Attack of the Mammogram Machine

When I was in high school I had a boyfriend who nicknamed my boobs Will and Denise. His parents had a cottage on the St. Lawrence River and their neighbors had 2 dogs by those names, so… that was that. I’m telling you this because 2 weeks ago I took Will and Denise for their very first mammogram. Now that I’m 40, that’s just one of the super enjoyable things I get to do along with having my cervix scraped with a wire brush once a year. 40 is rad. Get psyched 30 somethings!

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Don’t hate me ’cause you ain’t me.

I made my mammogram appointment for a Monday, because who doesn’t love to start  their week in excruciating pain? I KNOW I DO! I made sure to give Will and Denise a good scrub before I went. I even made sure I plucked their nipple hairs because I’m a friggin’ lady and I wanted my mammaries looking their best for the big day.

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Get a load of my melons.

I checked in to the radiology office and a few minutes later, the young woman who was about to smash my front muffins into crepes called me into the room. She told me to take my top and bra off and put on a paper gown. She asked if I was wearing deodorant which I thought was weird considering my armpits (both currently unnamed) live directly next door to Will and Denise. Of course I’d slathered on my men’s Speed Stick this morning. Did she want to borrow a swipe off my trusty purse deodorant? She did not. She asked me to use a wet wipe in the changing room to clean my pits so I didn’t junk up her expensive boob-crunching machine.

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Gotta get those pits camera-ready, ladies.

She showed me how she was going to use her torture device on me and then she helped me pose for Will and Denise’s first pictures. She gingerly placed Will on a thick, clear plate and said we’d start with the front facing photos. Then she grabbed a second plate called a paddle from above and JACKED THAT SHIT DOWN with 23 lbs. of pressure until Will looked like a freshly made corn tortilla. It was more painful than I thought it would be which was awesome because it was about to get worse. She VERY STERNLY instructed me to hold my breath and NOT MOVE while her chompy booby monster bit down on me. Not going to lie. It hurt. A lot.

We ran through both of Will and Denise’s front facing pictures without a problem, I mean, as long as don’t consider having two deflated footballs for boobs a problem. Then it was time to kick things up a notch with the side boob pics.

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OMG CAN’T WAIT.

For the side boob pics you should be able to contort your body into an infinity symbol like an earthworm. This is so you can stand at the proper angle to get all the right parts of the boob on the plate. This was no problem because I’ve actually got LOADS AND LOADS of side boob. Just another one of the fun gifts that the Lord hath bestowed upon me. Denise was first. We propped her up on the plate and the tech lowered the paddle of doom down on her with around 28 lbs. of pressure. I held my breath, stood still and waited for the machine to kick in. That’s when I heard a GA-GUNK. The camera in the machine didn’t rotate like it had been doing before. I looked over and the tech was staring at her laptop with a crunched up forehead. She told me to take another breath and then hold it so she could try again, ALL THE WHILE, MY POOR DENISE WAS BEING PULVERIZED LIKE A PUMPKIN IN THE BACK OF A GARBAGE TRUCK THE MORNING AFTER HALLOWEEN!

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She fired the machine again. Nothing. I thought “OH MY GOD I LIVE HERE NOW! WITH MY TIT IN THIS MAMMOGRAM MACHINE! I’LL HAVE TO HAVE MY MAIL FORWARDED. THEY’RE GOING TO HAVE TO SERVE ME MY MEALS HERE.” The tech ran from behind the machine and yells, “The machine is malfunctioning! Can you get out of it?!”

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I’m sorry. What was that?

I wasn’t prepared for her to ask me this question since mammography isn’t my area of expertise, oh and, MY FREAKING LEFT BREAST BEING MASHED INTO A FLESHY PULP RIGHT BEFORE HER EYES! No I couldn’t get out of it!!!! Not if I wanted to walk out of that office with all the boobs I walked in with!!! She tried to push me back off the machine, but Denise, being attached to my body and all, would not be torn from the machine’s powerful grasp. I should’ve left all of that nipple hair on her. She probably would’ve slid out of there lickety split! Luckily, the tech was able to pry the plate and the paddle apart with her hands and poor Denise flopped off the machine and away from its angry clutches.

