Sunday, June 7, 2015

Orgasmic Vegan Food

Yesterday I had the opportunity to hang out with a good friend. We ventured to midtown to a vegan restaurant called "Cafe Sunflower" - it did not disappoint.

Well it was 95 yesterday, and the berry lemonade was freaking amazing.

I forgot to take a picture of the menu, so I totally forgot what I had to eat. I looked it up online, but they constantly change their menu, which is so epically cool, I can't handle it.

All I remember in this dish was the black beans. Very flavorful. Totally yummy.

This was lunch. My very first time trying seitan which according to google, is a high-protein vegetarian food made from cooked wheat gluten. That, combined with BBQ sauce, jicama, pickled onions, cucumber and the ciabatta bread = heaven.  I was too full to eat the sweet potato chips, but I am sure they were amazeballs.

This was Amanda's dish. That wrap had a shit ton of quinoa in the entire wrap was full of it. It also was oozing vegan cheese.

Vegan cheese still weirds me out,

I'm sorry. I just can't handle it.

Amanda enjoyed it, but let's be honest, we really only came for the vegan desserts.

The desserts at Cafe Sunflower are orgasmic.

 I would even say, the best I have ever had.

They are so good, that when our waitress carried out our dishes, four people stood up to look at our table.

I still can't figure out how they make this taste so amazing. The cake is so good, I almost feel like the chef is fucking with us. Amanda and I discussed this, while rationalizing that there are people with legit dairy surely if someone died they would be sued, right?

The one on the left is the German chocolate, you can tell that we attacked it before I was able to snap a picture. The right is an euphoric carrot cake, which I wanted to be alone with.


We only managed a few hundred bites and took the rest to the pool.

Cause there is nothing like melted cake and being children free at the pool.

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Sunday, May 31, 2015

Bathing suits and boobs

"I need a mom bathing suit." I say, licking the icing off my vanilla (vegan) cupcake.
Josh looks at me like I just told him I decided to change genders, and to check out my sweet mustache.
"A mom what?"
"Bathing suit," I say, "Sophia keeps trying to dislodge my nipples at the pool, and frankly it's getting a bit too Bay watchy and most of the time I just want to be that person in the water fully clothed."
(Which, by the way is not cute, and directly conflicts with my whole loveyourbody attitude that I try to put on in front of my girls.) Nothing says "body love" like standing waist deep in track shorts.

I can tell that this is still not computing through Josh's boy brain, and he is desperately trying to find a loop hole, "But you just bought a bathing suit last year."

"Yes, dear," I say, "most women have more than one bathing suit, it's weird, kinda like underwear, or socks, you can own more than one."

Let me do that thing in a video where everything speeds up and you see Josh and I speed walking through the mall, throwing bathing suits up in the air, and me saying every curse word that I know of, trying to pull up lycra or down lycra or just trying to stuff my boobs into something that screams  COOL MOM, not, PORN STAR or I'M TRYING TOO HARD.

Oh and yeah, we went bathing suit shopping on our date night.
Go ahead and laugh. You know you want to.

Standing in the dressing room at yet another teen store, I stared at myself in the the full length mirror.
Reality tapped me on the shoulder, and let me tell you, she  is a cruel bitch.

The sad truth is I'm not a girl, not yet a (fifty year old) woman. 
Also, I am no longer flat chested.

I am reeeeaaallly not.

 I can no longer shop at Forever 21, (PS. I am 31 so this is long since overdue.) I just can't. And shouldn't. Same goes with Target, Old Navy, or Gap. Also...I also cannot sport the Victoria Secret ripped, omglookatmynipples suits...because, well I have children, and I am not an exhibitionist...and also, not a Victoria Secret model. 

Plus, one should, never, ever, ever, ever, shop with one's spouse.
Especially for lycra.
He has no idea what size you are, and will always bring you an XS bottom and an XL top and it will be adorable the first five times, and then you will have to have the awkward conversation about what two 9 pound babies do to hips..... and vaginas. Also, you will have to explain how much weight you can squat, and he will still be confused.

SPOILER ALERT: I will never, ever, ever, ever, EVER, be an XS bottom.

.....but keep bringing me XL tops, cause...high five.

Needless to say, I did not come home with a shiny new bathing suit.

That night.

I did, however. go shopping with my southern mama and we found a bathing suit in under an hour.

Now I can comfortably hang out in public, without embarrassing my children, or myself, and by hang, I mean like the young kids do, cause my boobs no longer do that, public.

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Sunday, May 24, 2015

Someone once told me I would be a bad mom.

Someone once told me that I would be a bad mother, because I would allow my children to sleep in my bed.

I remember feeling uncomfortable at the insult, not angry per say, but shifty, like being stuck to a chair too long in the humidity, I wanted the fuck out of that conversation, but the only way out, was to slowly peel backwards.
You can't unsay things once they leave your mouth.
No matter how hard you wish or deny.

Going forward I was scared to death that loving my child too much would be met with disapproval and lectures.

The person who said this would never own up to it.
I have forgiven, of course, because this person would never know what it is to wake with tiny fingers grasping your hand.
Surely, if they could smell the scent of lingering suntan lotion and cherries, they would withdraw their previous claim.

If they knew what it was to have their three year old tuck your hair behind your ear, and whisper, "I love you mama", long before the sun began peeking through the blinds, clearly they would know that only love is here.

I am not a bad mother.

Especially not a bad mother, when my children climb into my bed.

In the midst of elbows and genetic bed hogs, there is only comfort.

Behind the giggles, soft voices and rose scented hair, I can only see my family.

I imagine when they are older, they will look back to our slumber parties with delight. They will know that I am a soft place to land, and I will ALWAYS comfort them. With every bad dream, thunder storm, or broken heart.

This does not make me a bad mom, this makes me their mom.

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