Anne Nahm

Here’s the damage a year after having my third child.  Currently weighing 72 pounds less than I did a week before I gave birth.

And 52 pounds less than I did the week after birth.

This makes me happy!  So happy I had to break out of my normal blue-gray-green t-shirt wearing fanaticism and go buy something orange.  I don’t know why.  Also, a new bra.  Yay!

Somebody earlier accused me of not actually having a bellybutton, since the camera is always covering it.  Which made me laugh and retort, “chestnuts are lazy!  I invented the question mark!”  Again, I don’t know why.  Especially since talking, as a mode of reply to an email, is hardly effective.

Oh, bellybutton.  It was once so perfectly O, if you pushed it, the operator would answer.  Now it’s an old Indian arrowhead.  You might find it out in the dirt while walking, and your dad would say, “Man!  That could be a hundred years old.”    (If you and your dad do find it out in the woods, though, would you pick it up?  Because either I’m there with it, and I don’t like dirt, or something horrible has happened to separate me from it.  And as old and broke down as that navel is, I’d like it returned to me before squirrels eat it.)

The only possible answer here, of course, is that bellybutton gave me three beautiful kids.  Which, yes, it did.  But my husband also has three beautiful kids. And a belly you could bounce quarters off of.  And sometimes we do.  And whoever misses has to drink beer from the other person’s bellybutton.  Which, for my part, used to be like lapping up a shot.  Also:  Ticklish!  But is now more like trying to consume an ice slushie in a soggy paper cone, all while sitting in a half inflated bounce house.  Which, while perhaps not exactly sexy in the traditional sense, at least keeps things interesting.

Anyway, Whooohoooo! 72 pounds lost!

ETA:  More weight loss photos are tagged as Anne Pics HERE.

It is raining here, and we just got back from vacation, and my husband is working, so today I took the kids to the grocery store to pick up cake mix and sprinkles and such.  I figured I’d bake a cake, let them decorate it, and my birthday present would be (aside from a cake covered in Swedish fish, marshmallows, kid boogers and sprinkles) a half an hour on a rainy day in which the kids were entertaining themselves.  Also, since my hair is still falling out (postpartum) I picked up some drain-o for the bathroom sink.

You know where this is going, right?   I was with three monkey howler kids, looking tired, buying drain-o and birthday cake mix.  I’m not sure the situation warranted the extreme eyeball I got at the check out line.  Zomg, not taking kids out with poison birthday cake, check-out girl.  Also:  Not sure if I am more disturbed by highly raised Eyebrow of Concern, or the fact that they still let me make my purchases and go on my way.  Way to scorn and not protect.

Perhaps more on our superfantastic holiday vacation later, but the thing that sticks out most in my mind is that my husband went totally mad for taking pictures of me breastfeeding on this trip.

Perhaps it was because of the squeaky sofa bed we were sleeping on did not afford for any sex.  Well, truthfully, it afforded us sex the night we arrived in Anaheim, but the next morning I was a total no sex convert.  I mean, zealous, born-again, still-trying-to-pull-a-spring-out-of-my-ass style, despite my husband’s requests for debauchery.

Or maybe it is because I found myself nursing, standing up, in line to ride It’s a Small World on what turned out to be “A Very BUSY DAY” at Disneyland, at least according to the blinking traffic signs on the highway, and thus I found myself pretty much giving a breastfeeding demonstration to the wandering masses.

Anyway, for some reason, my husband thought it appropriate to shoot a Anne Nipple Photo Montage.  Am debating putting it up, but perhaps when I cut out my face, and the baby’s face, all you are left with is a nipple out on what turned out to be a rather cold day.  Oh, and some shocked looking tourists in line behind us.

But I’ve always kind of fantasized about joining the ranks of being naked on the internet, so now maybe it is my time to shine.  We’ll see.

Two other things that happened in the last two months that I didn’t talk about were 1) this blog turned 3 and b) I turned 34.

Turning 34 has been like a bar of Laffy Taffy that you find laying on your car seat. Halfway open and out of its wrapper. On a hot summer day.

