Ample, bodacious, big

This post hasn't been easy to write. I've been trying to find the words, to try and cheer it up, but that has just resulted in quietly, privately, agonizing over something that I know a lot of people have felt before, or are currently feeling.

I have only lost 25 of the 40 pounds I gained when I was pregnant with Genevieve. I can't blame not being able to shed the pounds on anyone but myself- I was down to 8 lbs above my pre-pregnancy weight when I started *really* making ice cream last year. And then the scale crept up, the way it always does when my beloved ice cream and I rediscover our love for each other.

Me? I love the flavor, the texture, the euphoria that comes with each bite. And my beloved ice cream? Sticks to me like a faithful friend.

More specifically, it sticks to my rear end, making it more ample and ensuring the legacy that my mother bequeathed upon me, which her mother bequeathed upon her, which I will pass on to Genevieve. An ample behind. A bodacious booty. A big butt.

Fabulousness is also part of her legacy.

It never has bothered me before, really, because as soon as my pants started feeling snug, I would (and could) do something about it. The insidious thing is that the bad feelings don't just hit you like a tidal wave, they creep up on you until one day you realize that you don't like how you look in the mirror. Slowly, the same way your pants gradually get tighter and tighter, until the day you realize that you are being positively strangled.

The first time I noticed it was my birthday, when Andrew gave me a 10-class yoga gift certificate. It came with a very nice note, but all I saw was subtext. And the subtext read, "IT'S BEEN NEARLY A YEAR AND YOU ARE STILL FAT. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FATSO."

I didn't cry in front of my guests, but there were tears, later.

How do you reconcile not liking what you see in the mirror with wanting to raise a confident daughter with a positive body image? I feel like a hypocrite, but I know that I haven't ever felt this way about my body before.

The worst part is how keenly aware I have been; when you're crawling and squatting to play, you notice when you don't have room to move in your pants. After two months of letting my vanity win out, I gave up and bought larger pants. Fat pants.

You know what? I'm happier. I can comfortably play on the floor and the pants *look* better on me- imagine that, pants that fit properly LOOK better, too. The only problem is my perception of the number on the label.

What I can't manage to do is get out and *go* to yoga. But the great thing about yoga is that you can do it basically anywhere, with barely anything. So, I'm going to start doing yoga with Genevieve, and hopefully a combination of the yoga and the mouse-wrangling will yield some positive results.

(I also got fat yoga pants, since getting into my regular yoga pants was like trying to stuff too much filling into uncooperative sausage casing. There is nothing that motivates you less than your *exercise* clothes being too tight.)

Part of having positive body image is learning healthy habits. I need to model these if not only for my own health, but for Genevieve's as well.

Enough complaining. Let's walk, Mama.

Fortunately, I have my own personal trainer, who is a huge fan of long walks.

This little piggy

Genevieve's hair has gotten long. I'm far from an expert at doing hair, and hers is the opposite of mine; fine to my thick, straight to my curly, and slick to my ... velcro?

Amazing how a hairstyle can change your whole look

I'll admit, I'm also not a whiz at styling hair. When Suzy the Stylist gave me this fabulous hairdo, she had to hard-sell me on taking the TWO MINUTES to blow out my bangs. I'm a wash-product-wear kind of girl, but it was totally worth the extra effort.

Best. Haircut. Ever.

That being said, Genevieve's hair had gotten really long, and I didn't want her to end up with any lasting effects from her emo/Bieber bangs.

Emo baby

Parenting, and all parenting-adjacent activities, always seem very different in my imagination. In my imagination, food that goes into a child's mouth *stays* in her mouth, kids STAY STILL while you change their diapers, and little girls coo adoringly while you pigtail their hair.

She is wily and hard to catch.

Not. So. Much.

I've written about our DangerMouse catch and release program. This is more like catching a greased piglet. And trying to do her hair while she resists. Vociferously.

Antennae!

So, sometimes her pigtails end up a little... off kilter. It's a look.

But I think this little piggy can pull it off.

Beauty is pain

One of my mother's favorite sayings is "Kill me, but make me beautiful". It's a cultural saying, but in an age of waxing, threading, and other painful beauty trends, it has never been more relevant.

My Sothia, fini.

