Why would you wear pants that look like you’re not wearing pants at all?

Please don’t wear beige leggings. And my 10 reasons why you shouldn’t.

1. It makes you look like you’re not wearing pants.

2. It’s flesh colored and tight, so it kinda looks like you’re not wearing pants.

3. Even if you’re really skinny, it looks like you’re wearing a shirt, but forgot your pants.

4. When people see you in line at the grocery store, and they forgot their glasses that day, they won’t be able to see the fact that you are wearing pants, but it looks like you’re not wearing pants.

5. If you wear underwear underneath them, we will see the underwear lines and it will look like you are wearing flesh colored underwear, but no pants.

6. If you’re NOT wearing underwear underneath them, we will see your butt crack through the fabric and it will look like you’re not wearing pants.

7. If you’re slightly overweight, it’s just not good and will look like you’re not wearing pants.

8. If you’re just sort of normal weight but have cellulite, you will see the cellulite through the fabric and people will wonder why you have fabric cellulite and why wouldn’t you wear pants to cover that up.

9. Even if you’re a black person wearing beige leggings, or a white person wearing beige leggings, it just kinda looks like flesh and people think you aren’t wearing pants.

10. Unless you’re on a runway or in a catalog, there is no business for you to wear beige leggings. Even white is better because then we know you’re wearing pants.

There you have it. Did I mention that when you wear beige leggings, IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE NOT WEARING PANTS!

Thank you.

I’m calling this part of my official book tour. I’m like Chelsea Handler, or Carrie Fisher. Maybe a little of both but with less booze and pills in my system.

I’m gonna be in Chicago with 14 of the authors of I Just Want To Pee Alone and we’re doing a book signing!

Buy your tickets for July 26; 7-10pm, for $15. That ticket gets you a book and a drink.

• RSVP here on the event page on Facebook.

• Buy your tickets on PayPal here

• Tell all your friends so they can come too!

• Do it now before the tickets sell out!

• Comment below so I know you’re coming and can wave spazztically at you when I see you; or hug you awkwardly and smell your hair.

Oh my gosh, I’m so excited to see you there. If you’re attending BlogHer already, you have to come!

And if you’re related to me or have known me since before puberty, you have to come too!

Yes, I will be reading from the book. And maybe I’ll share another humiliating story about my marriage.

sometimes- it’s hard. Yo.

I’ve been wallowing in self-pity and misery lately. Not all day, not every day. But sometimes. It can be triggered by something small like a glimpse of my muffin top in a picture on Facebook and I’m like, “Really? I looked like that? Ugh.” Or maybe Emma is being a 13 year old pill. A sassy, cranky, hormonal pill that I want to give her back a dose of her own medicine in the form of my own cranky, hormonal 40 year old pill-self.  Or it might be a big thing, like my parents and the real life troubles they face as they age, care for my sister, and go through health problems of their own.

So yeah.

I’ve been ultra critical of myself lately too. Nitpicking over ever little pore, wrinkle, and gray hair. It sounds so stupid to admit. There’s people who are scarred and disfigured that have better self-love than I do lately. What is my problem?

Compliments are nice, they are. I like hearing them. It beats an insult, that’s for sure. But they sort of go in one ear and out the other.

Someone can tell me I look nice, and the next thing I am doing is focusing on how flabby my arms look.

You would think that I would be motivated to go work out. Do something about it. But no. Instead, I just curl up with the dog, get on the internet and buy myself something I hope will make me feel better.

What does that say about me? It says, I’m pitiful, and I need to stop.

Once in awhile, a woman will go buy a pair of shoes or a lipstick to boost her mood. They don’t call it retail therapy for nothing. I believe in the power of retail therapy. I do. But be careful. How many retail therapies are you taking, and should you be seeing an actual therapist?

Retail therapy at the cost of the family’s budget isn’t okay. Not paying the life insurance premium because you went and got some stuff at Sephora, then feel guilty about it, so you avoid the bills altogether, is wrong.Trust me, I know this from experience.

