Check this post out over at girltalk…and be sure to watch the video.

I’ve been on an organization kick lately. (It must be all the back-to-school prep.) As a rule, I’m a huge fan of efficiency. I’m constantly trying to think of ways to make my life more streamlined and fuss-free. Here’s a sampling of my line of thinking:

1. Nonessential walls in houses are dumb. I don’t like walls because if you have them, you have to fill them. With stuff. And I don’t like “stuff.” Just more in life to keep track of.
2. However, there is a fine line here. I like streamlined, but I don’t like cavernous because cavernous usually means echo-y and I hate echo-y. My dining room is echo-y because there ain’t much in it. Someone was visiting once and he asked me how long we had lived here. I said three years and I don’t think he believed me. He thought we had just moved in and hadn’t finished unpacking. Nope. That’s all there is. And it’s echo-y. What can I say. I just try not to talk on the phone in that room because I don’t like the idea that I sound like I live at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.
3. I don’t like bookshelves. Not because I don’t like books—books are fine—I just don’t like bookshelves. I don’t like them because they’re a royal pain to clean and equally hard to keep tidy. The only surefire way to keep them tidy is to not touch the books they hold. And what’s the point of that? Bookshelves with glass doors is definitely the way to go if you must.
4. This I like. I’ve always thought the fanny pack was a great idea—too bad the traditional fanny pack, while functional, is not exactly fashionable. As far as I’m concerned, not having to carry a purse is freedom indeed. Well, now there’s a solution…almost. I say almost because this pretty little thing costs a pretty little penny. Maybe I’ll just have to make my own.
5. The computer has got to be one of the finest inventions man has ever seen. (Second only to Cold Stone Creamery.) Imagine. Every single piece of information you could every want or need right at your fingertips and you don’t have to file a thing. I stand in awe.
6. My personal multitasking record: I was shopping at Walmart once with all three kids. Then the baby got hungry. Then my sister called. So there I was, walking through Walmart pulling one kid in the cart, keeping track of one kid tagging along behind, a baby in one arm, nursing, talking on the phone propped between my chin and my shoulder, smiling at the Walmart employees staring at me and throwing things in the cart as I went.

Now. What’s your best streamlining idea?

Ya know, sometimes you just need a little boost; just a wee bit of encouragement. Well, today is my day.

I distinctly remember watching Oprah once—it was one of those makeover shows. There was a famous makeup artist on there. After he gave one woman a complete makeover, he was describing to Oprah what exactly he did. Of all the things he said, the one line I remember went something like this, “And honey, I plucked enough eyebrows to fill a small pillow.”

I immediately ran to the mirror to take a gander at those furry little (not-so-little in my case) creatures perched atop my eyes. And yes, what I had always known to be true, was true indeed. The bushy brows, a gift passed down from my generous father.

Out came those tweezers and thus commenced a very long and painful quest to fill my own “small pillow.” And the quest continues to this day, about 10 years later. Gotta keep those things in check, you know, lest they take over my face.

But behold, MY QUEST IS ENDING. And for all of you out there who battle the same beast, I offer you the option to also Throw Your Tweezers Away.

Hallelujah.

I went shopping the other day. If you’re like me, you might need a little refresher course. I mean Shopping. In a store. As in, I was trying to find a few articles of clothing. For me. Not for my husband. Not for the kids. Not for the baby. For me. Every once in a while I’ll pick something up online, but I can’t remember the last time I actually went shopping for myself in a store.

And do you know what I walked away with? I walked away with nothing but this one burning question: WHY DO I TORTURE MYSELF?

OK, first of all, what is up with my body? That’s what I wanna know. How is it possible that I have increased by 2 sizes? I just had a baby, true, but I’m not talking about the nearly 40 pounds (yes four. zero.) I gained during pregnancy. No, I’m talking about the literal 2 extra inches in hip bone circumference.

The medical establishment would have us believe those labor pains are our bodies pushing that baby out. I say no. That’s just a ploy to make us feel empowered while giving birth…and to make us do it again. Actually, the pain we feel is not the baby coming down the birth canal but our bones being cranked into a new (and wider) position. See, if they told us the truth (i.e. that you will go up at least one dress size for every kid you birth), I suspect we would see a steady population decline as women everywhere would just say no. But I digress.

So anyway, shopping. I go to the store and head straight for the, what else, but the clearance rack. I’m looking through the clothes and find a skirt that seems cute. I look at the tag. Wow! What a steal. Wonder if it’ll fit. I doubt it. But I’ll give it a whirl.