That's how I feel about knitting ruffles. I love how they look. I love wearing them. I love adding a little extra bounce to my step to make them swing when I walk. I also find them utterly painful to knit.

Not literally, of course. It's not like faggoting, which is the natural enemy of my carpal tunnels. It's just... a lot of knitting. Which is a silly, because I'm usually itching to knit something else. Which is technically, THE SAME KNITTING.

But then you look at the ruffle-in-progress, how far you have to go, and if you're me, you feel like Brent Spiner in Independence Day. You might also have done a dramatic re-enactment for your family, shaking the shawl in front of you and rasping out, "Kiiiiiiiiiiiiill meeeeeeeeeee" in the creepiest voice you can muster. So creepy that both dogs decide it's time to leave the room.

So you knit and knit and knit. Then you knit some more. You decide that you will NEVER knit another ruffle EVER again so long as you LIVE.

You knit a baby hat and a baby sweater in the meantime, because sometimes you just need a relationship break from a project, you know? It's me, not you, Sothia. But since it was LOVE with Sothia, once you finished your dalliance with a baby hat and sweater, you come back, refreshed and ready to commit.

And you will commit, wholeheartedly. After what seems like an eternity, you begin the bind-off. You stay up really, really late because all you want in the world is the satisfaction of finishing this project. And also, Kit Kats.

I can feel your ruffle envy.

You double your yarn for the bind-off, because you LOVE how substantial it feels, and then spend the remaining 60% of the bind-off wondering if you have enough yarn to finish. You then decide if you run out of yarn, you're abandoning this project forever. Thankfully, you have enough (and a little leftover, even!) and that particular set of events doesn't transpire.

You go to bed, and the next day, you realize that you have a GORGEOUS shawl. You consider turning up the air conditioning so you can wear it around the house, but instead decide to weave in ends and take pictures of your beauteous shawl.

In my mind, this wrap will make me six feet tall. It's the "V".

You look at the colors, the beautiful ruffle, you feel that rush of accomplishment and pride at a job well done, and you say to yourself, "This wasn't so bad. It was really fun to knit."


"...Maybe I'll knit another one."

What doesn't kill us makes us hotter

Yoga is the best part of my week; I've been going to classes regularly since August. I'm not good at it (yet), but I like how it makes me feel. You shouldn't confuse that with "I like doing yoga", because as soon as class starts to get challenging, the Inner Dissenter starts whining about if class will EVER be over.

In case you're not familiar, the Inner Dissenter is the voice that tells you that you're not good enough, you're not a fastidious enough flosser, or that you look fat in those jeans. Mostly, the Inner Dissenter is a jerk.

[Side note: I think my personal hell is one where you're in a super-hard yoga class that never, ever ends. Or, sitting in a perpetually spinning office chair.]

I tried out a variety of classes, and throughout the week, my yoga workout varies. There is one class that is an ongoing challenge for me, taught by Kent Bond, who is the founder of Willow Glen Yoga. It's only the second yoga studio I've ever been to, but I like it LOADS better than That Other Place. They encourage the use of props, and for those of us who might be out of shape (or "alternatively shaped", as I like to think of it) props make easing into the positions much, much easier. It's taken a lot of the misery, pain, and self-loathing out of doing yoga, as far as I'm concerned.

Some of the classes are lovely and slow, but still on the challenging side. Not Kent's class. Kent's class delivers a Chuck Norris sized punch in the face, the core, and the hamstrings. Kent's class is simultaneously the most challenging and the most satisfying class of my week. The first few weeks were really frustrating for me; I felt betrayed by my lack of body awareness, my lack of balance, and my lack of sheer strength. I'm used to being a quick study, but my brain and body have had a really tough time with yoga.

Going to yoga has been incredibly humbling. I'm not used to struggling to learn something, and the first few classes I took with Kent were a challenge to say the least. The first class was an exercise in humility: every pose that we did in class, Kent would come by and correct me. When we were in a pose and he would pass me, it felt like a victory; I'd have a ticker-tape parade in my head. Halfway through class, every time Kent walked towards me, I thought, "Please don't be here to correct me." Then, I realized, No Jasmin, you're wrong.