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I know people who would’ve had heads rolling in that office for the machine malfunction, but I was just grateful that I was able to leave that day with all of my pieces and parts still attached. The tech apologized up and down and we actually both had a good laugh about it. I had to go back later that afternoon to have my side boob pics retaken and I’m happy to say it was without incident.

Thankfully my mammogram results were normal. As hilariously terrifying as my experience was, I promise you it was very quick. I urge all of you to suck it up and get your girls checked every year because there’s absolutely nothing funny about rolling the dice on your health.

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On Following Your Motherf*cking Dreams

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This is a cardboard box. It came to my house this past Saturday around 12:30 p.m. I get all kinds of boxes delivered here. Boxes of swim equipment for my son. Boxes of pool parts for my husband. Boxes of clothes for my daughter. But I’ve never received a box like this. This 6 inch square, corrugated cardboard box held my motherf*cking dream come true.

We all grow up dreaming that we want to be one thing or do another when we’re older. Things that maybe seem impractical once the confines of reality set in – time, bills, kids. Things we decide we aren’t smart enough or skilled enough or matched properly for. And we let go of those dreams to do what sustains us. That’s life. It happens.

I realized my dream in 1993 when my brother died and my life cracked open. I was 16 and began to write to fill in that chasm of pain. I went on to college for my writing degree, concentrating in poetry, and believe it or not, I wasn’t half bad. I loved it but, you might have heard, poetry doesn’t pay the bills. After college, I began a career in the advertising arm of publishing. Got married. Had kids. Eventually, my dream of writing was left behind so that I could do what moms do – help my family follow their own motherf*cking dreams.

I became a SAHM and started a small business where I work alone. I began to feel extremely depressed – isolated and unfulfilled. All my life I’d questioned my intelligence and that insecurity had taken some major hits in the last few years. I realized I had to go back to my dream if I wanted to try to save myself to be any good for anyone else. So on October 18, 2016, I started The Mother Octopus. And let me tell you something. A lot really can happen in a year.

Last February, I began to make memes for my Instagram and Facebook accounts as part of my blog’s presence and quickly realized that I loved making them. I was good at making them. I’ve continued writing and have had some great response to my blog, including one post that went viral. I started to feel proud of myself. I started to think that maybe I could do this.

I began following a lot of other writers, mom bloggers and meme makers, I noticed many of them in Scary Mommy t-shirts. Lots of them were either staff writers or contributors at Scary Mommy. So very early on, I made becoming a Scary Mommy contributor and getting that t-shirt a goal for myself. I saw that t-shirt as a major rite of passage, validation that I could do this. And on Saturday, around 12:30 p.m., that t-shirt arrived at my house in the 6 inch square cardboard box above. I have an author page at ScaryMommy.com and I have a job making memes for them. My motherf*cking dream is now my reality.

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For many years I felt like what I had to say wasn’t important. My dreams of being a wife and mom had been realized and now my job was to keep my head above water and so that everyone else could realize their dreams. I bring my daughter to piano lessons because I believe that is what she’s meant to do. I bring my son to swim practice because I believe that is what he’s meant to do. What I’m learning is that in order to be a better mom and wife, I have to strive for what validates me. I’m no good if I’m not nurturing my own desire to succeed in what I believe I’m meant to do.

So, if you have a dream that you’ve buried in the back story of your life, under the chaos of schedules and clutter of other obligations, DIG IT OUT. You’re going to come to a point in your life when everyone else’s dream is coming true and there won’t be time left for yours. If you dream of going back to school so you can change careers, go back. If you dream of starting your own business so you have more time for your family, start it. Whatever it is, DO IT. NOW. Your 6 inch square cardboard box is out there and your motherf*cking dream is waiting inside of it.

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The Family We Make For Ourselves

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This is my daughter Olivia brushing her friend Ellie’s hair. I took this photo when my family was visiting my best friend Nichole’s family last spring. Ellie is Nichole’s daughter. The girls didn’t know it at the time, and they still don’t, but it was the weekend they became best friends.

