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This week has been particularly trying with my boys.  Summer is here.  School is out.  We have more time on our hands.  Which means….

I’m saying even more crazy stuff.

For example:

I like to listen to a radio station that plays “oldies.”  I really like their “Disco Lunch Hour.”  The other day, we listened to “You Dropped the Bomb On Me” and my boys loved the bomb sound effects, etc.  Later in the lunch hour, we  heard K.C. and the Sunshine Band sing, “Shake Your Booty.”  I thought it was fun to sing while I reminisced about weekends spent at the roller skating rink as a child.  What I didn’t think about was that my boys would latch on to the whole “Shake Your Booty” thing.  The boys loved the lyrics, mostly because K.C. said the word, “Booty.”  For the rest of the day, my boys ran around saying the word “Booty” and laughing like wild hyenas.

Ah, to have three little boys….

Herein starts a new list of crazy stuff I’ve said to my kids this past week.  Enjoy the insanity that is my life:

#1 – “Stop saying the word, “Booty”!  It isn’t funny.  And, No, you may not sing “Shake Your Booty” at church!  I mean it!”

#2 – “Do not try to go down the slip n’ slide naked…..especially before it gets wet.”  (He didn’t listen to me and had to “recover” inside for an hour after the incident)

#3 – “Just because Daddy lets you pee outside in the backyard does not mean that you can just pee outside at the park.”

#4 – “I don’t care that the Hulk runs around without shoes and no shirt.  You must be fully clothed when we go to the grocery store.”  (said to the child who went down the slip n’ slide naked)

#5 – “Farting in the bathtub does not make the tub into a bubble bath.”

#6 – “A rattlesnake would not make a good pet.  I don’t care if they have them at the zoo.  In fact, no snake would be a good pet for us.  Think of something else…please.”

#7 –  “Why do I make up the bed every morning when we just mess the bed up again at night? hmmmm.  Good question.”

#8 – “You may not have a popcicle for breakfast.  I don’t care if it is made with “real fruit juice” like it says on the box.”

#9 – “Please go to sleep.  One day when you are an adult, you will wish you had a nap time.  Seriously.”

#10 – “Why do Mommies wear makeup?  Well….your Mommy wears  it so I don’t scare anyone when I go out in public.”

Thanks, K.C. for the lyrics Shake Your Booty (not really)

Thanks, K.C. for the lyrics "Shake Your Booty" (not really)

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Mary Cassatt is the best artist to capture motherhood.

Mary Cassatt is the best artist to capture motherhood.

The exchange went something like this:

“Come here, baby, and let me help you with your shoes.”

“I’m not a baby.  I’m Jack.”

I watch him struggle to put on his socks and shoes.  For the first time, Jack doesn’t need my help.  He succeeds in putting on his own clothes. This is a real milestone.

He knows it.  I know it.

A lump forms in my throat.

I say, “You’ll always be my baby.”

He says, “Mommy, don’t call me that.”

I say, “O.K.”

I take him to school.  I realize that next year I will be sending my third (and youngest) son off to a Mother’s Day Out program two days a week.  He turns two years old next month.  The “terrible two’s”  have arrived a bit early.  George is saying “MINE!”  George likes to say “No!”  He is no longer a baby.  He is a toddler.  He still likes to put both of his little chubby hands on each of my cheeks and say, “Mommy,”  then we rub noses.  I know all too well…this, too, will soon stop.

By the third child, you see all of the tell tell signs of diminishing babyhood.  The dwindling of baby fat…and the loss of that precious fatty crease between the wrist and hand are seen.  Their vocabulary expands by leaps and bounds.  They stop (or start, as in the case with my youngest) playing with Thomas the Train.  Their interests mature. They may not want to be affectionate in the same ways or need you to pick them up….or help to dress or do a litany of things.

