad as all this. Why did I post my dress size? Would you stop looking at me? I swear the shadow adds half an inch on my right side. Dang. You’re looking again. [Read more…]

It’s a funny thing about clothing sizes, sometimes we reach for the number we think we wear and are surprised (and often horrified) to find it’s too small. I had a little experience last weekend that I just can’t keep to myself. Why? Because news like this can’t stay tucked away in my closet.

During this past year of salami and skinniness, I’ve slowly shrunk out of all my clothes. The only things I haven’t replaced are my church clothes. They’ve gone from the attractively baggy stage to gunny sacks. So last Saturday I headed to the Outlets, in hopes of finding something my size in the 80% off range. I was not disappointed. 

Sifting through the clearance rack at Banana, I pulled out a few skirts and dresses in varying sizes (since some of them looked bigger than I remember them being). Armed with the full spectrum of waistlines, I headed to the dressing room.

First, I tried on an eight. Swimming. I reached for a six. Still swimming. Holding my breath, I slipped into a Banana Republic size four wool skirt and, miracle of miracles, zipped it right up, with no friendly fat rolls getting in the way. I was shocked. But even more shocking? It wasn’t skin tight. 

Can it be? Is this me? I breathlessly floated back out to the clearance rack to look in the size four section. Directly to the right of this section is a little group we like to call “2”. And there it was. The cutest black button up dress ever. I looked right and looked left, wondering if there was any possibility…

Let me pause and tell you that until that moment, I didn’t think “2” was a real size. I thought it was some mean, made-up size only available to the under ten crowd and women who smoke (because in my mind they’re all really skinny).  

Looking at the glaring “2” on the tag, I recklessly snatched that little black beauty  off the rack and sprinted for the dressing room, lest I gain five pounds on the trip across the store. My fingers were actually shaking as I unbuttoned the front and stepped in. I closed my eyes, prepped for popping. Suddenly I felt my arms sliding into the sleeves without any stitches barring their path. I squinted one eye open. 

There I stood, both arms comfortably hanging by my sides, and I hadn’t damaged any unpurchased merchandise. Now for the big test. Would it button? And if so, would it pucker? Hands trembling, I started the ascent. When I got to the top button I stood there staring. 

It fit. 

I’m sure the dressing room attendants were wondering what was going on in my dressing room with all the racket I made at that point. A chorus of “Whoop, there it is!” and a few bars of “I’m too sexy…” might have floated under the door. But the best part? When I waltzed into Ann Taylor I had the EXACT SAME EXPERIENCE.

And so, it is with great shouts of acclamation and joy that I share with you my new favorite number ever: “2”.

Oh. My. Gosh. Can we just say mean? Mean mean mean. That’s what the producers on The Biggest Loser are. 

If you missed the huge (and that’s a pun) premiere of The Biggest Loser last night, then you missed out. This is their biggest season ever–meaning they have some pretty big kids on the show, and Whoo Doggie! Do I mean big.

But this is the thing. If you tell 22 people that they’ve made The Biggest Loser chubby camp and actually have a chance to turn their life around, you’d better back yourself up. Because frankly, it would take a lot of courage and a lot of liquor to get most overweight people willing to strip and bear it all for millions of viewers. Heck, no matter how thin I get, you’re not going to find me in a sports bra and spandex on prime time. 

And so watching the show, it’s obvious that most of these people feel like NBC has given them a new lease on life. It’s like they know this is their one real chance to “make a change”. And those three little words come with massive sacrifice. Just think, you tell your family, friends, co-workers that you’ve made the show, yay you! Then after one week THEY SEND YOU HOME. 

Because they didn’t just kick off one person last night. They kicked off nine. NINE. Nearly half of the contestants. 

Wha? Who? How in the? WHAT WAS NBC THINKING? Is this like the meanest fat person prank ever? “Here, let us help you change your life–PSYCH!”

Yes, the kicked off (ticked off) contestants have a chance to return to the ranch in 30 days, if their partner is still in the game. But 30 days, on your own, when you’ve only had one week to train with Bob and Jillian?

I actually felt physically sick for those poor folks. Some of them really need to be there, and all of them have worked their butts off (like, 20 pounds of butt off). One week is not enough time to get someone jump started on a brand spanking new life. 

I will watch the show, but only because I am a hopeless addict who needs a weekly reminder as to why I drink protein shakes for breakfast and eat salami for lunch. 

And if you didn’t watch it last night, put down the ice cream and get with the program.

I was just talking to my girlfriend, Kadi, who is prego with numero tres. With a few months left, she’s already saying “Uncle” to thoughts of baby number four. 

As I contemplate the possibility of a fourth pregnancy sometime this year, I can’t help remembering my desperate desire for number one. For two years we tried and tried, all the while I mooned over other pregnant tummies, filled my virtual shopping cart with maternity clothing before sadly clicking away, and religiously took in episodes of “A Baby Story”. 

I had an oven that wanted a bun and I was sure nothing in the world could be more romantic than being pregnant. Glowing, growing, and pregnant. 

But this time, I find myself pulling the pillow over my head every time I think about those swollen ankles and the Loratab for my broken back. I keep trying to forget where my bin of maternity clothing is in hopes that maybe this time, I won’t actually ever show. I ran across a pair of maternity jeans this week and actually started to have a panic attack. They were just so…ugly. 