I was there to learn, and unless I wanted to do it incorrectly (and risk injuring myself), I needed to really absorb the correction. Being a quick study has made me a lazy learner; if I don't get it right away, my inclination is to quit. Frankly speaking, that is crap.

The Inner Dissenter was louder than ever, saying all sorts of unflattering things about my learning ability, and was encouraging me to roll up my yoga mat, go home, and have a bowl of ice cream instead of doing the Hard Yoga.

I thought loudly to the Inner Dissenter, Shut up and let me learn.

I pushed through to the end of class, and ached all the way home. When I got there, Andrew asked me how it had gone, to which I responded, "Miserable. I'm going to keep going until it's not so hard."

And I have. In the last couple of weeks, I've noticed that I'm able to hold the poses more easily, my flexibility has increased, my balance is improved, and my shape has changed, noticeably. 


Maybe if I approach intarsia with the same gusto, it won't be so horrible.

Pretty, but alas, not smart

Sometimes, I amaze myself.

A few days ago, it started to rain again, which is great! California has been murmuring about another drought and yours truly is not a fan of the three-minute showers of her childhood. Also, I *may* have just bought the world's sassiest raincoat for Maryland Sheep & Wool.

But, I digress.

Given our impending adventure, I have been on the hunt for the perfect pair of rain boots. I have a great pair that I bought before the Cruise of '08, but Mom has claimed those. So, a-huntin' I decided to go. But, since the Social Pressure Experiment of '08, I have been more circumspect in my purchasing- even when it comes to shoes. And boots.

I had found a pair of boots that I Really Liked(tm) but I wasn't sure about, so I decided to try out a pair of boots that I bought three years ago. See, these were the boots that I Really Liked(tm), but once I had ordered them, I thought that they were a bit ... stiff. New boots. They need breaking in, right?

Over the last three years, I've worn them five or six times, and they have been stiff in the top of the foot the whole time. I mean, they haven't broken in at all. The other day, I decided I was going to give them one more try, and if they didn't break in, I was going to take them in to the shoemaker to be broken in.

I sat down, laced into my first boot, and went to put on the second boot. That was when I noticed a tiny piece of plastic peeking out to the side. I pulled on it to find...

... a plastic shoe form. I laced up the boot, and thought, "This is actually SUPER COMFORTABLE."

So, I checked the other boot. Found the plastic shoe form. Pulled it out. Boot #2, immediately more comfortable.

The most offensive thing about this is that I've worn them *several* times before. I remember scooping all of the shoe guts out of them. When I've worn them before, I managed to convince myself that they just needed breaking in.

I don't think I've ever felt so dumb, ever. At least I looked good, right?

A stylish alternative to wellies

On the tail of a post about my deep and lasting love of the fanny pack, I wanted to share my alternative to wellies- a fashionable one. (Trust me, these put the fanny pack back in its' place.)

It has been raining a RIDICULOUS amount. On Tuesday, I had a minor meltdown, and on my way home from Pho (at the best Pho place EVER), I stopped at DSW, which is effectively the Mecca for stylish (yet affordable) footwear. I was hoping to get a pair of wellies, and I didn't much care what they looked like at that point.

I walked in, and as far as the eye could see, all there was in front was strappy sandals. My toes froze just LOOKING at them. I went straight to the back - where they keep the clearance shoes.

There, I found vinyl boots- by named designers - for 40, 50, and 70% off. They're waterproof AND stylish. Plus, I love swaggering about in boots.

Pictures pending me taking them- because, unless you're Tika and have RIDICULOUSLY long legs, it's impossible to take pictures of your own feet, Itellyouwhut.

The ugly duckling of accessories

This weekend, while I was at Stitches West, I found myself hauling around WAY too much stuff in my purse. I had vintage swag from a previous stitches (the little "Knitter Attached" pouch from XRX), but I didn't want to interrupt the flow of my outfit with a big, black strap going across my chest.

So, what did I do? I shortened the strap, hung it decoratively off to the side, and turned it into...

A fanny pack. (For those of you outside the US, a belt pack.)

I was horrified. But the worst part is, aside from being an abomination to accessories everywhere, fanny packs are incredibly useful. (My practical side is showing.) They put weight on the hips, which I have in abundance (thanks, Mom!), and you don't get tangled in straps.

