I love that Pregnant Barbie’s stomach is really just the top to a Silly Putty egg. And hey, she’s already prepared for birth with her mesh panties!
This week I wrote a lot about how to prepare for pregnancy for Shape mag’s site. I got to talk to a bunch of experts about lady business, one of my fave subjects and even learned a few things which would come in handy if I was going to get pregnant again which, knock on wood, will not be happening again. (Just for the record, we’re way smarter about birth control than just knocking on wood.) So if you want solid advice from vetted experts and stuff go read my article over there. But if you want the advice for prepping your body for pregnancy that no one will tell you, well that’s why I’m here.
Charlotte’s 13 totally random, not fact-checked, hopefully hilarious tips to prepare for pregnancy and children:
– Start carrying a water bottle so that when your breast milk unexpectedly lets down you can splash your whole chest with water and pretend you just finished a really great workout and are not, in fact, turning into a human geyser.
Asked the kids to get ready to go to Target and this is what I got: Jelly Bean pants-less and shoe-less while Son #3 has on two hats, a scarf, two pairs of gloves, snow bibs, two coats and boots. Note that neither is seasonally appropriate. Pretty sure this does not say good things about my parenting skills.
First they came for our disposable diapers. Next it was our shampoo, toothpaste and laundry detergent. But have you heard of the newest craze in cost-cutting healthy living? Reusable toilet paper. Yep, instead of splurging on Charmin now the super thrifty eco-conscious health bloggers are putting little baskets of cut up flannel next to their toilets with the instruction to wipe, rinse and repeat. Don’t get me wrong, this actually makes a lot of sense – toilet paper does seem kind of wasteful. And flannel strips are way more tushie-tender than, say, the corn cobs or Sears catalog pages of yesteryear. One blogger reported that the old-fashioned paper rolls set her back $136 a year but her new-old-fashioned cloth wipes only cost $42 a year (in laundering, I’m assuming). Yet while I did use cloth diapers for a while (until I got tired of the leaking) and have made my own shampoo and detergent (until I got lazy and went back to store-bought), I just can’t get past the ick factor of homemade TP. Not even to save $92. Call me a Luddite.
Athlete? Or just worst texting posture ever?
Still looking for a theme for your Super Bowl Party? You might want to consider “lawsuit” – at least if you’re an NFL cheerleader or someone who loves NFL cheerleaders. (Or someone who loves lawyers.) After years of putting on their game faces – both on and off the field – some of the Raiderettes have decided to break ranks and open up about the awful way the NFL treats their girls by suing the Oakland Raiders and the NFL for illegal contracts, loss of pay, unfair employment contracts and a host of other smaller indignities that have shocked all of us who still think of cheerleaders as the high school girls who Had It All.
Sharon Vinick, the lawyer representing the Raiderettes, explains that the Raiders cheerleaders are contracted for an annual salary of $1,250, which amounts to an hourly wage of less than $5 per hour. Not only are they payed an abysmal salary but they only get it at the end of the season, after all their “fines” are deducted. Here are just a few of the things you can be penalized for if you’re a Raiderette:
Emma Thompson at the Golden Globes proves I’m not the only chica to start out in some fierce heels only to regret them when it’s too late to change! She even said they were “stained with her blood”! Emma will you be my bestie?
Pride goeth before the fall – and never is that more true than when it comes to wearing high heels. For years I’ve prided myself on my ability to walk well in heels. I’d giggle when the new girls on America’s Next Top Model would admit they’d never worn heels and then would totter around like Bambi on ice. (Did I just admit to watching that show? Yes, yes I did. I love Bambi.) Also, I have this weird complex where I think I’m taller than I really am so add that to my love of pretty sparkly things and you’ll see how I have ended up with a very large collection of very high heels.
Now all is sunshine and roses, er, dead corn husks and pumpkins (because that says total romance, right?)
