Time Out - Cosmo Country

Buschtinis

The Country Music Awards (CMAs) are an annual event in our household. They present an opportunity to celebrate our rural roots and enjoy some of life's finer - and simpler - pleasures.

Now, I realize that the combination of the words "country" and "music" likely make many of your hairs stand on end, but I believe this is a culturally Pavlovian response.  If you like the 'Biebs (J. Bieber) and "hate" country or "listen to everything but country," give it five minutes - replace any of his references to girls with "beer" or "trucks" and the tracks are interchangeable. It's like Katie Couric and headaches - country and music just go together.

In our home, there's a defined decorum for celebrating this time-honored tradition. And as with many holidays, this is centered around the fare. While not a huge country music fan, the huz looks forward to the CMAs each year because of the food - and such refined fare it is! (shameless plug - for a variety of amazing fare options, check out the huz's site.)

down home delights

This year's menu included the following:

Country fried steak
Collard greens
Mashed 'taters

And this year's beverage of choice? Busch Light

E's bromance with ZB

With the baby asleep, mom and dad were ready to rock. We had previously selected our favorites and placed bets on who would win the most categories. With gravy and beer a'flowin', we squinted from the glare of Carrie Underwood's legs, shook our heads at Brad Paisley's terrible jokes and watched performances of some of our favorite songs of the year. We wished Eric Church would have sang Smoke a Little Smoke, that we would have seen a little less of Thompson Square *what is that song about anyway* and that Keith Urban would have karate chopped Taylor when she guffawed and sapped over winning entertainer of the year, but it was a great night and an even better way for mom and dad to have some fun at home.

FUPA Busters - The Kid Crunch

I know you all know what a fupa is. If you don't know, I'll give you a few hints. It's not what the girls in middle school sang to me from the back of the bus when it was my "it" week. That was "Andi's Got Big Buns" (to the tune of "Janie's Got a Gun"). It's not why my brothers called me "Andrea the Giant" when we played King of the Dock. In fact, my fupa is about 5" north of my "thunder thighs" - (how's that for a three-sentence overview of my hellish teen body image issues!?).

No, a fupa is an inverted muffin top, a 12-pack too many, a party in the panties.

It's also... the bane of my existence. It's the result of 10-months of feeding and nurturing this beautiful growing baby that makes me smile 1439 minutes of the day. It's the marsupial version of myself. Mom, a FUPA is Fat, Unforgiving Post-prego Andi.

(It's okay, if you still don't know, go ahead and check out the Urban Dictionary definition of it.)

However, like most working moms, I'm still trying to figure out how in the hell I can get everything done to feed, dress and keep the baby happy while still loving the huz, being responsive to clients, employees and my boss--and not looking like the Bride of Chucky throughout the process.

Basically, I have zero time to myself. And if I do, I'd rather spend it zen'ed out in the tub with an awesome malbec or cuddled up in bed trying to pick up where I'd left off in the book I'd dropped by my bedside six months ago. Yes, that would be more appealing than sweating profusely over an elliptical machine while watching "Growing Pains" reruns. Even though Kirk Cameron's hair used to be SO hawt. 

But I found a solution. It's the kid crunch. Want to spend time with your kid AND exercise? Set that little beautiful babe on your stomach, curl your legs up and crunch. To the tune of touch your elbow to the opposite knee bicycle crunch - drop the knees and neck down to the ground, then up with the baby, twist and crunch. Try three to four sets of 20 and that should do the trick (particularly if you have a 21 lb. six-month-old). The baby giggles, you giggle, bye bye fupa!

Boo Ya - Bronze Medal

 

Booyiddy. I'm celebrating my "bronze" medal in BF'ng sweet baby Q today. If you haven't done it, hooking yourself up to a machine to be milked several times a day isn't the most glorious experience in the world, but it's worth it. I started the day with sweet congrats from the huz and a bottle of wine and the sweetest note from a friend that helped put it all into perspective. Nope, it's not fun, I never imagined myself doing it, but whenever you have a goal and reach it, it feels absolutely AWESOME.

My Jobs

Dear Q,

I’ve been gone for two days and it seems like two years.


I remember back in the day when traveling for work offered a sense of satisfaction – an affirmation of some sort that I was doing what I am supposed to be doing and was on the right path. In my 20s, I would pack minutes before leaving for the airport, shoving everything into my bag before sliding into my seat under the glares of fellow passengers just minutes before departure. Once situated, I’d pop in my earphones and turn on my barely charged first generation iPod, pull out Wired or some other weird magazine and order a glass or three of wine. Upon arriving, I’d excitedly deplane and take a deep breath to take in whatever new experience awaited. My favorite place was the hotel bar – or any place with people, really. I loved meeting new people and hearing about their ventures. It didn’t matter if it was New Orleans, Vegas or Chicago, I’d revel in the fact that I was going and exploring new things, seeing and experiencing – and it was my job.

