Vanilla Tuna

I'm a part of various groups, whether in person or in the interwebs.  One of my virtual groups of friends is having a Secret Santa party in reality.  It should be a lot of fun because so many of us have met a couple people personally in the group, but not everyone has met everyone personally.  Yet, we're all friends. 

We know certain funny stories about each other, we have a good idea of what our kids like, who our celebrity crushes are, etc.  But if I had to pick one of them out of a line-up, there's about a 50/50 chance I wouldn't even come close! 

And because of this, it makes the Secret Santa aspect of the party that much more fun.  Because you could pick someone that you DON'T EVEN KNOW! So everything about them is pretty much foreign to you.  Talk about the ultimate secret!

I mean I know that A doesn't like the sight of breast feeding.  It totally grosses her out.  B loves to have sex with the windows open so the neighbors get jealous.  C pretty much wants to murder her husband once a week and is looking for volunteers to help bury the body.  And D, well, she's just a trip and is having lots of great sex with her husband. 

The fact of the matter is, I know that J makes great food, K just had a baby and L can put us all to shame with crazy kids stories.  I know who's puking or shitting at any moment in time.  I know who's just had sex, who's constipated, who's two minutes from strangling their kids, and who just put a hex on their neighbor.  (Why we all feel the need to share these intimate details of our lives, no clue.  Maybe it has to do with the fact that we don't all know each other personally.  Maybe after we meet we'll hear less about E's runs.)

What I don't know is whether E would rather have a gift card to Starbucks or a homemade scarf.  I'm not sure if P likes to shop at Walmart or a locally owned store. 

So to help with this, we've all begun to ask random questions about our preferences as a way to know more substantial things about each other.  Today's topic: what's our favorite smell?

My only response is: ANYTHING BUT VANILLA!!!!!  That smell is quite possibly the most popular smell in America and it grosses me out.  And here's why. 

Way back in the day when I first joined the military, I used to really like the smell of vanilla.  The lotions were a nice touch and as a bonus made my skin smooth.  But when I got to my first training location after boot camp, I got my first taste of what the "real Navy" was like.  And after the smell of boot camp funk wore off (there really is a distinctive smell you acquire while in basic training.  It's not really your fault, it just happens and you can't do anything about it.  Same thing happens on deployment.  You basically need to scrap everything afterward and start with fresh clothing after you're completely done.) it was back to wanting to smell pretty... pretty vanilla.

Well, the problem is, in the military you get a cross-cut of the American public.  (The good, the bad, and the fugly.) I just so happened to end up in school with a young woman who didn't really fully understand the concept of personal hygiene.  She didn't understand that you need to take a shower every day, especially after PT.  That you must wash your clothes regularly and that includes towels, sheets, and blankets.  Washing your hands after using the bathroom was even a stretch for her. 

And because of these habits, she ended up being pretty smelly.  I felt bad for her because she got put in a room by herself since no one could stand to live with her because of the stench.  She actually got held up before transferring to her first official assignment until they could teach her the basics of cleanliness.  And when I mean teach her the basics, I mean she was escorted to the shower every day and was watched to make sure she used soap and at least got a PTA (pits, tits, and ass) shower.  She was shown how to pour soap into and how to operate the washer. 

All of this training obviously sank in a bit, because she realized she was smelly.  So what did she do to mask the smell of tuna emanating from her being?  She reached for the most trusted scent in America and doused herself in it daily. 

At this point, the tuna smell was too far settled into everything she owned (they actually had to repaint the walls in her room when she left, and replaced the furniture because it had seeped into the pores).  So the vanilla did absolutely nothing at all for her other than give it a sweet musk additive.

So when I say I want NOTHING to do with the smell of vanilla it's because I think of a big, stinky albacore wafting up from the candle, lotion or body mist.  And I just puke a little in mouth because of it. 

BOOBS!

I couldn't come up with anything catchier than the word BOOBS for a blog all about boobs.  Because honestly, boobs are generally pretty catchy all on their own.  Or at least mine are.  (They catch plenty of food I accidentally drop, which in turn leaves a stain.  They're the reason I need new clothes... that and my little drool monster.)

To say I have big boobs would be to say Niagara Falls is just a waterfall.  It's a bit of an understatement... considering they're in your face.  I've been blessed with the bosom, but I wouldn't consider it a happy blessing. 

And it seems the older I get, the bigger they get.  I wish it was like when you're a kid and every year your relatives send you a check for how old you turned that year.  (By the way, I'll be anxiously waiting at my mailbox this November for a box full of $29 checks people!)  Instead, with each birthday candle I get an extra ounce of flesh hanging off my chest.  Awesome.  I'm worried that by the time I hit retirement, my boobs will be collecting a Social Security payment all of their own. 