Puking with the flu, two weeks overdue pregnant, shaking on the floor with a panic attack, accusing him of stealing my pants and purse as I came out of anesthesia, both pre- and post- op, crying while holding a crying baby, numb with grief, irrational with fear, swearing at people during childbirth, hysterically silly, screaming with nightmares – and my personal favorite – dragging my infant son to the doctor’s for the “fleas” all over him that turned out to be Oreo crumbs from my super-healthy snack I’d eaten while breast-feeding him. I could go on but suffice it to say, my husband has seen me at my worst. (Oh, and there was the time I was so angry I didn’t speak to him for an entire day because I dreamed he had an affair. I’m still really embarrassed about that one, actually.)
I think this guy is on to something: he just condensed the whole eat-exercise cycle down to one picture-perfect moment of glory!
“Oooh I did not expect that!” My friend and I were discussing all the different ways we were sore from our awesome circuit workout on Monday. It was the first time she’d done a HIIT (high intensity interval training) workout with weights and even though I’d tried to warn her that despite its deceptive shortness (30 minutes in-n-out!) the metabolic effects can be rough, she was still surprised by the fatigue, soreness and, most of all, the hunger. “I don’t know how much good it did,” she sighed. “I felt like I couldn’t get enough food all day – I just kept eating and eating!”
Let’s be honest: These are disgusting and I’d still eat them. Because they look like jelly beans. Sigh.
Runners are a strange breed and as such they do lots of stuff you wouldn’t find normal people doing. For instance, they have their own code of hand signs. (Some other day we’ll have to discuss the significance of the one-finger wave, two-finger wave, full-hand wave and head nod. I’m solid on the one-finger salute though so no need to explain that one.) They carry more baggies than a crack dealer. They can identify the type and degree of pronation in toddlers walking. Oh and remember that time Paula Radcliff scooched her shorts to the side and politely defecated right before the finish line of the London Marathon and no one batted an eyelash because anyone who’s ever had “runner’s tummy” felt her pain? (She still won, by the way.)
“If you start to miscarry on the airplane, take two of these and then get to the nearest ER,” my doctor said, placing two Vicodins in the palm of my hand. I nodded and tucked them in my purse not considering that I might really need them nor that if I did take them there would be no way I’d make it to an ER as half a Vicodin knocks me out cold. Instead I stood tall, threw my shoulders back and marched out on my way to catch a flight to take me to interview for a lucrative job with IBM in Dallas, Texas. Because I was a strong woman – strong enough to be 17 weeks pregnant with a dead baby waiting to “miscarry naturally” and still interview with one of the largest companies in the world. I could do it all.
Late for Zumba the other day, I sprinted into the gym with my shoes in one hand, my hair tie in my teeth (hair tornado-ing around my head) and checking my e-mail one last time on my phone with my other hand. I looked up just in time to miss colliding with a group of high-school boys coming out of their hockey practice. As I ran through the middle of them like a game of human Plinko, I was surprised to hear: “This one’s fine!” And then: “Yeeeah baby, can I run too?”
It took me halfway down the hall to realize that since I was the only other person in the area besides the middle-aged guy manning the burrito booth, that they were probably talking to me. I flushed bright pink. What had just happened?
So this happened today:
Have you ever had a conversation with someone who was just so far into La La Land that you just have to kind of laugh because the whole thing is just so ridiculous (and then sneak a look around for hidden cameras in case you’re being Punk’d)? Sometimes I feel like Tracy Anderson, Gwyneth Paltrow’s “fitness guru”/blond muppet impersonator, is that person. Except for the entire fitness industry. She’s most famous for her whack-a-doo statement that “women should never lift more than three pounds” (tell my 30-lb preschooler that!) but she’s also gifted us with such wisdom as “I’ll give you the power to reconstruct muscles” (to quote the Princess Bride, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”) and “A lot of women use pregnancy as an excuse to let their bodies go, and that’s literally the worst thing.” (I think murder’s worse than pregnancy weight. And also Justin Bieber’s artwork. But that’s just me.) And now she’s topped herself yet again – and the fitness industry, cycle enthusiasts in particular, are freaking the heck out.