It was Saturday morning and I’d slept in the kids’ room with all 4 kids in case mine woke up during the night. The kids got up early and headed downstairs to play. I heard some husband voices down there, so I continued to doze, a little wine soaked from the night before. A while later I woke up to the sound of the girls chatting in Nichole’s large closet, attached to the kid’s bedroom. The door was cracked enough so I could see Olivia brushing Ellie’s hair. I quickly got out of bed and crept in to snap a few pictures before they could protest.

A little background. Nichole and I come from a long line of best friends. Our grandmothers were neighbors and close friends, so our fathers had always been close. When Nichole was born 6 months after me, our best friend destiny was sealed. That was 40 years ago.

Nichole and I in 1982.

Now, the 5-hour distance between my Long Island home and Nichole’s Syracuse home makes it difficult for us to get together as much as we’d like. We had a great weekend with them and our kids cried when it was time to say goodbye. On the car ride back to Long Island, going through the photos on my phone, I came across the hair brushing pictures. All bleary-eyed and probably recovering from the night before, I’d forgotten I took those.

An Instagram fan, I quickly added a few filters to it and posted it to my FB page. It wasn’t until a few hours later that I looked at the picture again and got chills, suddenly remembering the last time Nichole had brushed my hair. The morning after my brother died. The day she became my sister.

It was July 8, 1993. She and I were 16. My brother J.P. had died suddenly the day before from cardiac arrest following a bout of heatstroke. He was 19. Nichole slept in my bed with me and woke up next to me with the confirmation that the day before hadn’t been a nightmare like I hoped. That morning I went to the funeral home with my parents, somehow thinking they could use my support. I didn’t last long and I ended up on the front steps of the funeral home in the hot summer sun waiting for my aunt to pick me up.

Getting back to the house, Nichole was still there. I played Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd on repeat because my brother used to play it. I sat on the floor dazed and she sat behind me and brushed my long brown hair while the music blared. Because the days that followed were such a blur, I hadn’t thought of that moment in 24 years. What seemed like a small gesture at the time now reveals itself to me as the moment she stepped into her rightful role as my heart’s mender and still now, my heart’s protector.

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Nichole & I in 2017.

I’m not writing this to rehash the feelings of that awful time. I’m writing this because when I looked back at the picture of Olivia brushing Ellie’s hair, it struck me that what Nichole and I share, our girls have begun to share. It was a strange and beautiful feeling. They’re 10 and 7. Their 3-year age difference was palpable until that weekend when I took this picture and they became inseparable.

I remembered Nichole’s grandmother telling me stories about my own grandmother. I wondered how many times they’d laughed together or consoled each other or stood together in front of a mirror while they prepared for a night out with our grandfathers. I wondered if they’d had any idea that something as simple as their friendship would become so much more for Nichole and I and now for our kids. I wonder how happy they’d be to see their granddaughters and their great granddaughters sharing the same bond they shared almost 80 years earlier.

This picture is the culmination of 40 years of laughter, tears, firsts, lasts, fights, failures and triumphs I shared with Nichole. I realized our daughters will have that together now. That’s the legacy we’ve passed on to them.

When I look back at the picture of Olivia brushing Ellie’s hair, I hope one day our girls will realize that they’re so much more than “fourth generation besties”. I hope they’ll understand that sometimes the best kind of family is the kind you find outside your bloodlines. It’s the family that somehow becomes your family through the opening and rending of your hearts and the experience of shared joy. It’s the family we make for ourselves.

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A Dress I Have No Business Wearing

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This is me in a dress I have no business wearing. It’s not the first time I’ve worn it and it won’t be the last time. I know it’s not flattering but I don’t want you to say, “OMG, YOU LOOK GREAT!” I don’t want you to say, “GOOD FOR YOU!” I want you to know why I’m wearing a dress I have no business wearing.

I took this picture two days ago. I was one and a half proseccos deep during a girl’s weekend with my best friend and we were on our way to a nice dinner. Someone could say that I look a little pregnant in it, because of, you know, that part sticking out in the front. I do look a little pregnant. That’s fine. Once upon a time I grew two babies in that part sticking out in the front, but I assure you, now it’s just where I keep my cheeseburgers and sauvignon blanc.