My oldest son is already at that age, at five (soon to be six) where he doesn’t want me to kiss him in front of his friends.  I respect that and we now are “cool” and do our own secret handshake…which is really a fist bump followed by an “explosion sound” and open hand.  We then say to each other, “You’re the bomb.”  He likes it.  It is fun.  It belongs to us.  He also likes it when I recite this poem:

When I was one
I had just begun
When I was two
I was nearly new
When I was three
I was hardly me
When I was four
I was not much more
When I was five
I was just alive
But now I am six,
I’m as clever as clever;
so I think I’ll be six now
forever and ever.

– Now We are Six by A.A. Milne, creator of Winne the Pooh

Sometimes I wish he’d stay six forever and ever.

I am rather nostalgic as of late because I realize that my sons are growing up.  It’s just that I feel like time is speeding by.  Don’t they realize how much I treasure every single moment with them?  I don’t think they do and I think that is perfectly fine.  They are busy with “growing up.”  All three of them are involved in what it takes to develop and move on.  I never want to “clip their wings.”  Plus, I’m enjoying the whole ride through their childhood…each and every moment.

I love looking at the artwork of Mary Cassatt.  To me, Cassatt captures the essence of motherhood.  I like every piece of her work.  It conjures up all of these feelings.  I’ve been thinking about buying a print of hers because I reminds me of this time in my sons’ lives.   I truly thank God for allowing me to have them.

So, when my sons tell me, “I’m not a baby.”  I know that deep in my heart…they’ll always be my baby.

No matter how old they get.

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My husband and I have had a very full social calendar lately.   Don’t immediately think that we are really into the “social scene.”  I mean that we’ve had soccer games, practices, church activities….and a few events that have NOT involved our children.

We’ve enjoyed our “adult outings” to various activities.  It requires me to get dressed in something other than gym shorts and yoga pants.  I have to wear makeup, etc.  We get a babysitter and generally have a good time.  However, I’ve noticed that the last three years as a stay-at-home mom have done a real number on my vocabulary and conversation skills.

For instance, this weekend I found myself involved in a conversation with another adult about art.  The artist was a very interesting person and great conversationalist.  I couldn’t believe it when asking him about his art, I actually asked him, “So where do you hang your… stuff?”  What I meant to ask was, “Where is your art on display?”  Definitely not… “Where do you hang your stuff?”

“Stuff?”  My goodness!  Could I not have said the word, “art”?  Or “paintings”?

Sunday evening at an Easter Egg Hunt, I found myself talking with a very interesting woman whose business is in finance and we were conversing about the state of Wall Street.  She said, “The state of our economy is really a concern for most people.  I think most people are really freaked out and don’t want to invest….blah, blah, blah.”  Suddenly, the woman’s voice sounded like the teacher in A Charlie Brown Christmas (you know…”mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah”).   Frankly, I was so busy watching my three boys out of the corner of my eye that I only heard the word, “freaked.”   I replied, “Yeah, I know what you mean about being freaked out.  The Yo Gabba Gabba guy really freaks me out.”

She walked away.

I couldn’t help it.  All I could concentrate on was the sight of  all three of my rowdy sons clinging to the  poor guy whose job it was to dress up like the Easter Bunny.  By the time I got Will and Jack off the Easter Bunny’s back and George off his leg, I realized that I had not responded very appropriately to the conversation that I was just “involved” in.  If that’s what you call it.

I certainly don’t have this “problem” with my friends.  Or maybe I’m not so self conscious while  in their company.  Actually, we talk about all kinds of interesting things.  I don’t censor myself when I’m with them or my family.  However, put me in a room with people who actually go to jobs every day and have a variety of hobbies and activities that don’t require schlepping kids in a minivan all day….and I’m utterly brain dead.

