Aspen Princess: Going beyond the muffin top |

Aspen Princess: Going beyond the muffin top

So as I sit here wondering if maybe I should clean up the oatmeal that the babe flung onto the ceiling before I sit down to write, I am a bit at a loss of where to go from here.

It’s true that the pug is getting fatter and fatter with each passing day as we wade through the challenges of trying to figure out what the hell to feed a kid who only has seven teeth. The answer is small bits, grains like rice or quinoa, mixed with vegetables and protein chopped into teeny-tiny pieces and banded together with avocado or mashed sweet potato. I’m pretty sure that is also the perfect recipe for homemade super glue, because the stuff sticks to surfaces with such ferocity that the only way to remove it is with spit and fingernails. Our little ninja is quite the marksman as he wields his mighty plastic spoon and whatever doesn’t end up hitting the target (carpet or upholstered furniture) ends up matted into his hair and clothes.

The really fun part is when I brush my hair and wonder why it’s wet before I remember the babe had thrown it into the toilet. Oh, and we have discovered it’s not just a banana peel that’s slippery. We could literally put together a crash reel with the wipeouts we’ve taken in our own kitchen on orange rinds, smashed strawberries and discarded tangerine slices.

So after I reported last week that I am finally feeling comfortable in my own skin, I made the mistake of going into Lululemon and trying on crops off the sale rack in front of the three-way mirror that is apparently magnified and illuminated with flood lights. I obviously had a false sense of security, thinking I’m looking pretty good after those photos Natalie took of me doing yoga and then bam, my bubble is burst just like that. Granted, white isn’t flattering on anyone, but it appears as though my muffin top has reached another level, like literally, to above my navel to where my ribs used to be. This used to be a safe zone, a place for empire waists and peplum tops and cropped jackets. Well, no more. Even with the hideous high-waist pants that have wormed their way back into fashion, there is still a little something-something spilling over the top of my pants and there is no hiding that in Lululemon. Between the athletic bra and the yoga pants, the rear view of my back, which I once imaged to be muscular and sculpted is more like something resembling store bought pizza dough that has been squeezed halfway out of the package. Not a good look.

At any rate, that didn’t stop me from buying the outfit, either because of the “It’ll motivate me to lose weight so it fits better one day” mentality or the fact that Lululemon is up there with Whole Foods when it comes to brainwashing entitled not-really-that-rich people into spending money. It makes me wonder if they pump oxygen into the place through the vents like they do in casinos.

In other news, my parents were just here visiting last weekend and I am happy to report their grandparenting skills have improved. They seem to have moved beyond check-writing and gawking at the kid like he’s a zoo animal or exotic pet to actually holding him, interacting with him and letting him sit in their laps. So this is good news. Don’t get me wrong, we are eternally grateful for the day- care scholarship fund but it was, at times, cringe-worthy to witness them sitting on the couch staring vacantly into their iPad screens as the baby cried for their attention. It’s true they haven’t been around a baby in a very, very long time so there is a learning curve we have to account for. And while my mom did put his diaper on backwards, it still got the job done. So I try not to get annoyed when my dad, who also happens to be a psychiatrist makes these astute observations like, “Geez, he cries a lot.”

And I have to explain, “It’s because he’s a baby, dad.”

I wore the new Lulu crops that very weekend on a hike and received a chorus of comments from the peanut gallery, starting with my husband who said, “You can see your underwear right through those.”

And then my mom pointed out, “That’s the problem with white,” when Gertie’s paw prints were tattooed onto my thighs after she jumped out of my lap.

As if that’s not exciting enough, I’m thinking of shifting my social media focus to Instagram as I’ve been experiencing tremendous Facebook fatigue and don’t think I can handle the musings of people whose friend requests I accepted after two beers even though I have no idea who the hell they are. That doesn’t stop me from looking at it 500 times a day, which kind of reminds me of the days when I used to puff cigs — so bad for your health and what in god’s name is the point?

Then there’s my email inbox, which is jammed with solicitations from every vendor I’ve ever ordered anything from. Out of the 100 emails I receive each day, approximately five of them are personal. It’s a constant reminder of how slow business is at Margo Media these days.

In my free time, I stare at photos and videos of the babe all day, which is silly when we’re paying a small fortune for him to go to day care. It’s even more ridiculous when he’s home and playing 5 feet away from me. Some might even say I’m a horrible mother for staring at computer when he’s right there, but whatever. He knows I have very important work to do.

I’m not sure where all this leads me, except maybe right back where I started.

The Princess is feeling a lot of performance anxiety these days. Email your love to

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