jelly bubble bath: a parent’s beauty regime

My beauty regime has taken a turn since becoming a parent. And then another more drastic turn when I went back to a fairly demanding full time job just recently. My leisurely home-made day spa beauty regime has become an ‘as needs’ pluck or snip on the run. I now look for ways to combine the two: Parenting and pampering that is, not plucking and running as I assure you that will never end well. Have you ever poked yourself in the eye with tweezers? I have. It sets you back a bit.

Drum roll, the Jelly Bubble Bath. It’s super fun for little (and big) kids to have a tutti-frutti bubble bath. And it’s probably a lot healthier than actually eating the jelly.

jelly bubble batha packet of jelly
a dash of bubble bath
a slosh of almond oil (optional)
a ducky (not really optional)

ducky in the bath

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I just want something to wear to dinner

I struggle to understand why I can’t just wear my jersey pants and fluffy flats to dinner.

Too often going out for dinner turns into a fashion faux pas. I’m looking for something pretty, but sophisticated, and of course, something with a bit of give in the midriff. The reality is that after I’ve gorged myself on my dinner and several glasses of wine, holding my tummy in isn’t going to be achievable nor consistent.

It’s a 1950’s black pencil dress with some leopard pumps.

I start out looking great, by the time I’ve had my main course I can only remember to hold my tummy flat on the way to the bathroom but not on the way back. I’m alternating between looking great and looking frumpy. I’m confusing people.

My friends decide to go to the local bar now that the restaurant is closing. It sounds like a great idea.

I’ve completely forgotten that my dress has a long slit up the back thats now riding up quite high to compensate for my pot belly out front (that I couldn’t possibly hold in now).

I arrive at the bar feeling the confidence of my last drink but look like the martini, three glasses of wine and two courses that I’ve consumed.

My clumsiness is incompatible with the slit in my dress. Someone should really tell me not to bend over. And the phrase, dance like no ones watching, didn’t originate from this teetering shuffle – because let’s hope they’re not watching.

The next morning its the jersey pants and fluffy flats that make me feel like me again. That, and the alka seltzer.

Alka Seltzer Roy Lichtenstein 1966

image: Roy Lichtenstein, Alka Seltzer (1966)

so what if I can’t park the car

I recently got found out. My husband was in the car and I passed by a perfectly good and adequate parallel parking space. Now that he knows, I figure my secret is out and I can find solace in the world wide web.

So what if I can’t parallel park?! There’s heaps of other options. Perhaps not front door options, but options.

I was playing it casual at the time, I had an air of ‘I know we’re going for coffee and the cafe is right there, but I want to drive around the corner, I’m driving and that’s where we’re going, because I’m driving’. As we drove on past that perfectly good space, my loving man exclaimed, “oh my god, you can’t park the car there?!”

I’m not quite sure how it happened that I couldn’t park the car. Perhaps not living in the city has contributed. Whatever it is, I realise now that, to be a true modern woman, I need to conduct stealth parking practice raids, and put the power back into my 1 point 6.

parallel parking

does this make my bum look fab?

Maybe we should give the poor man a chance. I mean, we are all guilty of the “Does this make my bum look fat?” question at some time in our feminine lives. It could be mildy disguised by “Do you like these pants?” or hidden in the slightly loaded statement “They’re my new pants! …” but ultimately – it’s that question.

Why do we have to bring the poor man into it. He was just harmlessly doing his thing, wearing his jeans and some shirt that has a hole developing in the side. What does he really care? In fact, it almost shows how much he cares. I’m trying to make an effort here. It’s so easy for you, I mean geez, did you even brush your hair? – He’s collateral damage at this point – And how the heck do you get a hole there anyway?! I’m thinking who does he think he is, Yves Saint Laurent?!

He stumbles aimlessly, blinded by the frailty of his conviction. He can see the cracks* forming, “umm… well, you know, it’s just drinks…”

Like it being ‘just drinks’ makes the size of my bum in these pants inconsequential.

It’s a no win scenario.

So I propose a simple letter change: Fat / Fab. Love the question – and the response.

“Does this make my bum look fab?!” … “Hell yeah”

*bum

one for the fashion unconscious

This is about ridiculous shoes. You know them. Heels that go forever. Pointless straps that try to make us look delicate. Platforms that make us seem a foot taller. We all love them. We want them. We buy them. We just wish we could walk in them.

We can’t help it, push it too far, all common sense leaves us. “Oh, these are fabulous!” we quietly croon to ourselves while getting dressed. It’s that significant social function. Perhaps a wedding, maybe a party. You’re going to be a star! You’ve obviously forgotten that you’re going to be in those shoes for hours.

Each step is agony. You start to wish that your dang heel would just snap off. Hobbling. Leaning. Politely wincing. Hunched over like you might almost be about to start crawling.

Someone once said, some rubbish like, ‘a woman never takes off her shoes’ – but they obviously haven’t tried walking in a pair of 14 cm platform pumps. Its do or die out there.

Looking great needn’t be a near death experience, just do them up tight, limit it to 20 minutes, maintain focus, stay on the carpet, be carried on stairs, don’t drink and don’t walk!