I know I’m horrible and insensitive for saying all this, and maternity jeans or no, I will sacrifice the body/soul/wardrobe for the sake of our future family and that one last spirit who I’m certain is chomping at the bit to get here with no thought to my broken back or swollen feet. Bless her little heart. Or his. Whatever.

And no, I’m not pregnant. Just contemplating.

Nine months. I carried that kid, like some kind of leaching, alien life-form, inside my sacrificial body, for nine months.

As mothers, our sacrifice is great. From that first post-hospital panic attack to the crusty snot covering the left shoulder of every Sunday dress we own, we give it all for them.

When I think about the miraculous fact that my children can speak, feed themselves, walk, and remember to smile and say please and thank you on a regular basis, I’m pretty impressed with my mad mommy skills.

It’s not that Jason hasn’t done his fair share of ball tossing and diaper changing, it’s that I’m the one who’s here day in and day out spewing forth my vast supply of knowledge all around their little heads. They sludge through it, absorbing my know-how in the most surprising and sometimes shocking ways.

For instance, Rex likes to make people feel better for no good reason. If you look down and cease to fill the silence, he’ll chirp at you, “You can be anything if you put your mind to it!” And Junie, do you think she just naturally knows how to use a cell phone? Hmmm? That’s all me, people.

And so, it is with great shouts of outrage and horror that I present to you Harrison’s standard response to any compliment he receives. Take his bed making skills. They’re impressive, the kid has some fantastic tucking talent. But if you were to saunter into his bedroom post-bed making and say something like, “Wow! That looks great! Who taught you to make your bed that way?” do you know what he’ll say?

“MY DAD TEACHED ME.”

Every.

Single.

Time.

What the heck? I don’t think his dad even knows how to make Harrison’s bed, let alone spent the first week of school helping him perfect it. Oh wait. HIS DAD WASN’T EVEN IN THE STATE WHEN HE LEARNED HOW TO MAKE A BED.

If he ever gets on TV and has the nerve to wave to his father, he’s out of the will. I will strike that boy’s name from my blog, so help me.

PS – The bad grammar? I think his dad actually did teach him that one…

I love staying home with my kids, really I do, but sometimes there’s this point where I just know that if I don’t escape really soon, I might do something drastic. Like shave my head.

And sometimes the very act of leaving makes me feel like Lot’s wife. I know that if I look back at one more tear-stained face on the way out the door, I will undoubtedly turn into a big old pile of salt. They’d have to dust bust me out of the way to make room for a replacement. 

But, like all over-worked thirty-something’s who are SAHM’s, I have a “must get out now” meter. It gages my mood by how many baths/hot showers I take in one single day. For instance, by three o’clock yesterday, I had taken two baths and a hot shower. This may sound compulsive, but sometimes the bathroom is the only escape around here.

By the time we ran out of hot water, Jason had taken the hint and offered me the car keys with no curfew. I called a girlfriend and we escaped to the movies and Benjamin Button. And what an escape it was. 

That is the best movie I have ever seen. The story was so good that I hardly had time to admire Brad Pitt’s total and complete hotness (even as a seventy-year-old with hippie hair that man is smokin’). Seriously, go see that movie. And take your husband. And a box of tissues (you’ll both need them).

Apparently the entire blogosphere is talking about nakedness, nursing, modesty, and boobs. 

It reminds me of a time (and no, not my weiner story). 

When Harrison was three months old, my parents and I flew out to Washington DC to find a house to buy. I was nursing every four seconds and had a convenient wardrobe that allowed access to the jugs, thanks to throwback peasant necklines. I’d usually just pull my shirt down and hook it under the boob while nursing. Easy breezy beautiful convenience. 

We pulled up in front of a house and I took a few minutes to nurse the baby before going in. Once inside, I took a short tour and waited in the front room for the rest of my party to finish. The current male resident of the appartment was there as well, sitting on the couch. Trying not t stare at me.

I don’t know about you, but I’m a Look-You-In-The-Eye kind of girl. If we’re going to converse, I want eye contact. But I swear that guy would not look at me. I tried so hard to get him to look at my face, I was practically jumping up and down in front of him, but he kept averting this way and that. So irritating. 

It wasn’t until my mom came into the living room and took one look at me that I realized why he was so tactfully avoiding eye contact. Oh yeah, there was my left boob (lightly covered), hanging out of my shirt for all the world to see. 

I refuse to recount the seventeen other times this has happened to me in the past five years.

With the old year behind me and the new one in front, let’s recap the good, the bad, and the please-make-that-happen-next-year lists.

Good Things 2008:

1. Lost the baby weight and then some

2. Spent six weeks at my mother’s house and had full access to my family

3. My column, and completed manuscript (which I am currently and frantically rewriting once again)

Bad Things 2008:

1. Jason’s absence (but he’s home now and I love him even more, so that one probably doesn’t count)

2. Mom’s breast cancer

3. Should I recap the 412 times I put my foot in my mouth?

Next year?

I just want my mom to be all better. And another baby. And an agent. And I’d really like to be syndicated soon…

Happy 2009. Go make some noise this year and let the planet know you’re alive.