Two Piece or Not Two Piece: The Bathing Suit Conundrum

Post inspired by Weirdgirl.

I didn't want to have to blog about this. Frankly, I didn't even want to have to think about this but with a trip to San Diego for the July 4th weekend and a My-Parents-Are-In-Russia-So -We-Can-Have-a-Pool- Party-with -A-Kegger-And-Do- Canonballs-with-Beers-in- Our-Hands-Because- My-Parents- Are-Out-of- Town! upon us I feel the need to express my concern: I have no idea what kind of bathing suit to wear.

I have not purchased a swimsuit since Archer was born. I have not purchased one since way before I was pregs and kinda rocked the same tie-dyed two piece for a couple years prior. I know, peace, right? Peace and hemp.

The last time I owned a one-piece I was six. It had polka-dots and a ruffle on the butt. I grew up in a bikini and like the photo you will see coming up on your right (sounds like we're on the Jungle Cruise) was quite comfortable wearing one, er, half of one. (Shut-up, it was the summer of exhibition and flat-chestedness and yes, feel free to make fun of/and or black mail me when I run for political office.)

Where I grew up bikinis were like breathing. It didn't even matter if you couldn't pull it off. I fondly remember Katie Nameshavebeenchangedenstien who clocked in at about 300 Lbs and still rocked the bikini without the slightest concern. She just threw on a pair of Roxy Board shorts and paddled out with the rest of us, not to mention she was a waaaaaay better surfer than us little things. Whateva.

I know it sounds ridiculous but when I think of a one-piece I think of this frightening cover-up that out-of towners seem to love*. I believe they sell them on old-folks-homes and Miami thrift shops. I also think of those hideous things with the built in skirts.

But lastly and perhaps more importantly, when I think of a one-piece I think of my Mom. For the record my Mom wears way cute one-pieces and she looks smoking hot for 50. The woman is a total GILF and I can only hope and pray I grow up to look like her. Hubba-hubba. BUT she is 50 and I am 25 and I'm not sure if I'm ready to retire the triangle top and join the the club. I'm just not sure.

This painful limbo winds like the path I hath traversed by my lonesome for over a year now. I weigh the pros against the cons and back again. I search the web almost daily for something cool and vintage and perhaps red or polka-dotted that might be hot enough for me to cross over from the beloved two-piece to one without aging 25 years.

I have discussed this matter with several people. One of whom recommended the in-betweeni. The "tankini." I have always been positively anti-tankini just as I have always vocalized my disdain for juicy-couture sweatsuits and swarovski crystals. I wish they would be outlawed worldwide but alas, first we need a new administration and then a few other million-trillion things and then we can talk fashion crimes. I am keeping a list though, fyi.

I tried on my old b-suit the other day and it was fine-ish. It fit, yeah but there was something not quite right. Oh yeah. I remember now. There's that whole stretched-out belly thing. Do I really want to flaunt that shit? I mean, if I happened upon me at the beach wouldn't I want me to put that away? Or would I be proud? Would I be like, "hell, yeah Mommy-bitch! Embrace your postpartum bod with pride!" Would I smile and secretly throw-up in my mouth? WHY DO I CARE SO MUCH!?

It's like this. Ditching the bikini, though seemingly trite and no-big-deal-ish feels like a really big deal to me. It means I'm done with that. In this case that is a very loaded word that goes beyond a tan tummy and tying bikini ties in creative ways-- a kris-kross here, a loopty-lou there. Sex appeal and style replaced by function and I hate function.

Ditching the bikini for the one-piece feels like going from young and sexy to old and utilitarian. It means I'm going from twenty-something to simply, "Mom". Isn't there a way for me to be both? Pretty please?

But how?

It's this goddamn circle I've been spinning in, blindfolded for months. Please, oh please, point me toward the pinata.

GGC

*Actually I'm kind of thinking the cover-up bikini-bod monstrosity might look really hot worn as a smock with some knit leggings and ballerina flats. Don't tell Lindsay. She'll for sure bite it.

It Takes The Village, People III: Tabloids in the Hood

The other day me and the forward facing Archer Sagebrush made the trip up the mighty hill to visit Uncle Frank for BBQ and Celebrity Gossip. Apparently his new pad has been quite the popular stomping ground for tourists the world over. It took poor Uncle Frank several camera-dodging incidents before he did the research and found out he was living in Jim Morrison's old pad. Break on through to the other side, dudes.

We are pretty much psychotic in love with Uncle Frank, my former roommate and BFF. He was there when I found out I was preggerz. He was the token man at my baby-shower and he is the only babysitter we have ever had. He loves Archer and we love him. That's right, dude. We lurve you. To the moon. You and your pink Escalade.

Thus far, Uncle Frank has been a tour de force in Archer's life, instilling a strong sense of fashion, hygiene, hair-care and of course, Madonna.

When we arrived at his new pad we were welcomed with a spread of delicious foods and tab-rags. Hog heaven.

About five poached eggs later, Frank sat down beside Archer on the floor and presented him with US Weekly. Lesson One? Britney Spears. "The bitch looks like shit and K-fed's in the basement. No joke. Aren't you glad your Mommy doesn't cruise around wearing tubes and candies?"



Archer nodded, obviously and turned the page:


"What the hell is this?" Archer asked.
"Bad fashion. Close your eyes."
"I like butterflies!"
"Not on a gown, bub."
Archer took notes and turned the page...



Here, let me help you rip Jennifer Anniston's face in half. She bothers me as well.



"Yes, and that's Ashton in a skirt. I'm undecided about that one."
"Mommy has a skirt just like that!"
"Yes but Mommy doesn't have a mustache."
"Yes she does."
(JK)


"Rebecca, please stop with the photos. We're mid-lesson."
"Uncle Frank! Look here! Reese Witherspoon is Pregnant!"
"No, she isn't. She just likes to wear peasant blouses from last season. Poor thing."


"Uncle Frank? I have a question."
"Yes, Archer."
"Why does Rachel Zoe look like she is 789 years old?
"Because she is. Where do you think she comes up with all of those fabulous vintage pieces?"



"So Archer, tell me what you learned today?"
"I learned that stars are just like me! They grocery shop and tie their shoelaces."




"What else did you learn?"
"Well, I learned that 70% of Time Square thinks Heidi Klum looks better in the red Valentino than Maria Menounos. I also learned that Butterflies aren't chic on gowns and I learned that Ashlee Simpson had a nose job but it looks good and I learned that everyone has new babies and everyone is pregnant and Jake Gyllenhal drinks coffee and I learned that Nicholas Cage was at Sushi Roku last Friday and Paris Hilton has converted to Rastafarianism.

Frank proudly shook his head, shed a tear or two and handed Archer over to me.

"My work here is done," he said.


His final advice to Archer for the day?

"If you find anyone outside your house, snapping photos of you in your boxer-briefs picking up the newspaper, you've either "made it big" or you accidentally moved somewhere on the Map of the Stars."


Archer nodded understandably and crawled off into the sunset where I promptly picked him up, stuck him in the car and we made our way back down the hill.

GGC

Poo-Poo Haiku, Part Two: Enduring Raisins

I Love Raisins
By: Archer

Raisins every day
I always swallow them whole
They taste good for me


I Don't Love Raisins
By: Mommy

It's quite curious
How a pooped-out raisin can
Still look good as new

GGC