It’s poor therapy management, I say.

So back to me and my pitiful self.

I’m working on finding the silver linings. The half full glasses. I usually do. I’m pretty much a Pollyanna.

But Pollyanna was what? 12? I’m 40 and  I can see why the aged get cynical. I’m going to be a crusty old biddy sitting in my support hose and dentures if I let myself carry on like this. Shaking my head at the news and saying phrases like, ‘kids these days’. Folks will pass me on a park bench whispering to their friend, “Remember Frugie, she was so cheerful and positive, what happened?”

So I need to stay young at heart.

In the movie Pollyanna, they renamed the town she was in, ‘The Glad Town’. Right? She broke her legs falling out of a tree and is still smiling. So yeah. What do I have to complain about, for gosh sakes?

I need some Pollyanna lately. And I need to not look for it at Sephora, Nordstroms or Target. I need to find it in me.

Life IS hard yo. But I’m going to try and not let it get me down.

Remember when you were a kid, and you wanted a cast on your arm, just like the one little Bobby at school got when he fell off the monkey bars, because everyone got to sign it, and he had a note that he couldn’t do PE. Remember that?  And he told the class that his mom bought him ice cream and let him pick what he wanted for dinner that night and he didn’t have to do his chores because of his big owie?

I was so jealous of little Bobby. His life seemed so perfect. Chill-axing, watching cartoons and nursing his big cast-arm.

I mean, I didn’t WANT a broken arm per say. I wanted the attention, note from PE, excuse not to do chores, and dinner and ice cream.

So when this week I thought for sure I might’ve broken my foot, I admit, I was a little bummed when the doctor told me it would heal eventually on its own and that it was nerve damage, not a break, and to just limit my Zumba.

Limit my Zumba? Have you seen my ass lately doctor? So you’re telling me that my foot really isn’t THAT injured, so I should be able to do all the regular shit and chores I normally do, but just hobble around awkwardly until it heals? Even though I’m in a boat load of pain? Oh swell.

Here- let me catch you up on what happened.

About a month ago, I was playing soccer with Owen. We were goofing around in the front yard. I kicked the ball to him and felt massive pain in my foot. Right at my toe. I knew something was wrong. But I soldiered on and ignored it. I’m tough like that.

For weeks, I’ve been putting pain patches on, acupuncture, and even castor oil packs. Ancient healing methods haven’t been successful. I’m used to living in pain. Migraines, cramps, angry stuck ovaries, and bad feet. So you know, whatever. I can deal.

Went to Zumba for the first time in a LONG time. (Remember this Zumba story here?)

And I had so much fun! I could feel my ass melting away. I must’ve burned 600 calories dropping it low. About 3/4 of the way through, my foot was screaming in pain and asking me to stop dropping it so low. It felt like it was on fire.

So I eased up on my booty shaking and took it easy. That night it was incredibly tender and sore. The next morning it was just as bad.

As I was doing my Target run (hobble) and errands, I was in so much pain, I gimped on over to the Urgent Care that is in the same shopping complex.

Once it was my turn, they have me step on the scale. And to add insult (literally) to injury (literally), the scale mocked me an extra 5 pounds.

My day was going so nicely. (Insert sarcasm) I was in pain, started Aunt Flo, and was gaining weight by the second.

I asked the nurse if they served wine and chocolate. She chuckled. But no, they don’t.

When the initial x-rays showed no break, they sent me to an orthopedic specialist to determine if it was a stress fracture or something. The next day I saw the specialist.

Nice guy. But not nice enough to give me a big boot, vicodin, and a note telling my family to do all the work because mommy has to rest. Dang him!

Instead of that, he gave me a shot of cortisone and told me that the pain was nerve damage, not bone damage. I have a history of  neuromas and they are a bitch. Apparently, I pissed one off. So yeah.

