Never Gonna Give You Up

We’re all friends here, right? So, friends, can I tell you a little secret? Okay…deep breath…here we go: my favorite jeans – the dark wash, skinny jeans that give me the ass of a Kardashian (albeit a lesser Kardashian, like a Karole or a Klaus) – are, in actuality, maternity jeans.

That felt good. Glad to get that off my chest.

Before you judge me too harshly, I’d like to clarify that they are just barely maternity pants. They’re the kind with the ever so slightly scrunchy waist; the ones you wear when your regular non-prego pants are too small, and the “rubber band trick” doesn’t work anymore. They aren’t the full-blown, up to your tits, flesh-colored panel monstrosities that I boasted I’d never wear (and once I hit seven months pregnant, vowed I would never take off). I swear, they’re just a shade away from jeggings – but the tag doesn’t lie, my friends.

So now that we’re really in deep here, are you ready for the second part of my secret? Oh yeah, there’s a second part. Because I’m nothing if not mysterious. An enigma, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in bacon. That’s right, I said bacon. Stretchy pants, remember? So here’s our second layer of secrecy: those full-blown, up to your tits, flesh colored panel monstrosity pants I mentioned earlier? I miss them. I miss them every single day.

According to all manner of lady magazines, the correct designation for my figure is “apple-shaped”, because that’s much nicer than “flubber guts”, which is my own affectionate term. Really, being apple-shaped (as opposed to a banana or a kumquat, or some other, sexier fruit) simply translates to dopey supermarket checkers asking “when are you due?” on a semi-regular basis. My typical response is something along the lines of, “32 months ago, thank you very much! Now, hand over the pint of Ben & Jerry’s – I have feelings to eat!” Bonehead store clerks notwithstanding, the most unpleasant thing about having a round fruit-shaped physique is that there are no pants in the entire world that fit me properly. I’ve scoured the earth in search of jeans with pooch-concealing superpowers, but inevitably I find myself defeated by the evil, apple-hating clothing conglomerates and their unflattering dressing room lighting. If the ass of the pants fits, the waist does not. If the waist fits, I’m left with a butt that’s as sad and deflated and Lindsay Lohan’s hopes of being taken seriously as an actress. My beloved maternity pants were the only ones to ever save me from this humiliation. They let me squeeze myself into tushie-flattering sizes while concealing all that is wrong and evil. They were my muffin-top slaying wonder pants and without them my life is empty. And jiggly. So very jiggly.

So there you have it. I have bravely bared my soul and my stretchy waistband to you, dear readers. Judge me if you like, but I’ve had a taste of the good life and I don’t want to go back. So I’ll keep rocking those skinny jeans with the scarlet ‘M’ on the tag until they fall apart at the seams. Because ice cream is always better than sit-ups. Always.

Don’t Cry for Me, Ikea

Gather round, friends, and I shall tell you a tale.  It is a tale of a living room, much like this one, only immaculately clean and meticulous organized.  It was, in a word, magnificent.  Books sat on shelves in neat, orderly rows, organized by author and genre.  There were vases, ceramics and other assorted breakables as far as the eye could see.  Records and DVDs were placed on racks in plain sight, and were removed one at a time only for their proper use.  The windows were clear and gleaming and free of boogers, and the room was lovingly cleaned with stunning regularity.  It was a place where glamorous adults did glamorous adult things, like watching movies with curse words before 10 PM.  Often, this splendidly well-appointed living room would host grand parties, full of other adults, who would leave alcoholic beverages on low tables and shelves with reckless abandon.  Oh, it was a beautiful place indeed!

Then, one day, a dark shadow fell upon the unsuspecting living room as it was besieged by a tiny dictator.  The adults, forced to do the dictator’s bidding, took on the bedraggled appearance of a Nick Nolte mug shot.  Morning, noon and long into the night, the adults were at his beck and call.  Offerings were made to appease him, and rejected with thunderous anger.  And sadly, this once glorious living room began to fall into ruin.

As time passed, the dictator grew more fearsome.  Great waves of destruction were waged upon the living room, as though by some merciless force of nature.  Books were torn from the shelves, scattered and ripped asunder.  Delicate vases and adornments were replaced with plastic idols of garish deities:  Dora, goddess of exploration; Cookie Monster, god of Dionysian excess and baked goods; and Elmo, god of creepily inappropriate tickling.  Once orderly racks were stripped of their contents, the DVDs and records used as projectiles.  Dust bunnies the size of house-cats blew across the floor like tumbleweeds and a fine layer of crumbs covered every surface.  Wayward cheerios crunched beneath any feet brave enough to traverse the floor.  This once immaculate room had become but a shadow of its former majesty.

So, in this shadow, the adults remain; gazing longingly at the world outside through windows clouded with snot and Go-Gurt.  But as they stare, they dare to dream.  They dream of someday rebuilding; restoring their living room to the pristine oasis it once had been.  A faint ember of hope grows as they sift through the ruins and imagine picking up the pieces.  And just as they resolve to set off on that arduous road to recovery… as they survey the rubble and proclaim “TODAY is the day!”…as they gather their wherewithal and begin to make those triumphant first steps, like a glorious phoenix rising from the ashes….they step on an upside-down Lego, and say “Oh, fuck it.”