Then suddenly, I’m overcome by panic. I start pondering the price of the skirt and I wonder why it’s so cheap. Is it on clearance because it is so ghastly that no one who’s anyone would wear it? Is it so 5 seasons ago? If I wear this skirt, will other women look at me with pity just as I look at those poor souls who still wear banana clips in their hair?

The truth is, I have no clue what I’m doing. But I’m desperate for some clothes…at least that’s what my mom told me the last time she came to visit and you know if your mom has to tell you that your things are looking “a little ratty” that it must be pretty bad and my mom is definitely not the type who would normally make a comment like that except to be helpful and supportive and it was so obvious she was doing it out of love because along with her comment came the promise to send over a few gift cards to help with the problem.

So now, as I’m pulling things off the rack, I’m extremely self-conscious. I’m thinking, “What if people see me with something in my hand to try on and it’s really hideous? What will they think?”

So here’s what I do: I find a basic piece of clothing, a pair of black pants actually, because black pants are always in style, right? and I put those on the outside of the stack of clothes I’m going to try on because those are the most visible and then if anyone looks at the clothes in my hand to try on, they’ll just see the black pants and maybe they won’t see the rest of the stuff I’ve chosen just in case any of it is really horrid.

You think I’m lying, but I kid you not. I really do this.

And then I start roaming the aisles of the store and I find women who appear to be about my age (or younger, but not too much younger because the real young ones are always about a size negative 3 and I just don’t get that) and I check out what they’re wearing. At this point I just need some ideas.

So I’m finally ready to try all these things on that I’ve so painstakingly gathered but when I get to the fitting room, I’m informed that the dressing rooms are closed—they close 30 minutes before the store closes (and the store is closing in 5 minutes) so now I’m just feeling plain dumb. But they’ll be open again tomorrow morning at 9 or 10 or whatever, but that doesn’t help me because the 45 minutes I managed to find between feedings, bedtimes and meals to make it to the store this day was a complete fluke and will probably not happen again for another 3 years. Second, I am obviously a total shopping idiot and why would I want to return to the store a second day in a row to confirm that fact?

No, I think I’ll stick to shopping online. It’s so much nicer to be humiliated and confused in the privacy of my own home.

It’s mole removal day for me. And I guess we’ll take a shot at the warts too. So, if all goes according to plan, she’ll take a hunk outta me (actually 2 hunks) and then freeze the living daylights out of my 2 warts.

(Warts are particularly disgusting in my opinion and yet I must admit, I have a certain level of admiration for their tenacity. I have tried every possible method of getting rid of them but those suckers WILL. NOT. DIE. Amazing.)

I can handle the removal of flesh and things. That doesn’t bother me. What really gives me hives is to think of going back to the place that was so successful in making me feel like the biggest loser on the planet. (OK, slight exaggeration.) I’m not looking forward to seeing my dermatologist again either, who I’m sure is significantly more petite than the first time I saw her…especially since I’ve done nothing but increase in size since that fateful day about 6 weeks ago.

Unfortunately I’ve gotta wear the same oversized, men’s red sweater that I wore last time, but I happened to find some drawstring pants in my closet so I’m no longer limited to my not-washed-for-three-weeks jeans. Besides, my belly and those jeans are just not the best combination at this point.

I have a small problem in that my drawstring pants are capris which is not the greatest thing since it is winter here and there is still snow on the ground. But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. If I was a normal human being, I’d buy some maternity clothes, but I’m trying to hold out. Buying maternity clothes really cuts into my Great Debt Payoff effort. As my father always says, life is all about tradeoffs. How true is that.

But there is some good news here. This time I remembered to shave my legs and my underarms. And I slapped a little lotion on too. Hey, good for me.

It was about 13 years ago. I was young, single, in college and I had it totally together. I thought so anyway. I was visiting a friend of mine in Minnesota and one of our outings was to the Mall of America in Bloomington, MN.

I distinctly walking the mall that day feeling pretty good about myself—after all, I was significantly cooler than most people there given that I was from Southern California. As if my Southern California coolness just oozed out of me and I should have been awed and adored by the masses.

Then I saw her. She was overweight, with hair from the early 80’s, a thick Midwestern accent, several kids in tow and worst of all, she was wearing a very unbecoming pair of pants and an oversized sweatshirt with a teddy bear appliqued on it along with the words “World’s Greatest Mom.” And in all my humility and grace (liar) I thought to myself, “Oh my gosh, that woman is frumpy! How can she walk out of the house like that? Does she have no respect for herself? If I ever become like her, someone please just shoot me!”