The shot of cortisone hurt like a mother f–ker. I won’t lie. And it took awhile for the cortisone to kick in. I’m not allowed to go for any runs, skips, hops, Zumba classes, or track and field events. Darn- I was really looking forward to those.

What I am allowed to do is- make dinner, pack lunches, scrub toilets, scoop cat poop, vacuum, do laundry and get the groceries.

Dammit. Where is that doctor’s note when you want it??

Oh well, the good news is, since it isn’t broken, I will be in ship shop shape to attend BlogHer in Chicago at the end of July with all my blogging pals and fellow authors of the Pee book. It’s going to be so exciting!

Summer break hasn’t started yet in these parts, so at least while the kids are in school, I should rest up my foot. Excuse me, a new episode of Real Housewives of New Jersey is on. Gotta go.

Do you have that one person in your life that will love you and do ANYTHING for you? ANYTHING? It’s hard to know what people will do when they are tested. But my mom is the person in my life who would do whatever I needed. She would. And it’s not whatever I want- no. It’s whatever I NEED. So if it’s tough love, sweet love, bail money, whatever…. she’s there.

Please know, that my husband is A-#1 in my life. His blog post is coming later.Trust me, he’s a saint.

Some things have become apparent in my life this week. Some ‘fan hitting shit’ things apparent. No, I didn’t rob a bank. Or cheat on my McSweetie. But I might as well, because I felt like dirt. I felt like pond scum and I don’t even know why I let myself get this way.

I’ve been a crappy housekeeper and financial planner for the family. If money is the root of all evil, I let it get in my way of running my family properly. That sounds so vague and weird, but everything is fine. I will be expanding on these items soon. When I can get the words. Because I know there’s a lot of you out there who feel the same way.

If there were some Oprah ‘A-Ha’ moments, this was the week.

A-Ha #1- I let myself get in a dark place of self loathing where I only focused on my aging face, my flabby body, and my feelings of inadequacies. (Duh, I know) Stupid? Well, why do alcoholics drink? Why do Anorexics not eat? None of it makes sense. Smart people do and think dumb stuff. This I do know.

Am I surprising you? I know. Happy little, funny Frugie was down in the dumps. Was it depression? I don’t know. I don’t have a professional opinion of what all this is. I just know I was destructive in my self-talk.

A-Ha #2- I married the best man on earth. He’s smart, patient, understanding and most of all- forgiving. And I think, gosh darn it, he loves me. He loves me so much he puts up with my fuck-ups, my female hormonal break-downs, and my prison pajamas. No, not an orange jumpsuit – gray sweat shorts and a gray t-shirt. Ala Target, it’s most unflattering.

A-Ha #3- My mom is the most selfless, giving, wise woman on the planet. Some of you already know this. I know this. But even through her struggles of looking after my dad, my sister, herself, she is there for me.

How lucky am I to be the daughter of such a woman?

My dad is recovering nicely after his broken hip. She will have her own health issues to deal with soon. And my sister is a disabled adult living at home. She takes care of all of them. The last few months have been a trial for sure. But she’s getting through it. We both are.

The woman is freakin’ Mother Teresa!

If I text her, call her, email her, with my woes- she lends an ear. Always.

Does she tell me straight to my face what I don’t want to hear sometimes? Yes. Does she still have the look in her eyes and that pursed mouth of when I was ten and I sassed her or something? Yes! The look. One look from mom and you knew! Oh, you knew!

She always reminds me of my gifts and my talents. She builds me up so I can go back to my job of mothering, wife-ing, volunteering, blogging… whatever.

I want to do so much for her. Because I know she’s tired. She’s worn out. But life keeps chucking shit our way, and then I need her too. So she gives and she gives. I’m still the daughter. I might be 40 years old. But I still need my mom.

And thank God she is there for me.

Are we sappy yet? Have we made syrup? I’m starting to cry in tissues again, so I’ll stop here.

There’s more where this story came from.

I’m fine. Really. And everything is great. I’m full of blessings and gifts I can’t take for granted. My mom helped me get there this week. She did. She is the wind beneath my wings.