I think I’m suffering from “Mommy speak.”  Mommy speak is when you know all the words to “The Wheels on the Bus,”  but couldn’t carry on a conversation about the local music scene.  It is when you can tell someone about non-staining finger paints, but can’t remember who painted the The Last Supper (It’s Di Vinci, right?).   Mommy speak also enables you to translate on behalf of any toddler or baby.  I can tell you what my one year old is saying.  When he says, “Fyes!”  I know he is saying “Fries,”  as in french fries (this usually happens when we pass a McDonald’s).  I can tell you what any toddler is saying when they say “Poo,”  “Doo,” or “Wee Wee.” Because of this thing, Mommy speak, I am now in the habit of referring to the restroom as the “Potty.”  You know what I’m talking about….surely?  If you don’t have this problem….well, more power to you.

I mean it.

Really.

Mommy speak can sneak up on you.  It can impair your ability to carry on a full conversation.  It impairs your memory and comprehension skills.  I am definitely sure of this.  Some of this is due, in part, to “Momnesia”…or also known as “Mommy Brain.”  I do believe that when you have children, most of us lose precious brain cells…by the butt load.  Don’t even get me started on what happens to your attention span.  Since having children, I am convinced that my three year old has a longer attention span than I do.

I know this won’t last forever.  One day, I will be able to carry on a brilliant conversation.

I’m just scared it will only be after my children leave for college.

Yo gabba gabba

I said to her, "Yeah, the Yo Gabba Gabba guy really freaks me out."

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The day started like any other.   We all went to church, came home, played, napped, etc.  At 2 a.m., Jack came into our bedroom to announce that he was sick.  The exchange went something like this:

Jack:  Mommy?

Mommy:  hmmm?

Jack:  I feel sick. (burping sound then wetness hits Mommy and Daddy…we turn on the light and discover to much horror that we are splattered with vomit.  Great.  Just great.)

Without much warning, Jack threw up.

All over our bed.

All over Mommy.

All over Daddy.

It was vomit of the projectile kind.  If you are a parent, you know what I’m talking about.  It was the kind of thing that rivaled Linda Blair in the Exorcist.

There we were at 2 a.m., cleaning our carpet, cleaning Jack, and cleaning our bed.  Jack later fell asleep.  Mommy and Daddy did not. I think we were too freaked out.

Later today, Jack took a nap and is now feeling better.  You’d think that was the end of that, right?  NOPE.

I picked Will up from school, made him a turkey sandwich, and unloaded the dishwasher while he ate.  Suddenly (without any warning) Will said, “Mommy, I feel sick!”  Of course, only two seconds elapsed before Will had vomited all over the kitchen table, the cabinets…and me.  That makes twice within 24 hours that I was covered in vomit.

It was official.  The stomach virus that I just knew my kids had escaped had made it’s way to my house.  Seven out of sixteen children had been absent from Will’s prekindergarten class on Friday.  I thought we had missed the bug.  Well, no such luck.  This is when I decided that I desparately need a HazMat suit.

I could not be any more serious.  I really, really, really need a government issued HazMat suit!

As a stay-at-home mom to three little boys, I am solely responsible for “sick days.”  As part of the “deal” that my husband and I worked out when I decided to leave the workplace, I was to take care of my children if they could not go to school.  This arrangement was to free up my husband to keep his career going.  Plus, I wanted to be with my children when they got sick.  I never liked the idea of leaving them with someone else when they needed me.  I actually want to care for them, rub their backs, make soup, etc.  I don’t like to be away from them when they look so puny.  Most Mamas feel like this way.  I’m sure of it.

However, wouldn’t it be nice to just put on one of those big, hulking, HazMat suits…pour bleach on the floor… and clean the illnesses away?  You may think I’m obsessive compulsive, but I’m not.  I just know that when you’ve got a virus running rampant, you’ve got to clean…and you’ve got to do it well.  If not, everyone suffers.