I bought this dress for a trip my husband and I took in July. When I tried it on I knew the dress wasn’t made for my 5’2″ body, 160 lb. body, but I felt great in it. I don’t know why. I just did. I’m not known to wear form-fitting clothes. At all. But I wanted it, so I bought it. And I was proud of myself for it.

The truth is, I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been, other than when I was pregnant. Another truth is that I’ve always struggled with my weight and if you’ve ever struggled with your weight, you know it’s not a physical struggle. It’s about how you see yourself and how you speak to yourself in your mind. After 40 years of telling myself I have no business wearing things I want to wear, I’ve decided to change the subject. I’ve decided to start being kind to myself.

I’m a work from home mom. I make my own schedule. I could spend 2 hours a day at the gym if I wanted to. I could run from here to Manhattan and back if I set my mind to it. The thing is, my mind is elsewhere. Right now I’m in the business of keeping my shit together. I’m in the business of raising loving children. I’m in the business of maintaining healthy friendships. I’m in the business of having a happy marriage.

For 40 years I’ve stood in the mirror and compared how I look to how I THINK I should look. And it’s exhausting. Now, in an ugly world where I have so many other, more important things to worry about, I’m hitting that red decline button when the self-doubt calls start pouring it. I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to be in the business of loving myself. It’s as simple as that.

I’m not saying I’m giving up. I’ll still try to get healthy, here and there. I’m just taking a break from beating myself up. I’m muting the negative things I say to myself, because as it turns out, I care way more about my own comments than anyone else’s.

So here’s the thing. If I can put on a dress I have no business wearing to go out with my husband or to go to a fancy dinner at a nice restaurant with my best friend because it makes me feel good, you can too. And if I’m putting this picture on my Facebook page for 15,000 people to see, well then you can certainly wear a dress you have no business wearing to a BBQ this weekend. If the hard part is talking yourself into it, tell yourself life’s too short to worry about things you have no business wearing.

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Are You Stay At Home Mom Material?

When I was laid off from my publishing job in Manhattan in 2010, I was ready for a change. The soul-crushing daily 3 hour round trip commute from Long Island to the city, usually with a passed out fat guy’s elbow jammed into my boob, took up too much time away from my family. I was prepared to find a job closer to home but as the gods would have it, I didn’t go back to work outside of my house. Now, 6 and a half years later, I realize I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I started my career in magazine publishing before I finished college. I’d had a 6-credit internship at UsWeekly to close out my writing degree and 3 weeks into it, they hired me. I worked for Wenner Media, who also publishes Rolling Stone and Men’s Journal, for the better part of the next 11 years. I loved my job, but that commute was a killer, to say the least. The day I was laid off, I was shocked and elated.

About a year before my layoff, I’d started making custom photo mats for friends as wedding and baby shower gifts. Nine days after I was laid off I opened my Etsy shop, KJ Frames, and I’ve been home, alone, making frames in my basement office, ever since.

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To be fair, she’s hilarious.

Before we get too far, I need to clarify that I AM NOT COMPLAINING. I’M EXPLAINING. This is MY experience. I’m not saying everyone’s experience is the same. In fact, well-adjusted individuals might find their experience to be the exact opposite of mine. I know many of you would switch places with me in a heartbeat and, while I have my struggles, I know how lucky I am.

NO ONE CARES HOW I LOOK

Yea, this is amazing. I don’t have to jump out of bed and into the shower. I don’t really have to look presentable at all. The moms at the bus stop don’t care how I look and I can tell you from experience that the employees at Michael’s, Staples and Stop & Shop sure as shit don’t GAF. I’m living la vida leggings. The problem here is that if you start to go too long without caring about your personal appearance, you basically revert back to being a college student in a dorm again. If I want to go to Taco Bell in my pajamas at 3 pm for a Meximelt, I’mma go. And is that really how adults behave? Is it, you guys?

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Me in 6 more months.