The thing is, the candy looks all fine and square when you spy it. So you reach over and grab it, thinking: Thank God I saw that in time. Because if it had melted? That would have been a serious bitch…

And that is about when you notice that you? Are not in time. That sunbathing Laffy Taffy only looked solid until you tried to move it. That shit is melted all over, making gooey streamers from your grabby hand down to the car seat, curling over your knuckles, and getting all over you. And everything in your car now smells like Strawberry Shortcake’s asshole.

That’s when you realize: The best thing you can do for yourself is accept that every pair of pants you ever wear in this car are gonna have a sticky spot on them somewhere southeast of the right butt cheek.

Thirty four has been exactly like that.

In the months leading up to this birthday, I resolved to finish a book. I thought that would make 34 defined in my memory. Or would make me feel successful. Or complete. Or whatever. Because some years I have finished stuff and felt accomplished. And other years I think: Double You Tee Eff did I even do with my time? Because all I remember is a hangover and watching NYPD Blue.

But this time, 33 and 34 just stretched out in indefinite time and got stuck all over me. I feel neither accomplished, nor different, nor like I can put those feelings back from whence they came. Or even get them off me.

Anyway, for my birthday/Christmas I got myself Season One of The L Word. I realized after two episodes that I have far less lesbian tendencies than I thought I might. In most of those sex scenes, I’m not even sure what they are doing. Unlike the male gay sex scenes from Six Feet Under, where I felt pretty sure what was going on. It’s kind of humiliating. I have the owner’s manual, why can’t I figure out what’s going on when there’s no wiener involved?

In slightly less wiener obsessed talk, my blog turned 3 last month. I feel real depressed about this. I’ve seen a couple of blogs I loved take nosedives since I started reading them. Reading those other blogs, I wanted to scream (In anonymous capslocked drive-by): God. Just admit you suck right now and I’d have so much more respect for you.

I’d keep reading through their stupid phase of suck and the blogger would never mention it, and I’d start wondering if maybe they didn’t realize they sucked. And then finally, when I was barely interested reading anymore, they’d finally, finally have this I SUCK post. And instead of being all, YAY!, I’d read through all the OH NOEZ, YOU TOTALLY RAWK! comments and I’d think: Oh this is so much worse than if you’d never mentioned it, you sucky attention whore.

Because I’m super generous to people in my own mind is why. But now, lo! I am stuck in the trap of my own snarkiness, for there appears to be no appropriate way to broach this subject matter without internal mockery of the worst sort. And BTW, I can tell you right now the person(s) I’m thinking about are not you. They do not read this blog. Presumably because if they happened to chance on it lately, they were all: God, this blog sucks. And left never to return.

Where was I? Being Ms. Jackson if I’m nasty? Oh yes.

I just wanted you to know I am aware things have become somewhat sucky and redundant (suckdundant?) and am trying to deal. But without inviting sunshine-upskirt-commenting. I think that I’m starting to like you all too much. If I care what you think, it becomes impossible to tell you anything important without needing you to tell me it’s OK. Like I’m some stupid little kid at show’n'tell with my ugly ass homemade clay ashtray. Which makes me want to Old Yeller this stupid blog behind the barn.

Peeps taste like a bag of ass made with ass juice and dingleberry filling.

Also, Peeps are evil.

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Top Seven Reasons Why Peeps are Evil

7. Peeps will invite their boyfriend over while they are supposed to be babysitting.

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6. Peeps will use your bathroom.

And not flush.

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5. All Peeps that die on Good Friday return from the dead Easter Sunday. Jesus Peeps? Hardly. They return as Zombies-Peeps. These Zeeps will hunt you down and eat your brains.

And then, they will steal your eye. And look at you with your own eye.

And if you are pretty, that Zeep will make you their Zitch (Zeep’s bitch). And you will like it, you dirty Zitch, you. But you will never again have good depth perception.

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4. Peeps make it look like an accident.

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3. Peeps wear inappropriate bathing attire on your family vacation. The day after you break down and say something (because for the love of God! A thong made out of rubber bands in front of grandma?!) , Peeps will walk with apparent discomfort. You will assume it is from thong friction burns. But you will be wrong.

2. When you come back from vacation and have your photos developed, you will find this mystery picture. For a moment, you will be confused.

And then you will recognize your own toothbrush in someone’s peephole.

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1. And of course, Peeps peep.