I also want one of those suits, because  I really can’t afford to get sick myself.  Who takes care of Mommy when she gets the stomach bug?  Well, there’s no such thing as doctors who make house calls around here, sister.  I’m on my own.  I’ve got to stay healthy.  Therefore, I’m in search of one of these suits, but where to find one?  What would the neighbors say?  Could I go to the grocery store in one of those things?  Could I wear cute shoes with it or would I need to wear matching HazMat boots?

…and I just wonder…would a HazMat suit make me look fat?  hmmmmm.

Mommy prepares to clean up projectile vomit...

Mommy prepares to clean up projectile vomit...

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Did June ever say No?

Did June ever say "No"?

I just can’t say “NO.”  I guess I’m just easy.

Well, that sounds really bad.  What I mean is that I feel compelled to say “Yes” when someone asks me to do something. Whether it is volunteering for a silent auction  or making 32 sugar cookies shaped like hearts for my other son’s Valentines Day party at school…I can’t help myself.  I always say “Yes.”

Deep down I know I feel like I need to have my calendar as busy as possible so that no one can say that I am lazy.  With three little boys, all age five and under, who could possibly say that I am lazy, right?  Well, I was raised to believe that women who stayed at home instead of working forty hour work weeks were “ladies of leisure.”  My mother worked full time and was engaged in full combat battle of the “mommy wars.”  There was no word so dirty as “housewife” in my household.  June Cleaver, Donna Reed and Carol Brady were considered a bad influence on a generation of women.

And here I am…no longer a practicing attorney….now I am the dreaded…

h-o-u-s-e-w-i-f-e

Call me a stay-at-home mom, domestic engineer, housewife…whatever.  We can spruce up the title, but it is what it is.

So, to compensate for my new title since leaving the workplace, I try to stay as “involved” as possible.  This is what I had planned, right?  I wanted to be the mom who makes homemade cupcakes from scratch for school parties instead of store bought cupcakes.  I was determined to make my sons’ Halloween costumes, go to story time at the library, take trips to the children’s museum.  I wanted to be busy and involved.  What I wasn’t prepared for was the onslaught of requests…from everyone.  I didn’t know that when people got wind that I was a stay-at-home mom, they thought that I would have all this time on my hands.  I became a volunteer magnet.

Can you substitute for the preschool?  Are you available to teach choir?  Can you sew my child’s Halloween costume?  Will you make a paper mache volcano for the project?  Do you mind making 42 chocolate covered strawberries for the class party?  Do you mind babysitting my sick child?  Can you make our meeting?  Will you smock my daughter’s Easter dress?  Will you facilitate our group?  Can you fill in for me?  Will you chair this event? Can you do the Thursday morning group?  Will you return this to the store for me?  Blah, blah, blah!

The requests do not seem to end.

I am not a martyr.  I admit that I like to stay busy, so I usually don’t mind doing most of what I am asked.  However, I do think that most people assume way too much about stay-at-home moms.  It is assumed that because I am at home, that I couldn’t possibly be as busy as I would be if I worked outside the home.  Let me clarify:  Because I am not working outside the home does not mean that I am not working.  Period.   I work very hard, thank you.   Even if I didn’t volunteer my time for a variety of things, I would still be extremely busy.  Here are a few reasons why I am busy…at home:

I have a three year old that is struggling with potty training.  That alone takes most of my patience.  I hold my breath when we go out the door and into the van while he is in his “big boy underwear.”  Things were so much simpler when he wore a pull-up.  Now, we may have two pit stops from our door to his preschool….a mere five miles down the road. The ten minute car ride now takes thirty minutes.  Don’t get me started on how he feels the need to use the bathroom in the great outdoors.

I have a nineteen month old that is no longer content to be “strapped in”…to a stroller, a car seat, etc.  He wants to run free.  This isn’t happening while we are out and about.  At least not while I’ve got to keep an eye on my two oldest children.  Therefore, I (and everyone within a five mile radius) must endure screaming from a child secured to an umbrella stroller.  It’s the only way I get things done and I can’t bring myself to use a child harness.  Those things just look like leashes to me.  Plus, he is strong.  Very strong.  Walking an enormous English Mastiff down the sidewalk would be easier.