THE REFRIGERATOR

I love her. We vibe. She’s always there for me. All day, everyday. Keeping my food cold and delicious, just as she promised when we brought her home from P.C. Richard. We spend A LOT of time together each day. This is great for someone who has healthy eating habits, but that’s not me. NOT. ME. All of my dirty little food secrets are safe with her. This means that in the past 6 years, because I can’t control myself, I’ve gained around 20 lbs. Could I do something about this? SURE. Do I want to? NOT LOOKING THAT WAY.

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“GIVE ME THE GOD DAMN CINNAMON BUNS, BRENDA!”

THE DRINK

That’s right. Another vice. Lock me up. I like to imbibe. This was no problem when I was a respectable member of society, but now my life as a shut-in allows me to have a higher frequency of nights in with the ladies. Being my own boss means I make my own work schedule and since my only other real responsibilities involve getting my kids out the door in the morning, there will be wine. Oh yes. There will be wine. Add that to my eating issues, tack on about 10 more lbs. and order those leggings in the next size up.

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“Yea, no. I’m good.”

I’M THE BOSS

Sure, I own my own business. It allows maximum flexibility and supplemental income, both of which are AMAZING. The problem is that I’m my own IT person, printer repairman and accountant now. I’m unqualified in all of these areas of expertise, which makes my job more interesting. Add to this the fact that I used to work in a bustling office with rock stars and celebrities waltzing through all the time while I got to enjoy being part of a team and my own personal success. Now I work alone in a tiny basement office wearing a Hannibal Lecter mask, dodging spiders and talking to myself. BIG DIFFERENCE.

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CAN YOU HEAR THE LAMBS CRYING, YOU GUYS???

FROM RICHES TO RAGS

I went from being the breadwinner to feeling like a financial drain on our family. Yes my business brings in extra income, but I’m no Joy Mangano. There are no Miracle Mop patents being applied for here. Obviously, what’s my husband’s is OURS but it weighs on me that I’m not contributing like I used to. Not that we were ever rolling in it, but the occasional lunch time visit to Anthropologie for a bag or a sweater has been replaced by scouring the clearance rack at T.J. Maxx. (No offense T.J. Maxx. I love you super hard.)

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Come back to me.

TIME IS ON MY SIDE

The number one thing I’ve gained, and really all that matters, is time. Time with my kids. Time with my husband. Time to create and decide what my next career will be. Time to be braless and eat peanut butter from the jar with Hershey’s syrup. Being able to make my kids their lunches and having time to get them on the bus every day. Being able to spend time in their classrooms. Having time to make dinner and shuttle kids to piano and soccer and lacrosse without roping other families in or having to pay a sitter to help. Knowing that time like this is not afforded to everyone, I do know its value even though I look like Zach Galifinakis waking up in the first Hangover movie each day.

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Now that I’ve lived on both sides of the working mom/stay at home mom fence, I’ve learned that there’s a trade off either way. Your ability to be a good mom isn’t determined by your decision to work or your decision to stay home. The only thing that really matters is that your kids are safe and loved and your wine refrigerator is stocked.

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Get Jiggy With This Perfect St. Patrick’s Day Treat

Big fan of food here, guys. Big fan. YUGE. I believe in a 60/30/10 ratio when it comes to balancing my diet. 30% Healthy, 10% Alcohol and 60% Whatever The Frick Else I Want. What I love even more than eating is when some of the categories collide. For example, wine and vodka started out as grapes and potatoes, allowing me to categorize them under the Healthy AND Alcohol umbrellas. Voila! Look at that. Everybody’s happy. The same goes for this insane Boozy Bailey’s cake because not only is it “in season” thanks to St. Patrick’s day, but you get to have your cake and alcohol too. SO. UHH. YEA.

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I wish I could take credit for this masterful confection but I can’t. The first time I made sweet, sweet mouth love to this dessert was at my friend Kelly’s house. Not only is she one of my favorite smartasses on the planet, she’s also a majestic queen of coffee roasting, an award-winning cookie baker, a garden planting phenom and a generous “inn keeper” who lets the hubs and I “pen da night” at her place when we over imbibe on date night in the quaint upstate town of Sackets Harbor. A true delight this one is. Thanks Kelly!