After I was finished being horrified, I discovered that if you hang the fanny pack off to the side, and not flat across the waist (more like a sporran than a fanny pack) it doesn't look so ... dorky.

Here we go. I can embrace my dorkiness:

My name is Jasmin, and I love the fanny pack.

Oh cabana boy...

That's right. My toes are the most cheerful shade of pink, aptly named "Oh Cabana Boy".

The aroma of beauty

Having pink hair is a fair amount of work. When I first dyed it, I needed to refresh the color every 2-3 weeks, and my roots every 6 weeks. But, since I'm committed to awesomeness, I did it.

Later, I was looking for a shampoo that wouldn't strip the dye. I switched to the DevaCurl shampoo, and BAM! I was re-pinking my hair every 4-5 weeks- and the color wasn't fading the way it was before!

(Believe it or not, my philosophy on beauty is that doing less with superior outcome is always better.)

Then, I got the AMAZING hair cut. This one:

(The front. Have you ever had a day where you're like, "Hell, YES, I look awesome!"? That was this day.)


(That's the side and some of the back. You get the idea.)

With this cut, no hair day was a bad hair day. To add to it's allure, it hid over an inch of roots in curls. That made bleaching out the roots an 8-10 week thing.

Now, I've got a more extreme cut. It is super awesome, and superior to the last cut. Easy to style, looks amazing, and hides roots like nobody's business.

So, tonight, we touched up my pink, because my hair was showing blonde through the pink and purple. I usually don't let it get it to that point, but since I hurt my ribs, I've been too exhausted and achy to sit for Mom to touch up the pink.

So, for your enjoyment, here is the pro-con list of pink hair.

Pro:
-Having pink hair is awesome.
-Pink hair is fun.
-It suits me.
-It's kind of glamorous.
-Little kids give you secret smiles and loudly whisper to their parents about it.
-When you tell a sales guy "I have pink hair and I'll be there in an hour" they remember.
-Customer service (most places) improves drastically.
-It makes you easy to find in a crowd.

Con:
-Hair dye smells bad.
-Vaseline on your face and ears is NOT glamorous.
-Exfoliating becomes a neccessity afterwards to keep from looking like a Pink Jasmine.
-It makes you easy to find in a crowd.
-All the grout in your shower turns pink.

But really. Look at the top picture. TOTALLY worth it, right?

The indignities of aging

Last week I went for my annual appointment with the optometrist. (Let's call him Dr. O. He doesn't get a cute nickname like Dr. B.) If you didn't know, I wear corrective lenses. I got my first pair of glasses when I was 12 (for reading), and then in 2006, I was switched to contact lenses (because I had to wear corrective lenses all the time).

On Friday, Dr. O announced that my coverage included regular contacts (or glasses), and a pair of "computer glasses".

"What are computer glasses? Like, I wear them when I'm at the computer?" I asked.

"Yes," Dr. O said. Helpful, right?

"Over my regular contacts?" I ask, not believing what I'm hearing.

"Yes."

So, in order to reduce eyestrain, I have to wear glasses over my contacts. It makes me feel about 80000 years old.

But, I got cute Tina Fey frames. So hey, not so bad.

Excersize, discipline, affection

Yesterday was a great day. Mostly.

Got some stuff done at work, ducked out to go to an appointment with Dr. B, followed by a trip to visit Suzy to get my roots re-pinked before my awesome trip to LA. When I was walking from my car to my first appointment, I have to say, the warm sun on my skin felt AMAZING. I can almost see the appeal of tanning. And photosynthesis.

So, I'm supposed to get back into doing yoga regularly, and bring some of the practices into my regular life. This is a good idea, and clearly, too obvious for me to realize on my own.

When I got home from getting re-pinked, I sat down to get back to work. I worked into the late hours of the night, putting out fires. Just after eleven, Niki begins to complain. He doesn't speak when he complains, but he makes this complaining noise that sounds like he's lecturing us.

(Imagine the tonal patterns that go with this lecture, "Do you know what time it is? It is time to go to bed. But YOU are still sitting there in front of that infernal machine." That's what he does. I call him a curmudgeonly old man. I'll try and record it next time.)

