Thursday, October 13, 2011

Quarter life crisis.

I am sitting here embarking on yet another attempt to anchor myself to this little blog, when laundry, dishes, counters, bathrooms, clutter, toys, homework, and my daughter's Medusa-esque hair CLEARLY should be winning my time. But, I have something important to share. And it takes precedence to toilets (doesn't everything?).
However, it's been awhile. You have missed me so. So to catch you up...
A quick Cliff Notes on life here.
Mrs. got knocked up. Had Baby Boy. Named him Asher Vaughn. He's really (I mean Really) cute. And he's now one. Had a big-ol party and four teeth and some zombie walking. Mr. got a new job. Or will have a new job. We move in February. To California. Northern. Where it is cold, all the time. But there's wine, so I can drink my way through it. Daughter is as precocious
as ever. She tolerates her brother. When her hair is combed, she is also really cute. And really smart. Unless it's a puzzle. She likes to read and sing and talk. And talk and talk and talk. Mrs. is back in school. She wants to "be something". Her classes are medical-like. Maybe she'll be a nurse? Who knows. She's working very very hard to get her A's and is actually enjoying it. When she doesn't have a test the next day. Mrs. has very little time to sew or craft anymore, but there have been a few projects. Maybe some pictures can be arranged. Mr. and Mrs. and the two munchkins are well and happy and are working on that white picket fence to complete this rosy picture.

Wait. Rosy picture? Well and happy? What's with the quarter life crisis tag line, huh? Well, sometimes 'happy' doesn't feel like enough. Lately, I've been wanting more. Oh, poor bored housewife, I know. But it's good, for this spurred my initial decision to go back to school, and that's a very good thing. But lately that restlessness has been creeping back. Convertibles aren't very family-friendly, and God-knows I don't need hair plugs.
Solution? (Pay attention, other SAHMs. This can save you so much heartache.)
It's revolutionary.
Life changing.

Red lipstick.
Ok, so as most of my friends know I've been sucked into the world of Mad Men and my masochistic jerk of a boyfriend Don Draper. (But, I'll change him, s'alls good.)

Loved the escapism of the show, but seeing those women, always perfectly coiffed, demure and stylish and not covered in the breakfast, lunch, AND dinner (of yesterday) was getting me down. I felt so unglamorous. Before I was a mommy, I needed to look good for my job. I wore heels and stockings and mascara and jewelry. And my underwear matched my bras. I was kinda sexy. That was who I was when Mr. fell for me. And, somewhere from then to now, I became someone who wore nursing bras long after I stopped nursing, long pants because I didn't have time to shave, and a ponytail, everysingleday. Someone who looked nothing like this:

Then, a revolution. In the amount of time it takes to put on a pair of ratty yoga pants, a tank top, and Chapstick you can instead put on (secondhand) designer jeans, a bright blouse, and Red Lipstick. Add a fancy clip to your ponytail and a sandal instead of rubber flip flops, and you no longer scream "I have young children, I haven't had an adult conversation in a week, I think I may have poo under my fingernail, and yes, I am aware that my son just pulled my elastic-waisted shorts down." Seriously, SAME amount of time!
So what if I look like a hooker in my push-up bra and Red Lipstick at the gas station? Who cares if no one wears stockings in Hawaii because they are flippin' HOT? I wanna wear this flirty skirt, darnnit (and I still don't have time to shave). Even if I don't actually plan on leaving to go anywhere. Maybe the UPS man will stop by.
And if he does, I'll be ready.

Caring about how I look again has been good for me. I do fear it is affecting my daughter, though. She spent about forty minutes in the mirror this morning, wetting, combing, rewetting, recombing her hair. And then she asked to wear some of my lipstick.

I told her when she's a mommy, I'll buy her a tube of her very own.

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