So fast forward to yesterday. The fact is, I live in denial. And it works for me. Most of the time anyway. Not yesterday though. I got catapulted out of my self-induced state of denial faster than you can say “stirrup pants.” And I never saw it comin’.

I was just minding my own business, paying absolutely no attention to what I was doing as I went about my day. First thing on the agenda: Go to see the dermatologist. I’ve got a mole on my back that I think is changing colors. The books also tell me I’m sure to get skin cancer some day so I thought I’d better check it out. (I also have two warts on my hands that WILL NOT GO AWAY.)

Anyway, so I walk into the lobby of the dermatologist’s office. It’s my first time there.

Wow. High class. Everything matches. Classical music. Totally the decorating job of a very well-paid interior designer. I suddenly wonder if I’m dressed appropriately.

So after waiting in the very posh waiting room, the nurse calls my name. The room she sticks me in is more like a studio than a doctor’s office. She asks the basic questions “Why are you here. Have you been here before. Does anyone in your family have a history of skin cancer. Blah. Blah. Blah.” Then she says, “Well, don’t worry, Dr. So-and-So will check all your moles to make sure everything is OK”…as she’s pulling out the gown and telling me to undress.

Shoot. Why didn’t I think about the fact that someone was actually going to see my body. Why, oh why, didn’t I think to shave my legs. Or at the very least, my underarms. (Author’s note: It’s winter here. You’re all covered up all the time anyway, so why shave?)

So I put on the gown and I’m looking at my legs. Scary.

Who picked out the lighting in this place anyway? Don’t they know that it makes me look all gray and sick like? And geez, I haven’t seen my legs in so long I didn’t know they were so dry. “Ashy” only begins to describe it. Someone get me some moisturizer.

So I’m waiting for the doctor and I’m checkin’ out the room. A few things catch my eye. There are two framed magazine articles on the wall. One from Glamour and another from a different fashion magazine that I’ve never heard of because I am no longer hip and trendy. The main doctor in this office was quoted in each. And then there’s all the information booklets on the counter about Botox. Suddenly it dawns on me, Oh, obviously the people who come to this office really care about how they look.

Well, hopefully the doctor I’m seeing will be a nice, plump, older woman—a mother-type who will be totally unsurprised by this tired, hairy, ashy, pregnant, stretch-marked mother of two small children.

Then the doctor walks in. Do I need to say that she was neither plump nor a mother-type? Thin and petite is more like it. And she couldn’t have been a day older than yours truly. In fact, as she we were talking, she said something like, “Well, at our age…” In other words, this chic was my PEER. And now she had to examine this tired, hairy, ashy, pregnant, stretch-marked mother of two small children. Isn’t that nice.

I won’t even go through all the million other feelings of insecurity and inferiority I was suffering as I kept thinking about how for the last ten years as I was becoming married, pregnant, stretch-marked and the mother of two-going-on-three children, she was in medical school, being trained to save lives and now she gets to wear that really sweet lab coat with her name stitched in it along with the letters, M.D.

Well, I survived the visit, vowing I would think things through more thoroughly the next time I have to go back and see her to get my warts frozen off and my moles removed. Next time I will totally shave my underarms. Probably my legs too.

On with my day…

Next stop: a glucose screening (as is customary in your 26th week of pregnancy). A glucose screening consists of drinking this orange soda-like stuff, sitting for an hour and then getting your blood taken.

So, I had finished my soda and was waiting in the waiting room (of the lab this time) for my hour to be up, when in walks this woman. Again, my age. Again, totally trendy.

Again? And why today God? What have I done to deserve this?

Apparently she was pregnant too because she got the same orange soda. (Not that you could tell she was pregnant until you looked at her from the side and only in just the right light.)

We had nearly an hour to sit there in that waiting room together (although we didn’t speak). I spent wasted the whole time comparing. I’ll give you the breakdown:

Clothes
Her: Black pants. Pinstriped shirt with denim jacket followed by a black down puffer vest. And a black pair of those very pointy, trendy boots—the kind that I could never wear because with my big feet, they’d make me look like I was walking on skis.
Me: Jeans I haven’t washed in I-don’t-know-how-long. Seriously. (I know I haven’t washed them since before my family was here visiting and they arrived Christmas Eve. It’s now January 12. That’s going on 3 weeks. I can’t wash them because I wear them every day. Literally. I am not lying about that.) Oversized red, men’s sweater. (Every day I switch between the red sweater and my orange sweater. I’m just glad I’m not wearing my orange sweater on this day because that one has two small holes in the front and paint on the sleeve.) Old running shoes.

Handbag
Her: Black and white plaid, oversized bag. Very cute indeed.
Me: Target special from last year.