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We have this gorgeous creature from the north country to thank.

This recipe is obviously phenomenal for St. Patrick’s Day. I actually used Molly’s Irish Cream when I baked for this post. I KNOW, I KNOW. It’s called BAILEY’S CAKE but, for the record, Molly’s is just as good and it’s cheaper so feel free to use any irish cream you like. I made this last weekend with pumpkin spice flavored Molly’s and it was LEGEN (wait for it) DARY.

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This dessert’s also great for a fun brunch, just please PLEASE be sure to clearly label it Not Safe For Children because nobody likes a party that ends with CPS knocking on the door.  Am I right?

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Not funny. I mean, a little funny, but NOT FUNNY.

You can really play around with this cake and use any creamy liqueur and fun accent you want. I’ve been considering trying a version with Rum Chata (if you don’t know what this is, find out ASAP) and raisins instead of Bailey’s and chocolate chips. But for now…we gonna’ keep it old school. Here’s what you need:

BOOZY BAILEY’S CAKE

1 yellow cake mix
2 small packages of instant vanilla pudding
4 eggs
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 and 1/2 cups Bailey’s or Molly’s (or any irish cream you like.)
1/2 bag MINI bittersweet chocolate chips (Full size chocolate chips sink to the bottom! No bueno, my friends.)

GLAZE

2 cups confectioner’s sugar
3/4 cup Bailey’s

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Preheat your oven to 350. Combine cake mix, pudding mixes, eggs, oil and 1 & 1/2 cups Bailey’s. Mix well. Once the batter is mixed, stir in the mini chocolate chips.

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Pour into an ungreased 9 x 13 cake pan and bake for 40 mins.

While your cake’s baking, whisk together 2 cups confectioner’s sugar and 3/4 cup Bailey’s for the glaze. Set aside.

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When your cake has cooled for about 15-20 minutes, pierce the top all over with a toothpick so the glaze can get in there and do its thing, then cover the cake in glaze. There’s a lot of glaze, but I promise it will all soak in. I tip the pan back and forth to make sure the glaze settles evenly as it’s cooling.

Once your cake is completely cool, dust with a healthy dose of confectioner’s sugar and cut into 1 in. by 1 in. squares.

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Smile pretty, girlfriend.

DISCLAIMER: This cake is dangerous. The bite sized pieces are for a reason so proceed with caution. There may have been one time that I didn’t eat dinner and then had “some wine” and way too many pieces of this cake found their way into me. It ended with me in a middle of the night shower and a carpet cleaning the next day. YA FEELIN’ ME LADIES?

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It happens. Neil deGrasse Tyson knows.

If you decide to get jiggy with it and make this Boozy Bailey’s Cake, I’d love to see pics or hear what you think! Feel free to tag me or hit me up on TwitterFacebook and Instagram. Sláinte!

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If I Could Save Time in a B Cup

My freshman year in college, I wrote an essay about boobs for an English class. My mom’s boobs and my best friend’s boobs actually, because they were at opposite ends of the boob spectrum. Twenty two years later, I’m starting to really put the ma’am in mammaries and I find myself wistfully reflecting on that paper and the boobs I had when I wrote it.

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BOOBIES COME BACK!

It was fall, 1996. I was a B cup and considered myself #BLESSED to be on the B team because my mother had been riding the bench on the A team her whole life. She’d shamelessly asked Santa for boobs for Christmas each year for as long as I can remember. Mama wanted big ones. BAD. Then, there was my best friend who’d had a breast reduction about 6 months before I wrote the essay. She was comin’ in hot with DDs prior to her surgery at age 17 and she HATED them. When we’d get ready to go out in high school, she’d look in the mirror and ask, “Am I going to offend anyone if I wear this shirt?” I never knew what she meant by that but my mother’s head would pop out of whatever room she was in and yell, “Any time you’re ready to get rid of them, you know where to find me!”

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“Boobs? I’ll take two right here.” – My mom.

