My bathroom mirror, in all it's toothpaste-spattered glory!
Taa Daa!
I know. Impressively messy, isn't it?
I know. Impressively messy, isn't it?
And here it is again! In case you missed a spot...
Those, by the way, are my new 28W jeans. I'm hoping not to wear them long (I don't mean like, right now... ew! 'Nuff of that, this isn't a s-e-x blog, and while I'm sure there is actually a site somewhere on the Internet that might appreciate hearing about the mating habits of two human whales, I'm not volunteering my services in the name of science or anything else, thankyouverymuch!)
What I mean is, I have a closet full of 22's hanging patiently in the back behind all those dreaded summer sleeveless tops that would like to see the light of day again.
The birthday cake I had yesterday on my occasion of my oldest son's 14th birthday (I have two children from a previous marriage - they live with their dad) isn't going to help me in that future endeavor, however. That much I know. I'm a sucker for cake. And my god, what a cake! My best friend, D, who died last year (I know I mentioned her at least once already) was bulemic since she was a teenager. (That isn't what killed her... unless you believe throwing up Twinkies and Phish Food causes cancer.)
Anyway, she was a frosting lover as well. She could eat me under the table, that girl. I used to joke that I wished I could be bulemic. (I detest vomiting. Yuk!) She could (and did) go to Sam's Club, buy not one, but two (one white, one chocolate) sheet cakes, and eat them. Herself.
Why do I tell that story? To put things in perspective, I suppose. I ate one slice of cake. Granted, I didn't stick my finger down my throat afterward (although I did have a nice sugar-induced semi-coma afterward) and it was way too many calories and not good for me. But I didn't eat the whole cake. I didn't even go back and lick the frosting off the edges of the container.
Small victories, right? Baby steps. Sanity. I'm working on it.
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