By the time we finally got to bed, I had two very tired dogs sprawled on the bed, demanding affection. There was some snuggling, and the obligatory, "Stop biting your sister. Stop biting your brother." That was all over once they heard the melodic sound of kibble being put in their dishes.

Oh, and if you listen to the podcast this week, we're finally airing our chat with Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. It should go live Sunday morning. (All thanks to Sheetal, who found a geek-tastic article on how to make Audacity ACTUALLY work.)

Alas, humanity is doomed

Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. It turns out that having hot pink hair is awesome 364 days out of the year. On Halloween, I had a doctor's appointment, then went to the grocery store. In street clothes.

I had three separate people asked what I was dressed as. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. No makeup. Nothing special. The first time, I was confused. "I'm dressing as a rock star later... Oooh. No, I always have pink hair." The third time, I was still polite, just annoyed. Next year, I leave the house in my costume.

When I was pulling out of the parking lot, I saw a woman come out in a pair of galoshes (wellies?). I've always wanted a pair of galoshes, but the thing that really got me excited was the pair of cabled socks she had decoratively flipped over the top of an otherwise boring pair of shiny black galoshes.

You can understand how I am now on a mission to find the PERFECT pair of shiny black galoshes - and what are galoshes without a shiny rain slicker?

The last time I found a shiny rain slicker was in an Adult store. Silly me, it was just the right length for me (part of a sexy firefighter outfit, in case you were wondering), and I foolishly thought I would be able to find a better version of the same slicker. (Read "better version" as "not purchased from a seedy sex shop".)

So, I've been hunting around on the internet for my "perfect" galoshes. As if I needed more shoes, right?

So far, I've found the following:

Candidate #1:

Fabulous, right? So very pink! Alas, $103.50 seems a little high for a pair of Elle Woods-esque wellies.

Candidate #2:

Right price ($51.99), and while the plaid is pleasant, it's not as versatile as I would like. Alas.

Candidate #3:

Black, shiny(ish), but kind of ugly. And not that special brand of galosh-ugly I'm looking for.

Candidate #4:

Keens! Alas, not the classic galoshes that I dream of, but (so far), the best suited to my tastes and needs. Also, nothing fits quite like a pair of Keens. (If you haven't tried a pair yet, do. They're WONDERFUL. Also, a little weird-looking, but clearly, I like that sort of thing.)

In short, I'll go try on the Keens (at R.E.I., my favorite place for practical footwear), and keep hunting for shiny, perfect galoshes.

(Let me know if you can find them, and where!)

It’s LOVE

I don’t know anybody else who gets as excited about small things as I do. But, I love new gadgets, and my old electric toothbrush was on it’s last little electric leg.

I’m surprised that my existing toothbrush has lasted as long as it has- but finding brush heads is near impossible, and I had heard some awesome things about the Sonicare.

Gentle readers, my new toothbrush:

I bought mine at Costco. Besides the expanded functionality of the toothbrush itself, what really sealed the deal for me was the travel cases and the travel charger. I hate traveling with a manual toothbrush, and I’m also annoyed if my electric brush dies during a trip.

(Given all of the recent weight and luggage restrictions, I trim off all the excessive stuff that I can manage. A full-size charger doesn’t make the cut.)

When deciding between this model, and a Lesser Brush, I could practically hear Andrew’s voice in my head, talking about long-term costs.

Shockingly enough, the brush heads for the Fancy-Schmancy one? Less expensive than the brush heads for the Lesser Brush.

The logic escapes me.

Adventures in Pink Hair: Part Three

On Thursday, while I was playing with the Exceptional Ellie at Purlescence, a Shop-Hopper said, "Were you in Downtown Campbell yesterday?"

I answered that I was, and it turns out that she saw me. As The Karen once told me, "You're not so Secret, Squirrel."

Adventures with Pink Hair: Part One

I'm a horrible blogger. I know. Pictures are sparse, and so is content for the time being. Go with it, I promise the photo situation will be resolved soon.

Yesterday, for work, we went bowling for a goodbye party. Beer and bowling go together like rama-lama-lama-ka-ding-ka-ding-ka-dong, and once beer goes in, beer must come out.

