Saturday, June 6, 2015

The Powers of Observation Have Arrived.

Dear Diary, 

     My three year old has reached the point where her intelligence and powers of observation are ruining our lives. 

     She and I had popped in to a lab so I could have some blood tested. I was filling out some papers when the lady helping me on the other side of the counter began to talk. It was clear to me that she was a tomboy, and possibly a lesbian. She had pixie cut hair, tattoos crawling up her neck out of her scrubs, rough jargon, and a picture of a woman in a frame on her desk. This did not bother me, but I am fairly observant by nature and happened to notice these things.

    My daughter, who is a whopping 36 inches tall, could not see over the counter top. So she yhistered (this is a mix between a yell and a whisper, something that 99% of children have down to a science) to me, "MOM. I want to see that lady!" The lady said, "You can come around and see me if you want!" So my daughter took a peek around the corner and got a glance of this mysterious woman. As she came back to me, she looked up and yhistered, "IT'S NOT A LADY, MOM. IT'S A MAAAAAN." 

                       This was my face...

     Once the moment of shock had passed, I gathered my chi and replied to her, "That's not a man, silly. She just has short hair. She's smart to have short hair, because it's toooooo hot for long hair in Arizona." -***Says the girl with Rapunzel hair. I've been known to take a few risqué selfies and text them to my husband during the day because my hair is long enough to cover my breasts pectoral muscles. But that's a story for another day. 

     The next day, this same child and I were finishing up our weekly trip to the grocery store. As I was mulling over regular, low fat or no fat cottage cheese, I hear a man wheeling a large pallet of inventory to the back room behind the dairy section. This man was Hispanic, had perfectly combed over hair and was quite obviously short. I look over at my daughter, who was driving the cart. (***See Exhibit A)
                    ***Exhibit A. The carts that feel more like Greyhound buses. The ones where, if you aren't a perfectly excellent driver, you will get wedged into the edge of the aisle where you'll basically need a crane to pull you out of your terrible situation. 

     I watched her as she followed him with her eyes when he walked by, craning her head out the window of her fancy car(t). Then she yelled, "YOU'RE SOOO LITTLE!" 

     I wasn't sure what had happened, but I found myself both shocked and entertained all at once. I turned around as to not face the man my 3 year old human had just insulted, and I stared down the coffee creamer (I don't even drink coffee) making a face similar to this one, I'm sure of it. 

                       "Are you kidding me...?"

     So to all of those who will one day come in contact with my daughter, just know I will be working on that brain-to-mouth filter thing everyone talks about. But she is my child, so I can't make too many promises. 


Me. Embarrassed Mom. 

Saturday, January 3, 2015


Dear Diary, 

     As I'm sure has been discussed in previous posts, I'd like to publicly announce that I am flat chested. In a recent visit to my parents' home in Texas, my dad lovingly looked my way and said "Lauren is like a pirate's dream". All puffed up and wondering what I did to receive such a random, sweet comment from my dad, I asked what he meant. "Because you have a sunken chest", he said, as he went back to eating his breakfast. It was one of those lip pursing moments where I nodded my head and squinted my eyes simultaneously as the room erupted in laughter. Thanks a lot, Dad. 

     Because of my frequency at the gym, I've been shedding some body fat. Unfortunately, my body is not an equal-opportunity fat loser, and though already a 34AA, it still feels the need to siphon the fat from the breast area. Thanks a lot, body. 

     My husband bought me a gift card to Victoria's Secret for Christmas. This was my opportunity to FINALLY find a bra that fit me correctly. (I've been known to shop in the tween section for bras.) The bra fitter confirmed my suspicion: My boobs were about as small as they come and therefore she brought me all of the absolute smallest bras she could find. Thanks a lot, bra fitter. 

     In trying on my bras, one of them pushed up the little fat that is left lying on top of my pectoral muscles and made this cute little hill of boob fat on both sides of my chest. Suddenly, I felt like a real woman. I could not believe I had cleavage. Was it real? Was I seeing things? This was a game changer. I bought the bra. 

     A couple of nights later, my husband and I went on a date. I made sure to have one extra button undone on my shirt. When he would talk to me, I'd say, "Excuse me, my boobs are down here..." showcasing my cleavage to him as if I was Vanna White. It was a proud moment for this flatty. 

     THEN, while we were belly-to-belly in our birthday suits, he gives my non-pushed up boobs a squeeze. This squeeze was a good one. It was firm. It was longer than normal, and it was extra squeezey. With a face full of excitement he says, "You've got some muscles in there, babe! No, really! You have some good pectoral muscles!" I felt defeated. Nothing screams "sexy" like your husband discovering muscles you've worked tirelessly to build in other areas, then finding them under your already nearly non-existent boobs during a moment of intimacy. Thanks a lot, lover. 

     Anyway, I turned into The Hulk, ate everything in sight, including my husband, and he lived happily ever the bottom of my belly. And my pectoral muscles continued to grow into rock solid awesomeness as my boob fat melted away. The End.


Me. Flatty McGee.