<tissue please>

I like to go to Target and buy my maxi dresses in a size small. I feel it gives me some cosmic satisfaction. Like jumbo shrimp. An oxymoron.

Who’s calling who a moron? Not me!

Okay, here goes- 10 reasons to wear a maxi dress and why I’ll be living in them this summer. Yes- it’s called crow- and I’m eating a tasty dish of it as I type this. In my maxi dress. I did get mine at Target- a basic black one that will make me look chic no matter what.

I hope you like it!

As you might remember, I started this series after some dark times and a friend of mine took her life. That same week, a fellow PTA volunteer at my daughter’s school died suddenly from a heart condition. And over the years, friends have lost their children to cancer. Life can be pretty shitty. So I wanted to remind myself that there is always something better and brighter out there to look forward to. Yes, living in the moment is pretty great. But what motivates me is having something to look forward to.

Last week I had an ultrasound. I knew something was wrong with me since each month it felt like my ovary was trying to kill me. As I’m doubled over on the bathroom floor shoving Advil down my pie hole as fast as I can, I’m cursing my monthly curse with  a raised fist saying, ‘damn you ovary, what did I ever do to YOU?’  Okay, maybe not exactly like that, but it was pitiful.

So my lady doctor, who is in fact, a lady, ordered an ultrasound. Now this is the fun part. No, it’s not. It was one of those ugh, I can barely type it, let alone think it, TRANS VAG INAL ultrasounds. With the long pokey thing that looks like a cross between a sex toy and a curling iron, but isn’t at all as much fun as either of them.

The doctor noticed my ovary loves my uterus so much it wants to be friends. Somehow it has attached itself to the uterus and isn’t floating out in ovary land like it should. So I guess I’m thankful for modern medicine to see these things for me and I don’t have to just make a wild guess at handling my evil cycle every month with more advil and more exercise. Which is what one doctor told me many years ago would help with my endometriosis. More exercise? I wanted to kick her in the taco.

Anyways, I don’t have a plan just yet. We’ll see if the IUD is the answer or surgery. Gee it sucks being a woman, doesn’t it?

PET scans. No, these aren’t where you take some kind of device up to your dog or cat. A Positron Emission Tomography scan is a really fancy test for cancer or where cancer is in the body. The definition includes the words gamma rays, so it sounds like Spiderman or something. My mom went in for a PET scan last week. I went with her for moral support. It’s a long process. You have to have a no carb diet for 72 hours, like seriously, no carbs. Not even an olive. It registers on the carb scale believe it or not. By the time I drove her to her test, she was weak and had lost 7 pounds. No wonder people swear by the Atkins diet.

We knew she had a spot in her chest that needs removing from uterine cancer she had 10 years ago. What we didn’t know if it was anywhere else in her body, or if it had grown bigger.

Yesterday she met with her oncologist to discuss the results of the scan. And. The news. WAS GOOD!! Just the same old spot from before that they’ll remove with surgery and it’s not bigger or anywhere else. Praise Jesus!!!

The fear of chemo or radiation in her future was underlying, and being able to virtually see in the body like that and know she only needs surgery, what a miracle of science!

And last on my list- The Dream Mile at Owen’s school. A tradition of 20 years where the fastest runners of the mile get to compete in front of the whole school. The top 12 boys and 12 girls are picked from their qualifying PE fitness tests. Owen qualified this year and was excited to race. He runs constantly with soccer practice and soccer games. This seemed like a piece of cake. Only, the catch was he hadn’t played soccer in about 3 weeks since he’s between seasons. The body de-conditions rapidly.

But regardless of his waning stamina, he was mentally ready! He was so excited. Even wore his new Nike lunar glides.

I went to the school to cheer him on along with the other parents. The whole school was out on the field and playground. Each class had made signs. Owen’s class made some for him. Now, I might have teared up and started to cry. It’s a good thing I was wearing sun glasses. I didn’t see any other parents crying!! But the cheering and fanfare for the runners was so special.