Now, leaving for just an overnight trip to Toronto takes intense research and planning. Your dad and I spend entire dinner conversations figuring out how to pack the pump to limit the items I need to lug through the airport. I no longer haphazardly pick where I’ll stay, but intensely research the best option that will not only offer the closest proximity to wherever I’ll be spending most of the day so I can run back and pump, but making sure that they offer a fridge so I can keep the milk cold. During the day, I see your face every time I open my computer, I think about you and your dad every second I’m not engaged in conversation or focused on a task. If possible, I try to catch you and dad for a quick Skype before heading out to a client dinner. The minute the bill is paid, the only thing I can think about checking in to make sure you went to sleep without any problem. Now, I have an even more important job.

Today, as I was heading back from an agency meeting in Arizona, I stepped out of the restroom stall with two bottles in my hands, complete with the nipple shields still screwed on tight. I looked up to see a very pregnant woman entering the restroom, dressed in a suit and on her phone. She looked at me and laughed. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done that very thing. Amazing what you’ll do for your baby, isn’t it?” she asked rhetorically before returning to her conversation. I slowly poured the bottles into plastic bags, feeling much better about potentially exposing your food to unsanitary conditions. It gave me comfort knowing that she too had missed her little baby at night. She’s wondered if she’s missing her baby roll over for the first time or say “da da.” She’s probably dreaded the thought of having some random TSA officer pulling out her milk and handling the bags for testing. She’s definitely worried that she didn’t put enough ice packs in the cooler to keep the milk cold for the four hour flight home.

I don’t like leaving you, Q. In fact, I hate it. But I have to work and when I travel, it still gives me that same rush. I love landing and seeing the mountains or smelling the salt of the ocean in the air. I love knowing that my work gives me an opportunity to make a difference. In fact, one of my action items from the meeting is to research opportunities to help build a school in India, Africa or another developing country. Granted, my work isn’t always so altruistic, but the bottom line is that it’s my job. Just like being your mom is my job. And sweet baby, you can bet that just like that lady in the restroom today, I will do whatever it takes to be the best at that job that I can be.  

Da Huz

I just have to give a shout out to the huz. He's sexy. And he cooks. That's right up there with being married to Jude Law if you ask me. Anyway, he blogs about his cooking and you should check it out. He's also blogged about some of the stuff he made for the wee one. That's right, he's sexy, he cooks and he makes stuff. With his hands. Anyway, check him out, but hands off, mamas! :)

www.akegofcurry.blogspot.com

The Secret

Remember that book, The Secret, that had everyone talking a few years ago? The book that promised to offer keen insight into wealth, love and eternal happiness? The book that after reading you felt like punching someone because you realized the secret was that The Secret was a giant ball of baloney bullshit?

Yeah, well I've got a secret about the whole child-birthing experience.

You're in the delivery room, body strapped to the birthing bed like a psych patient gone AWOL. After those 10lbs of screaming joy drops from your poontak, the nurse and/or doctor asks you, "On a scale of one to 10, how would you describe your pain?"

Clearly this broad has no kids. Or she's deaf. Or she's just a big f*cking idiot. Did you not just hear me scream this child out of me, lady? I know people in RUSSIA could have heard my bellowing if they listened closely enough - you think that shredding felt GOOD?

Throughout my stay, she and her hoard of cohorts check in asking me to identify my pain. One would think that my response would dictate the amount of pain meds I was offered, but nada. After repeatedly advising that my pain is a "10" and being handed an effing Motrin, I realize it's a rhetorical question.

Today I came across this image, courtesy of The Blogess (who is heeelarious, if you get a minute) who was blogging for her day gig. It pretty much surmised my whole pregnancy experience - giving me awful flashbacks to the ladies in blue handing me those little LAME blue pills.

The top half of the chart is post labor.

The bottom half is post post post labor.

See, people tell you that post baby sex is non-existent, boring and pretty much just like getting in the car with a bad cab driver - you watch out the window and pray for the ride to end.

But the SECRET is pretty much the opposite. It's pretty much like the chart to the right. I wonder how many times you have to do it for your vagina to fall off? Do you think if I told those nurses I was a 10 on the sex chart and that my poontak just fell off that they'd actually have given me some good drugs?

I'm Addicted...

To Pinterest. We are hoping to move into a new house next year, and I can't stop thinking about what it's going to look like. But we're supposed to be saving money, and I can't stop looking at these gorgeous outfits. And these fantastic baby things. And thinking about all the fun parties I want to throw. For which I'll need to create all this fun stationery.

Gah!