And having a baby hasn't made the problem any better.  In fact, it's only made it worse.  Because I am the Dairy Queen.  And when the Dairy Queen is full, the girls have increased a whole cup-size.  I don't even know how that is freakin' possible?  But it is! 

When I was pregnant, I grew huge.  And I got worried that when the milk came in it would be unbearable.  I was worried I wouldn't even know if the milk had come in yet because how would I be able to tell?  A very wise friend of mine explained to me that if you have to ask, then it hasn't come in yet... because YOU'LL KNOW IT!  She said it's like you all of a sudden have bocce balls.

HAHAHAHAHAHA! Bocce balls.  As if!  Let's try bowling balls!

At least that's what they feel like!  Don't even get me started on the dangers of running before pumping milk.  Do you remember those old Dolly Parton jokes you told (and barely understood) in elementary school about how when she comes back from a jog she's got two black eyes?  Yeah, there's some truth in that fucking joke.  And it's painfully not that funny.

Another huge problem (pun intended) with big boobs is finding clothes that fit.  Over the weekend Abby and I went shopping for grown-up clothes for her new job and my job interview (I aced it by the way!).  And I had two great dressed that I tried on and they fit perfectly... except in the chesticle region. 

And as I look in the mirror and realize there's nothing I could do but laugh, I shout across the dressing room door to Abby and say, "The dress looks good, but my boobs are too big for it!"

To which she replies, "That's something you'll never hear me say in my life." 

Because as much as it sucks to have jumbotrons, it can't possibly be any better to have barely there's either.  Maybe she and I can find a 2 for 1/ bosom buddy special at the plastic surgeons?

A Spoonful of Slop

Tonight Elly hit another exciting milestone: eating soupy food from a spoon!

I was trying to hold off just a little while longer, but she wasn't having it. Whenever she reaches the end of a bottle she gets upset and wants more.

She's her mother's child.

I mean, who doesn't get disappointed when they polish off an IHOP pancake combo meal with pancakes, eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and sausage? And when you're faced with that situation and feeling exceptionally gluttonous? Well of course you drive through Checkers next door and get a milkshake and fries!

(Let me add that I didn't eat anything else that day. And I made sure to eat salad the next day. Please don't report me to Child Protective Services as a terrible nursing mom! And let me also add that I wasn't alone in my fat-fest, Abby and our friend Fabz joined us and we had just attended a friend's funeral so we needed comfort food. Yes, I'm trying to rationalize eating my weight in pancakes. I'd prefer if you don't judge me, but I'll understand if you do.)

So of course I can't hold it against my own daughter when she wants more food. Turns out, she LOVES food! SHOCKING!!!

It wasn't anything special, oatmeal, expressed milk and a little pureed prunes to add a nice, non-binding flavor. And she just couldn't get the spoon in her mouth fast enough!

She kept reaching out, grabbing the spoon and shoveling her slop into her mouth. She was excited and impatient because I wasn't shoveling fast enough! Obviously I've been hold her back from the good stuff all her life.

And even though she was ecstatic, I was through the roof, but a little sad. Because she's now onto the good stuff. I get to watch her experience new tastes and textures. But I've also got my work cut out for me.

Because just when I thought the oatmeal in the bottle couldn't cause a more disgusting outcome, I've realized this is only going to make things worse. Talk about a five-alarm diaper change!

All because I started adding a spoonful of slop to my daughter's diet. Awesome!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Got Milk?

I sent this email to a friend of mine one afternoon after a particularly fruitful day as a dairy cow.

So you don't have to respond to this right away. And I'm not even sure what the proper way is to respond to this. But today I've discovered just how much milk I can produce. And I've decided my nickname should be heifer. Because with my left boob alone I can produce 4oz of milk every 2-3 hours. Think about that. 4oz. That is a half a cup. As a baker, you know exactly how much a half a cup is. It is a lot when we're talking about milk coming from your chesticles!!! And that's just one boob. And that's only one time during the dozen times a day I pump. If you do the rough math of 1/2 cup per boob per feeding= 1C/ feeding X 12 feedings (give or take in a day) that's 12C of milk. 4 cups of milk is a quart. So I produce 3 quarts a day. And 4 quarts gets a gallon. So I make 3/4 of a gallon of milk a day. Geezus H Christ!  Are you serious?!?!? That's a lot of milk. And that's not including the stuff that leaks out or literally spills out of me. (don't worry, I'm not crying over the spilled milk, just pissed about going through so many damn boob pads and bras).
>
> The morale of this story is to tell you that having a baby and breast feeding makes your boobs huge. So I guess the glass is half full!
I always look for ways to define things through baking standards.  And I always look to keep the glass half full. 

Until later
~Betty