Smiling Mom

This is an email I recei­ved by my friend. She’s about as preg­nant as you can be without actually giving birth. And she’s frea­king hila­rious! She really needs to start a blog, hint-hint.

So here’s rea­son # 100 why Cash’s Mom should really start a blog…

So V (her sis­ter) and I (Cash’s Mom) went to the mall today– and I stop­ped by the Bene­fit eye­brow bar, because seriously the cater­pi­llar had to go!!

 

They were having some sort of MEGA event and one of the super fierce little Bene­fit hot­ties con­ned V into get­ting her eye makeup done.

 

So I’m sit­ting there wai­ting (with super hot bad ass eye­brows) and this really fun spunky Bene­fit gal con­vin­ces me to hop in a chair and shows me some “hot mom” makeup tips.

 

The entire time I’m get­ting my makeup done, peo­ple are floc­king around. This lady asks them to get this they run and get it they are all com­men­ting on, “how fab this looks on me,” and yadda yadda…

 

Now at first I thought I was get­ting the hard sell, but after quite a while of peo­ple stop­ping and watching (gaw­king even) I rea­li­zed it’s because I’m a super fierce hot mom. Heidi Klum watch your ass, because when I drop this truck load of baby off… I’m hit­ting the run­way. HOLLA!!

 

Any­way as I’m chec­king out (I bought some bad ass eye sha­dow) V says, “You know that was like Miss Bene­fit her­self right??” This lady is the REASON for the big Bene­fit event!!

 

WHA WHA WHAT???

 

All the girls in the store were gushing and couldn’t believe that Arianne Dam­boise, known as Bene­fit Cos­me­tics’ “Makeup Maven” just did my make up….

 

PRO: I look AMAZING and this is the first time I’ve felt hot in WAY too long..

 

CON: All those peo­ple gazing on at how abso­lu­tely stun­ning I am… yeah they were there watching her.

And that folks, is why I love her. Please Cash’s Mom, start a blog! Please!

I’m fairly cer­tain that women were not the crea­tive genius behind many things.

Two that come to mind are the public bath­rooms and Turbo Kick Boxing.

I mean, seriously! Bath­rooms for women should always have more than 2 stalls and lots of space for wai­ting. Need I say any­more on this subject?

Didn’t think so.

Issue #2 Turbo Kick Boxing:

Well, I should cla­rify. It’s not that I don’t think a woman crea­ted this exer­cise class. Frankly I don’t know. I just don’t think that a woman who gave birth vagi­nally, and then nur­sed a child crea­ted Turbo Kick Boxing.

I came to this rea­li­za­tion on about minute 27 of my hour-long trial Turbo Kick Boxing class Thurs­day night. It came just as the cute perky thang, who was no older than 20, with rhythm to die for, shou­ted out a new combo of jumps, kicks, punches and jacks.

Jacks.

As in jum­ping jacks.

Twenty seven minu­tes into this wor­kout I, who has about as much rhythm as Elaine from Sein­feld, am trying des­pe­ra­tely to keep up with CPT (cute, perky thang) and falling short of the mark in oh so many ways.

Insert the jum­ping jacks.

I know jum­ping jacks! Now this is a combo I can do.

My con­fi­dence begins to grow. I’m fee­ling the anti­ci­pa­tion of suc­cess lea­ding up the the jack.…

Kick, Punch, Punch, annnnnd Jack.

Annnnd I pee.

Right there in the middle of class my musc­les fail me and oops! out comes pee.

Les­sons I lear­ned that night were many.

First. Do not do jum­ping jacks without wea­ring some sort of, ahem, pro­tec­tion down there.

Second. Nursed-out breasts flop, while doing kicks and jacks, no mater their size.

Third. Turbo Kick Boxing is a cruel, cruel joke pla­yed on post-birth/nursing moms.

Fourth. I have no rhythm. This les­son was lear­ned years ago, just rei­te­ra­ted Thursday.

Fifth. This form of exer­cise should really be rena­med Turbo Kick My A$$.

Sixth. I think I’ll stick to the ellip­ti­cal machine.

This was cross-posted at Sili­con Valley Moms Blog on Saturday.

That’s right folks!!

By some miracle, when I step­ped on my digi­tal scale this mor­ning it said I weighed 107 pounds*****.

Wait, let me bask in this for a minute…

…

…

OK, I’m good. You see, I’ve been avoi­ding the scale like the pla­gue for some time now. Since Hubby’s sur­gery, and my recent unplea­sant bought with this kick my *ss and leave me coughing an whee­zing while pro­du­cing copious amounts of snot small cold I’ve had, I’ve been fee­ling a bit, shall we say, out of shape.

So, you can ima­gine my amu­se­ment when I step­ped on the scale and it ini­tially said that I weighed 93 pounds.

But…when I tried again and that beau­ti­ful little scene blin­ked 107, I deci­ded to take that num­ber as truth.

Never mind that I haven’t actually seen 107 since I was in 8^th grade!

It was writ­ten in black and white!

107.

Damn it.

Now if I could only figure out what that word was that flashed after my weight…

LO BATT?

Huh?

Wha­te­ver!!

107 BABY!

****Edi­ted to add:

Please!  My true weight is far,  far away from 107.…  But come on!  Let a girl have a pipe dream! 

I think I need to change the bat­tery in the scale! 

Fri­day

Today