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About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.

Friday, April 4, 2008

On second thought

I don’t want to talk babies. I don’t even want to commiserate with other moms. What I really want to do is fly to an island—alone—and spend a week at the wet bar. And for anyone who knows me—the-sunburn-after-two-minutes-in-the-sun me—it must be serious for me to crave a sunburn.


I’d have to wear a bathing suit. And, because I can’t wear my pre-pregnancy ones (thank you extra baby weight), I’d have to buy one of those horrible suits, like the tankini. Or worse, a suit with a little skirt to hide my bigger butt.

And I’d have to get a top with a built-in push-up bra because my boobs have deflated quite a bit. Let’s be honest, no one likes perkless jugs.

While we’re painting the mental picture, let’s add the streaky fake tans lines I amass come summer. They’re uneven, they’re overlapping, and they turn my body into a sophomoric geometry lesson. Nothing better than the Pythagorean theorem on your asscheek.

Maybe I can find a wet bar where you have to wear blindfolds.

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