At the time I didn’t fully grasp their misery. I loved them both and couldn’t understand how they could be so unhappy with their bodies, however, their spots in the breast brigade made me appreciate that I was somewhere in between. My Bs got the job done and I wasn’t in a place of longing on either side. But now, less than 3 months away from turning 40, I’ve gained a husband, 2 kids and about 40 lbs since I wrote that essay. My lovable little Bs are a thing of the past and I’ve got 2 big, breast friends in unexpectedly low places. Thanks to Father Time, attempts at breastfeeding, running, weight gain & loss and working from home (which lends itself beautifully to NOT wearing a bra), these days I look like a four-armed octopus when I unleash the beasts.

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Me in 6 months.

Now that there’s more of me to love, I’m constantly in awe of what gravity can do to your body. I mean, you know you’ve entered a new era of self discovery you walk up the stairs and your boobs bounce off your knees. My ladies are so droopy now, if my nipples were hands, I could tie my own shoes with them. God, think of how much more I’d get done each day. I could scramble eggs and butter the toast at the same time. I’d be able to shave a ton of time off making the kid’s sandwiches each morning and showering and folding laundry would be a snap. Maybe hands for nipples is the way to go!

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Luckily, I’m married to a guy who’s still going through puberty and is just happy to see some boobs when he can, regardless of wear and tear. He tells me he accepts my aging shapes, even if he’s just being polite. Talking to my friends, I know their husbands are on “TEAM HEY, A BOOB’S A BOOB” too and that gives me hope for their half of humanity. I mean, if the tables were turned, consider what could happen to them. Imagine if their ding dongs changed course around age 40 and started pointing north at all times? Wait. Actually, now that I think about it…

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Aye aye, Captain…

I’m trying to go easy on myself but we’re quick forget that our bodies are machines built for function. They’re designed to take infinitely tiny sperm molecules and churn them into a little something known as HUMAN LIFE. I think that commands a certain level of respect whether or not the machine needs a new set of headlights. I’ve read so many great posts about how women need to love the battle scars that living leaves behind. They say we should wear our stretch marks and our bumpy parts as badges of honor that celebrate our stories. We shouldn’t let a reflection in a mirror or in our minds take away from that.

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When I get down on myself and want to go back to my old body, a change of perspective is in order. I’ll try to remember that those B cups were attached to a girl who’d never felt a labor pain or had her newborn baby, 10 seconds old, placed on her stomach. When I was cellulite free, I didn’t have an awesome man who wanted to binge on indian food and Netflix with me on Friday nights. When my thighs didn’t touch, I had time to go to the gym because my kids weren’t home waiting for me. When my belly was flat, I hadn’t seen my parents sing to and rock their grandkids to sleep.

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…who happens to love cheese. Like…A LOT.

I’m like everyone. I want to look and feel good about myself when I pass a mirror. I’m just saying it’s ok to allow ourselves a kinder inner monologue instead of wishing we could turn back time. Try to remember that you’re so much more than the sum of your body parts. Instead of seeing saggy boobs and saddle bags, try to see a body stretched by love and experience and make room in your mind and in your bra for the marks that time leaves behind.

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How girl scout cookies help you Mom AF

Sometimes you discover people who are YOUR people. Turns out, Alexis from Mrs. Mombie is MY PEOPLE. Hilarious post about the ever dreaded GIRL SCOUT COOKIE SEASON. Enjoy!

Mrs. Mombie

First of all I would like to thank the girl scouts of America for finally taking a fucking credit card. Who the hell still carries around cash? Let alone a checkbook. All I have lingering in the bottom of my purse overnight bag is some stale goldfish and a few hot wheels and those tiny green vested ladies don’t take trades. I tried.

Anywho, it’s no secret eating your feelings is a thing. But eating girl scout cookies when tiny humans make you wanna rage against the machine is an even bigger thing. Here’s why:

For starters those things are basically ninja cookies. Picky eaters don’t even know they have sugar in them so an entire box of 1,000 calories energy units are yours to eat freely out in the wild. No hiding in closets required. Fa real though, my kid won’t touch a caramel delite because the anti-Christ sprinkled coconut on those bitches. Do you know what a…

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