Lips
Her: Designer lip balm with a hint of pink.
Me: Chapstick.

Makeup
Her: The works. But looks totally natural. (I’ve never been able to accomplish this.)
Me: Mascara.

Hair
Her: Blonde, short and all spiky in the back. Totally screams “Sassy and hip.”
Me: A messy bun on the top of my head with all my flyaway fringes being all fuzzy around my face. Major roots from the summer when I put Sun In in my hair to make it blonde because I’m too cheap to get it colored professionally…or even to spend the 5 dollars extra to buy one of the do-it-yourself hair color treatments at Target.

Reading material
Her: Vanity Fair.
Me: Woman’s Day.

Oh geez.

But all is not lost. Who really cares if I actually became that frumpy mom I saw at the Mall of America? Knowing what I know now, “The World’s Greatest Mom” doesn’t sound like such a bad thing to be after all. Minus the teddy bear sweatshirt of course.

As I’ve said before, I’ve got issues—too numerous to count really.

One that is particularly distressing, however, is rather embarrassing and not something discussed openly very often. But, since I am among friends, I feel comfortable sharing with you this rather annoying problem of mine.

I’m talking about underarm odor.

Some of us sweat more than others you know. I happen to live with someone (that would be my husband) who does not sweat as much as yours truly. I have a BIG problem with this. It just plain ticks me off. But anyway…

Below is the tip I offer to you today. To all you fellow stinkers out there, take heed.

By the way, I can’t take credit for this tip because I read it somewhere—not sure where—but it works…most of the time. Also, it’s cheap, which I like very much.

So, here’s my paraphrase on whatever tidbit I read, wherever I read it:

We all produce sweat under the arms. And did you know that sweat, in it’s purest form, does not smell? It’s true! The odor with which we are so familiar is only generated when our pure, odorless sweat meets the mean, nasty bacteria on our skin.

Sidenote: GOD BLESS THE SOUL THAT DISCOVERED THIS FACT! Knowing this has changed my life in a very small but meaningful way. I was so happy to hear that the offensive smell which radiates from my being is not my fault at all, but that of those DUMB bacteria. I like it when things aren’t my fault.

So. To combat the problem of underarm odor, wipe down your underarm with rubbing alcohol to kill those menacing bacteria so when your non-smelling sweat makes its way to your skin, there will be no bacteria with whom to tango, leaving you smelling…like nothing!

You’ll be surprised at how well this works—not 100% in my case, but surprisingly well nonetheless.

Special note to women: I wouldn’t recommend using the rubbing alcohol immediately after shaving. You’ll find it…well…slightly uncomfortable.

One of my 4-year-old’s favorite activities of late is getting my 2-year old dressed. All I want to know is the formula that gets worked out in a 4-year-old’s brain when choosing clothing. As far as I can tell, it goes something like this:

Bright, Bold, Patterned Color + Opposite Bright, Bold, Patterned Color = Masterpiece

But I don’t worry…I’ll teach that kid to conform yet. In the meantime, we are certainly a sight to see. Step aside Abercrombie.

Maybe it’s just me but I’m a little shocked by what I see on the magazine racks at the grocery store. I’m no prude (although maybe I’m delusional about that) but it’s pretty bad.

I haven’t paged through a fashion magazine in a while but I had the opportunity to spend a few hours at our local mega-bookstore on Mother’s Day so I picked one up. I’m not really sure what made me grab it in the first place but it must have had something on the cover that made me think I could be helped in the fashion department. (I’m on a constant quest to find a good compromise between the I-regularly-spend-$1500-for-a-pair-of-shoes type and the frumpy-overwashed-overworn-oversized-sweatshirt-mom type.)

Bottom line: I was shocked at how much space in the magazine was devoted to sex. Let me stop for a moment and be clear that I don’t have a problem with sex. In fact, I’m all for sex–that is, sex in marriage. Must I specify that the sex being promoted and talked about in the magazine was not that?

Despite my lack of time to peruse magazines of the fashion type, I’m no stranger to them. As a young, single, carefree, childless college student, I read them quite a bit. And my head is not buried in the sand when it comes to current popular trends either. But, c’mon! Do I really need to know the “Most Embarrassing Thing That Has Ever Happened to You During Sex?”

Women! Why do we fill our minds with such trash? Why do we accept this as normal? Is nothing sacred anymore? I defy anyone to tell me one edifying thing about reading the gory details of a one-night stand between two people that hardly know each others’ names but are eager & proud to attach their name & face to a quote describing “a funny thing that happened” during an act as intimate as sex! Quite frankly, I just want to puke.