Dirty Little Secret

Cocky is one of those words I hate. I’m sure it originated from those early morning birds, but is that what YOU think of when you hear it? Me neither. So it bugs me because it always seems kind of wrong to use it to describe women. And there’s no comparable female word. Why doesn’t anybody say “vulvtastic”? Or “breasty”?

Though I suppose there’s always arrogant. Prideful. Conceited.

Anyway, this morning I felt a bit arrogant/prideful/conceited/vulvtastic/breasty/cocky. I had managed to get up and dressed before the kids got up. I had managed to dress and feed all three of them forty-five minutes sooner than usual so that we could take Hot Guy to work. Which we did. Then I got a good deal on gas, hit the bank and took Lovebug to preschool, where his teacher was very impressed to hear that Lovebug dressed himself this morning (It’s true. If I lay the clothes out and leave the room, he does it.) Then I took Ironflower to dance class, where I managed to breastfeed ChunkyMonkey while watching the class. Next we hit Walgreens and Stop and Shop.

Stop and Shop was my downfall.

After grabbing a few necessary things we headed to the bakery department (sure, I realize that it’s probably a bad idea to bribe my daughter with baked goods, especially in return for dance class behavior. But it’s the only way the whole day won’t be ruined.) The free sample today was rather large pieces of chocolate cake with buttercream frosting.

Mentally patting myself on the back for all that I accomplished by 11 am – without tantrums or other disasters – I decided to have a bit of cake. I let Ironflower have some, then I took a bite. I wiped her face and mine and proceeded with the trip.

I though the check-out girl looked at me oddly, but I didn’t worry about it. I found it strange when the guy standing outside smirked at me, but shook it off. And when the woman parked next to us seemed to run away I assumed that she was in a hurry.

It wasn’t until I got in the car and used the rearview mirror that I noticed the frosting on the tip of my nose.

A lot of frosting.

In fact, I think there was more frosting on my nose than there had been on Ironflower’s face, and Ironflower had needed a big wipe down. Though apparently there wasn’t enough to make Ironflower mention the frosting on ME. Or maybe my nose always looks big, white and fluffy to her.

Anyway, now it’s not just my thighs suffering from my love of all things dessert. It’s my pride, too.

Recently I read a Family Circle magazine.

(Oh my God, I freaking read Family Circle on purpose, not because I finished my book while waiting for the doctor. When did I turn into a woman who enjoys Family Circle? My teenage self would be laughing her ass off, after she got over the other shocks like my weight, my almost natural hair color and the fact that I’m not driving a Mercedes. I always thought women who read it were conservative and boring and could cook. Have I become boring? I think I’m safe on conservative and able to cook)

I didn’t look at the cover very closely, I just grabbed it because it was the most interesting publication within reach, since if I want tabloid trash I can just go to TMZ.com. Er, not that I ever do that or anything. And I’m pretty sure Cosmo is just recycling the same articles that they had in the ’90′s. Anyway, it wasn’t until after I got home that I noticed the weigh-loss headline across the front.

Right over the picture of chocolate cake.

I read the weight-loss article, and nowhere did it mention: And don’t make that cake on the cover with its seven layers of chocolate and cream and Oreos and whatnot. Just like the cake recipe didn’t mention a lighter version. Hell, it didn’t even mention how many calories were in it.

Family Circle is fucking with us.

Either we’re supposed to bake that damn cake for our families and then not eat any or we need to work out for seven hours to burn its calories off because that’s what the weight loss tips suggest.

Or, ya know, they could’ve put a low calorie dessert on the cover. Or left the title of the weight loss article off of the cover.

I’m just sayin’.