I have a five year old that has no fear.  Self confidence is one thing, but this child likes to run and jump and leap…you get the picture.  I must keep one hand on him at all times.  Otherwise, I’m back in the ER with blood and stitches.  For some reason, he thinks the big red cement balls outside of Target would be perfect to run and jump on top of.  For this reason, I try to avoid Target when my two oldest sons are in tow.  Not good.

Mental note to self:  Never, ever, ever let my sons watch Jackass.

What I am trying to get at is that I have my hands full.  I didn’t even mention housework, laundry, running errands, chauffering children, attending practices, church events, etc.  If someone thinks I’m lazy then so be it.  So, I’ve decided that I will not sign up for everything that is put in front of me without giving it some serious thought.  I’ve just been way too cavalier in filling up my calendar.   The main thing is that I’ve got to stop feeling like a sell-out for staying at home to raise my children.  I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.  Working at home is working.  Plain and simple.

I’m no lady of leisure.  I’m busy with or without all of my commitments.  I just wonder if June Cleaver ever felt frazzled?   Did she ever say “No” to the PTA when they asked her to chair the school benefit?  Did June ever buy Little Debbie snack cakes instead of making brownies from scratch?  Did June ever take off those pearls?  Who knows.  What I know is that I work…it’s just work within the four walls of my home.  There is no crime in thinning out my calendar and letting go of some of the madness….I think.


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MoNique in Charm School

Mo'Nique in Charm School

I confess.  It’s terrible.  I’ll come clean….I’m addicted to trash t.v.

My husband and I ban certain shows from the general t.v. viewing area (so our kids will do other things in lieu of becoming couch potatoes and learning bad stuff).  Even my husband has pretty good taste in his television viewing habits (History Channel, Iron Chef America, This Old House).  Well, I should say that he doesn’t really spend much time watching t.v.  In fact, we both don’t sit down to really watch any television show from start to finish.  We’re always doing something.  However, I manage to find some show to watch while I fold the laundry, etc.   Trash t.v. can be excellent entertainment.  Seriously.

Charm School, Girls Next Door, Rock of Love…I wish I could say that I follow CSI, 24 or Lost. That sounds so much better than saying that I plan to watch Bret Michaels choose some skank to spend an hour with in a hottub on his show, Rock of Love.  Don’t even get me started on the reruns of Flavor Flav’s version of “The Bachelor”, entitled “Flavor of Love.”  It was just too hilarious to watch Flavor Flav rename all of his contestants with the most atrocious nicknames (Pumkin, Deelishis, Hoopz, Thing 1, Thing 2, Toasteee…you get the idea).   I guess the years Flavor spent touring has done a real number on his brain, so he needed nicknames to tell the women a part.  It was simply disgusting watching Flavor actually kiss these willing participants.  It was like a car accident that you don’t want to look at, but you find yourself craning your neck to get a look at the spectacle.  I especially couldn’t tear my eyes away from the screen during one episode of Flavor of Love when Pumkin spit in the eye of one of the contestants, New York (Yes, that is a nickname).  My husband says that I have a very sick sense of humor.

I also think I have been morbidly curious about the Girls Next Door starring Hugh Hefner’s three platinum blonde (under 30) girlfriends.  I find myself watching that show in complete amazement that three women could bare to “share” a home, cars, and a “boyfriend” (although I use that term loosely).  It’s hideous…and yet, I’ve been known to watch it.