I wandered over to the restroom (which smelled like Port-a-Potty, ew), did my business, washed my hands, and walked back to the opposite end of the bowling alley, where we were.

An older man, about seventy or eighty years old, followed me over. He was drunk as a skunk, and the conversation went much like this:

Old Drunk Guy: WOW! I saw you comin' out of the bathroom and I thought 'That's got to be a wig!'. But it's your real hair.
Jasmin: Yep. [Smiling politely]
ODG: Do you do it yourself?
J: No, my hairdresser does it for me.
ODG: It's so BRIGHT!
J: That's the goal. Oh look, it's my turn.

This conversation went on while six of my co-workers were standing there, slack-jawed. This confirms to me that (a) not all people have a crazy magnet like min, and (b) my co-workers will never save me from an assailant. They'll stand there and watch. Useful to know.

If you haven't seen me yet, my hair is not only pinker, but also exponentially more FIERCE. It's short in the back, longer in the front, and asymmetrical. I LOVE it. I stole it from a waitress in a bar in Maine.

I'll post pictures as soon as I can convince someone to take them.

It’s not easy being beautiful

There’s a saying in Farsi, “Kill me, but make me beautiful.”

If you’ve ever suffered blisters at the hand [foot?] of a pair of fierce shoes, burned yourself with a curling iron (or hair chemicals), or squeezed yourself into a pair of Spanx, you might be Persian. Welcome to the club!

It’s the most succinct saying describing what some of us elect to do to ourselves in the name of beauty. I’m not complaining- I’m just setting up the cultural groundwork for you.

Last week, my highlights DESPERATELY needed redo-ing. Given that I got my last set of highlights done exactly a month before, I was feeling a little on the cheap side.

(Suzi is a very talented stylist, but I have a wool auction I want to go to in three weeks. I saved at least one fleece’s worth of cash by doing this at home.)

Mom and I sat in the bathroom and used one of those “do your own highlights at home” kits. They work SUPER well.

If you’re a knitter/crocheter, they work even better for larger streaks if you use a size G crochet hook, rather than the A or B that it comes with (but you need to pre-punch the oh-so stylish bonnet). Many hands make quick work, and the chemicals were applied.

Given my naturally VERY dark hair, and considering that my hair is possessed, chemicals usually need extra time to set. So, one full episode of the Tudors later, I hopped in the shower to get the chemicals out.

The color was SHOCKING. Very blonde. I looked a bit like Cruella de Ville, but the next night we had planned to apply the pink. I was brushing my hair, and you could hear it cracking a breaking in bits. Yikes!

But.

When we applied the pink, it took SUPER well. Like electric pink. So, Mom and I have decided to give the overall-highlights a break for a while, and just do the roots when they grow out.

But it looks wicked cool. I’m just saying.

RE-sult!

You know what's awesome?

When you order a bunch of dresses and skirts online, they arrive, and EVERYTHING fits!

Bonus points if it was all on sale. [Which it was.]

Spring dresses are the new black

For my fellow Bay Area residents- Have you noticed how we’re living on the surface of the freakin’ sun? I hit 85 degrees before 11AM. It makes me grateful for the a/c.

In any case, given the scorching hot weather, I’ve started wearing dresses. It’s as close to naked as I can get without breaking any laws. Since I only had a small handful of dresses to start with, when I go out, I am on the prowl for them.

In Maine, I bought a few lovely ones, which are comfortable, attractive, and functional. I’ll admit, it’s really hard to find things that are attractive, appropriate, and fit well.

I’m not without resources. Mom has been trying to get me on the sewing bandwagon for years. So, starting this week, I’ll be sewing myself dresses. I’m hoping that I enjoy it.

At the very least, I’ll end up with some wicked awesome clothes, right?

Shoe dilemma

On Monday, I went and bought a pair of shoes. These shoes, specifically. (Sorry, couldn't get pictures.)

On Mom's urging, I tried on these other shoes. I kind of loved them, but Jasmin 2008 reared her head and I didn't buy them. But you can bet I've been thinking about them.

So, I'm leaving it to you, readers.

Lessons

Things I have learned:

There is no way to deny that a curly, hot pink hair in someone else's knitting isn't yours.

Where I'll be today:

Color: A Fiber Festival

You know how to find me.