Just the gift of running and being healthy is such a huge wealth and I don’t take for granted my kids’ abilities.

The race started and I knew he was going to burn out faster than he hoped. But that’s okay. He ran strong, I could see he was fighting the pain of a side ache.  He came in 5th. I think he was a little bummed. But his classmates were supportive and he has already started planning his strategy and training for next year.

I was so proud!!

So there you go. My silver linings of the last couple weeks. I hope you can count your silver linings and look for the bright side.

Vagillion – n. a million vaginas or in reference to a lot of women. (source- Urban Dictionary)

Vagillion- the word I said by accident, when introducing Nikki of Moms Who Drink and Swear at the comedy show- Honey I Shrunk My Libido.

A brilliant mistake. Like Edison and the light bulb, Ben Franklin and his kite, I coined a phrase I didn’t even know existed. So now I give you a vagillion reasons to attend MamaCon 2014. Okay, I’ll make a short list of a few reasons and we’ll call it good, ‘kay?

(This list is not in numerical order, as you can see.)

85. Do not feel guilty for taking time for yourself
This is important. We are horrible at constantly flexing the guilt muscle. You are thinking of all the things you could or should be doing, and sitting in a seminar with a bunch of moms learning about how to take time for yourself, doesn’t seem like one of those things. Well, let me tell you- it is.

You have to fill your tank to be able to give to others. <pshhsk> (that’s the sound of the loud speaker) “This is your Captain speaking- Mom’s, put your oxygen masks on first.”

Got it? Good.

33. Don’t do chores begrudgingly.
This is hard, I know. Maybe harder than taking time for yourself and not feeling guilty. But I learned that if I want my kids to do chores, I better do my own chores without complaining. Being productive is good. Sure laundry and dishes may not be that fun, but darn it, it’s not hard and it needs to get done. So yeah, I will only complain about chores on Facebook and my blog, not in front of my children. Oh, and I told McSweetie this too. He agrees that rolling his eyes whenever I ask him to take out the trash or put his washed shorts away, is probably not a good example in front of the kids.

122. Hook the shit out of closets.
I know you’re thinking, ‘what in thee sam hill is she talking about?’ Well, it was an organizing expert that shared a nice tidbit about using vertical spaces. We need to do it more. Horizontal, we have nailed. Covered, quite literally. But vertical- there’s a whole new world of storage if we put hooks all over our closets, the backs of doors and under shelves. I will be making a trip to Home Depot soon. Translation- I will be sending McSweetie to Home Depot soon.

22. I need to not worry about the mythical relationship between food and exercise. There is no relationship between food and exercise. They don’t know each other. They’ve never met. There’s a relationship I have with both of them and it’s called, I need them to live. Yeah. It’s that simple. I need to stop thinking over every little calorie, stop beating myself up for every missed trip to the gym. I will eat, I will exercise. I have to. It’s how humans survive. I will eat when I’m hungry, and try to move as much as possible. And this includes trips to the gym, walking the dog, playing catch or pogo-sticking with Owen, or a roll in the sack with hubs. So there.

5. I can host a comedy show like nobody’s business. I’m no Tina Fey or Ellen DeGeneres, but when I impersonated urinating like a sprinkler and read my Sky Rockets in Flight  blog for the crowd, there was much laughter. And I can’t take all the credit. The fabulous ladies, Mom comedians Jacki Kane (jackikane.com), Joanie Quinn (livetired.net), Nikki Schulak (nikkischulak.com) of Honey I Shrunk My Libido and Nikki of Moms Who Drink and Swear had the crowd of women, eating out of their hand. I burned a vagillion calories that night laughing. See what I did there?

I hear there’s a MamaCon in Chicago come October. If I play my cards right, and save my lip gloss money, I might get to go!

See you then!

Okay, ironically, yes, I came across the inspiration from social media- shush.

But really, I think this is just a dose of some goodness we need.

Read on here at In the Powder Room-