However, my all time favorite “trash t.v.” moment came a while back during an episode of Charm School with Mo’Nique.  Mo’Nique is the “headmistress” of a charm school of sorts.   This charm school attempts to make “proper ladies” out of the contestants from Flavor Flav’s show.   This is more difficult than you would imagine considering that some of these women are strippers…and well, you get the drift.  These women make Eliza Doolittle, in her pre makeover stage, look like Queen Elizabeth.  I digress…

In my favorite episode, Mo’Nique explains to the girls that they will abandon the nicknames given to them by Flavor Flav, in an attempt to “reclaim” themselves.  Each girl comes forward…takes off her name tag with her nickname (Pumkim, Toasteee, etc.) and tosses it in the fire before announcing, with much pomp and circumstance, her “real” name (Sarah, Jean, etc.).

This is the exchange that had me rolling on the floor, laughing:

Mo’Nique:  Come forward! What’s the name that Flavor Flav gave you, girlfriend?

Contestant:  Saaphyri.

Mo’Nique:  Tear off that name tag and throw it in the fire!

(Contestant reluctantly tears off her name tag and throws it in the fire)

Mo’Nique:  O.K., now what’s your real name?

Contestant:  Saaphyri.

(Mo’Nique looks at the camera dumbfounded.)

Mo’Nique:  Say what?!

Contestant:  My real name is Saaphyri.

Mo’Nique:  (quiet for a long time)  Well…hmmmm….O.K……then let me get you a new name tag, Saaphyri.

Could mainstream t.v. be funnier than this?  I don’t think so.  The moment was priceless.  I laughed ’till I cried.

I know. I know.  This kind of stuff can kill your brain cells.  I just need a good laugh now and then.  It’s not like I watch it all of the time.

Oh, for goodness’ sake!  Don’t judge me.

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Lipstick can convey many moods

Lipstick can convey many moods

“Go put on some lipstick…it’ll make you feel better.”  This little piece of sage advice is the one thing that my mother has offered me when I’ve called her sharing some great tragedy (fought with friend, break up with boyfriend, fiance calls off wedding, fired from job, get sick).  I know how it sounds when I’ve told people that this is what my mother has offered me to pull me through situations.  However, as I look back …it’s really not bad as far as advice goes.

Being a southern girl, makeup is taken quite seriously.  I went to college and joined a sorority where it was practically a felony to leave your dorm room without a “painted face.”  In fact, it was commonplace to see girls power walking around campus, pony tails swinging, wearing greek letters…all with perfect makeup that would make Miss South Carolina jealous. As a natural blonde (complete with blonde eyelashes & eyebrows) with fair skin, makeup is not a luxury, but a necessity.  Without a little mascara and lipstick, I can easily look like the walking dead.  I’d love to be that girl who can throw on some jeans and brush her hair before walking out the door.  However, that is a dream that will never come true for me.  My mother is very aware of my shortcomings.

The first time my mother gave me her “lipstick lecture” I was in college and my boyfriend (I’ll call him Jake, but really his initials are WBB..that no-good #@$%er)  broke up with me to date some mousy brunette that wore Birkenstocks and tie dye…sans makeup.  I was so depressed that I spent several days locked in my room with five pints of Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream watching Rob Lowe and Demi Moore in About Last Night (it was the early 90’s). When my mother called to see how I was doing, she decided to give me a big dose of tough love.  She told me to make the scoundrel regret his decision.  My mother further advised me to clean myself up, go for a brisk walk, put on something cute….and “wear some lipstick for Pete’s sake.”  I took my mother’s advice.  After several days, I got the courage to dress up and “run into” Jake at his place of employment – the Gap.  Before entering the Gap, I made sure I had on a lipstick that would show off my tan – a frosted pink called “Showgirl.”  I sauntered into the place and said “hello” with an aloofness that would make Angelina Jolie look like a cheerleader with ADHD.  I bought a t-shirt before leaving.  Later that evening, I got a very unexpected call.  Jake said that his co-workers couldn’t imagine why he dumped me to go out with someone else.  Jake then said, “You looked really hot!  Wanna go with me to see my roommate’s band on Saturday night?”

