mmmmm, muffins

Now that my teeny jeans fit (just thought I'd mention that again...) it means my not-so-teeny jeans don't fit.

In fact, the jeans I bought as skin tight two years ago are now positively loose. They have progressed from "skinny" jeans to the "boyfriend" jeans look. This is fine because I like the casual look, and probably wear it more often than is strictly socially acceptable. However, I also need a decent pair of dark, skinny jeans. It's a wardrobe staple, I'm sure you understand.

So I hustled down to the shops while baby was in daycare (more on that in a later post, probably) and searched out a suitable pair. And while I was there, I met the lady who, in my opinion, is single handedly responsible for every muffin top in Townsville.

For those who don't know, a muffin top is the result of too tight jeans meeting... well, too many muffins, really. Here's an example:

photo by Malingering

Muffin tops are scary. Muffin tops are the result of delusion. Muffin tops should be outlawed - they can make perfectly slim girls look like behemoths just because their jeans are one size too small.

The shop assistant didn't just want to sell me jeans, she wanted me to walk out of that shop with a muffin top, too. She insisted on it. She tried to convince me that the comfortable, flattering pants that I had chosen were a size too large, because they had a teeny little bit of extra space under my bum. Now, I do not have masses of junk in my trunk, but I am certainly not going to aim for a shrink wrapped tush if the cost is a muffin mountain swelling out just two inches away! I know what looks worse.

I shudder to think of how many women this professional jeans-fitter has advised, and how many have fallen for the "one size too small sell down". It must be a lot, because I see them around every day. It can't be sensible for all these girls walking around with their hip joints compressed, and unable to sit down comfortably. I would understand if it made them look better, like high heels, but it seems to be pain with no gain.

So, repeat after me ladies, you might be able to do them up, but it does NOT make them okay. Check the mirror!

Bedroom Makeover Part Two

Here it is! Finally! Part two of the bedroom makeover, the "after" shots.

Now I'm no Pioneer Dooce Nester blogger, my photos are very very inartistic and don't fully express the way I feel about this room. But stick with me, we'll give it a go anyway!

No, silly, that's the before shot. I didn't spend good time and money aiming for dorm room chic (but that sure is a cute baby).

This is the after shot:

See those big gorgeous pillows? I heart them. Lots. And they were cheeeeeeap - we could have bought the ones with the proper down filling for a kabillion dollars, but since we aren't going to actually sleep on them, just recline gracefully and read, and maybe have a pillow fight or two, we went for the polystuffing option. They still look great though.

And see the pretty lamps?



Ohhh, I LOVE lamp. It took a while to find ones at the right height and price, but Target came through for me.

Finally, here's the bit that was holding up the grand reveal:

A ragamuffin wreath, in the tradition of the Nester's famous ragamuffin garlands. I bought some old shirts from the Salvation Army in the largest sizes I could find (they make huge shirts!) and chopped them up. This was heaps cheaper than buying fabric new, and I didn't have any blue toned material in my stash.

Because I am not very good at slapdash, I tied the different fabrics on in a set pattern, but I did get casual enough to cut very roughly and leave on all the buttons. I think it makes it cuter! It only took an afternoon, including buying the shirts, chopping them all up, making the wreath frame, playing with the baby, tying on the fabric strips, working out how to hang the wreath and heading back out to buy hooks, and then actually putting it all up on the wall.

That's the initial of our surname stuck there in the middle. I think I might pull it back down and paint it white, but I want to live with it in it's natural state for a few days and see if it grows on me. I'm lazy like that.

I am so happy with the new bedroom; it's gone from a place of mild decorative annoyance to a room I really love.

Cranky

I've got my grumpy pants on today.

Mr Accident has been trying to call me all day.

It's hard for him to get time to talk. He has an important job and he's very busy.

We made a time to talk but he couldn't make it. It wasn't his fault. And so we made another one. And he couldn't make that one either. So we made another....

But he rings up to tell me he doesn't have time to call. I end up sitting here all day waiting, like a fat girl with halitosis on prom night.

And when he does ring, the baby's just nodded off and gets frightened awake. Or I'm juggling nappies at bath time. Or I'm elbow deep in... never mind.

So when he did finally have time to talk, I was so grumpy about not being able to talk to him all day I couldn't even hold up my end of the conversation. And so now I'm even more grumpy. Harrummppff.

Mr Accident, I miss you!

Skinny jeans

I think every woman probably has a pair of jeans in her cupboard that she would love to fit into again. The pair that looked fabulous and fitted like a glove in uni, before the kids and the husband and the work busyness crept those extra few kilos on behind when you weren't looking.

I have seen bloggers who exhort their minions to throw away those jeans, to free themselves from the emotional baggage tied up in that well tailored, tight, blue denim. I read those posts and liked them at the time, but was not sufficiently convinced (or too lazy) to actually go through my cupboard, dig them out, and tip my hopes and dreams into the charity bin.

Because that's what those jeans were - an aspirational marker. A yardstick to measure my girth. Something to strive for. Even while I was convinced that those buttons would never meet the holes ever again, the distance that I could drag the jeans up my thighs was a more important measure to me than the number on the scales.

Then one day, today, I dragged those jeans out and put them on. And after months of schlepping the baby up and down a hill, eating non-man sized meals, and dedicated breastfeeding, I have done it. I can put those jeans on and pull them right up. I can do up the buttons, all three of them. Sure, I can't sit down in them yet, and my jubbly post baby muffin above the jeans precludes me from ever wearing them in public, but they FIT!

And I am so so glad I kept them.

Super sweet cubby

I made Soph a super sweet cardboard cubby house.


It has doors to crawl through.

Windows for peek-a-boo.

A little skylight for peeking up at Mummy.

The only problem is, she likes it so much she won't stay still for photos.

Halloween

I know Halloween is about ghouls and ghosts, skeletons and pumpkins, witches and warlocks.

But that's just so... spooky!

So when the work family centre held a halloween party, I dressed my little petal up appropriately.



She was very patient with me through all the measuring, remeasuring, trying on, rectifying, and measuring again.



And when we finally made it to the party she was very patient when I actually asked her to wear the focus of all that effort.

She only tried to pull it off four times. I'm pretty good at attaching things to heads. Eventually she took the wise path and just gave in.

My pretty little petal.

Next year I'm going to take off the lower three petals and make her into a mouse.

About the bedroom...

I still haven't finished the bedroom. I want to make a wreath to go above the bed and tie the room together vertically, but the shops here don't sell the ones I want. I do have a cunning plan but it's taking a while.

I will show you when I'm done!