Hmmmm.  I looked at myself in the mirror with my pink frosted lips and savored the moment before I told him, “There’s no way in hell I’d go out with you ever again.”  I hung up the phone.  I placed the tube of  “Showgirl” in a special drawer.  Unfortunately, I had cause to retrieve the lipstick only two years later.   After Jake, I began dating my college sweetheart.  We were engaged during my senior year of college.  He broke up with me three months before we were to get married.  I cried and cried…then decided after taking a long hot shower and putting on some makeup that I didn’t want anyone who didn’t want me…so forget him.  I would survive and did.  I spent one memorable night with a group of my girlfriends at a karaoke bar.  I smeared on some “Showgirl” and got up on the stage.  I confessed to the packed audience (probably while slurring my words) that my fiance broke up with me before singing a truly awful rendition of “I will survive” that inspired every girl to get out on the dancefloor.  By the end of the evening, our group of six girls had turned into a group of thirty five women laughing, singing and dancing.  I think that every man in the place secretly blamed me for ruining their evening.  Oh, well…

Several years later when I was in my late twenties, my best friend from childhood, Nancy, flew from Manhattan to Atlanta to visit me as a last “hurrah” before I set off for law school.  Nancy and I had a blast one Saturday afternoon before going out on the town.  We decided to sit at the MAC counter at Saks and have a “lip makeover.”  Nancy was feeling a bit dangerous and decided to go with a deep burgundy shade called “Carnal.”  I liked something a bit lighter and bought a tube of lipstick in a pinkish-red color called “Bombshell.”  After buying our lipsticks, we headed out for a night in Buckhead.  We had a great time and joked that it was all due to our new lipstick.  I celebrated the beginning of my legal career with “Bombshell” and that night I felt like one.

It was in my last year of law school that my mother offered me the same advice that she offered me in college….”Put on some lipstick, it’ll make you feel better!”  I was very unsure of myself and my future.  I had an interview for a clerkship and I felt that I wasn’t the most qualified candidate.  I asked my mother, half-joking, what shade of lipstick I should wear to the interview.   My mother responded with utmost seriousness.  In a lowered hushed voice, my mother said that I needed , “Red.  Blood red.  Chanel Red…  It invokes confidence.”  With only forty-five minutes to spare before my interview, I ran into Dillard’s department store and threw thirty dollars across the counter and blurted out “Give me red!  Chanel Red!  STAT!”  I opened the box and dabbed it on my lips.  I inhaled deeply before going into my job interview and exuded the confidence of which my mother promised me would be found in that tube of lipstick.  I  got the job.

Now, I sit here as the mother of three small boys.  I am tired.  I don’t have alot of time to spend on looking my best…or so that’s what I’ve been thinking.  I go to the gym and eat healthy.  I’ve managed to lose some weight and have been wanting to feel and look better.  The other day, I took a long look in the mirror.  I decided that maybe looking good and feeling good are complementary feelings.  If I feel good on the inside, why not try to look my best?  So, I resolved this year to put my best “face” forward.

This is what I did just last week.  My husband had been out of town on business and was due to arrive back in town Friday night.  We had planned to take the kids and go out to dinner.  I decided that instead of meeting him in my trusty velour sweatsuit,  I’d put forth some effort.  I pulled out a great black turtleneck sweater, jeans, and some boots.  The shade of lipstick I wore was “Nutmeg”…good for winter.  I’ll just say that all of the effort was greatly appreciated.  ‘Nuff said.

My dilemma is that I’m not sure what shade I need right now at this time.  You see, “Nutmeg” can get a little boring if I wear it too much.   I think I need a trip to the MAC counter.  I’m feelin’ very “Girl About Town” these days.  However, who knows what circumstances will call for “Lady Danger” or “Frou Frou.”

What I do know is that a good lipstick can make you feel better.  It may be all in your head, but who cares.  It’s a cheap fix and one that’ll add a little color to your face.  So go put on some lipstick…it’ll make you feel better!

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