Facebook; what a strange thing when you think about it, or not even when you think about it. I’m sure everyone would agree this “social networking” revolution has put a weird twist on the perceived image of people and their families. Before you would just assume that that acquaintance was as seemingly perfect at home as they are at work, or what have you. Now you get inundated with tidbits in the “news feed” which are all encompassing in terms of capturing their overall awesomeness. I find myself thinking “really? Now you’re baking how many cupcakes, from scratch, just for the hell of it?” Facebook is basically a new way for these super-moms to make you feel bad about yourself without actually spending any time with them. These Moms and their ‘mobile updates’ have always made me laugh. “Hey world! Look at me!! I’m at the grocery store picking up the ingredients for homemade butter tarts!” Really? Homemade butter tarts? Why would you ever do something like that when Zehrs makes a whole tray for like five bucks? Ah well, I guess that’s just another reason why I will never be able to write “supermom” on my resume. I can barely keep up with the odd facebook message I receive. Usually I skim through and make a mental note to reply only to remember months after the fact that I need to facebook so-and-so about that planned get together that came and went. I digress. That made me sound far more “facebook popular” than I actually am. In spite of this, you would expect I could handle something as simple as writing one or two people back in a timely fashion. Oh well, coulda-woulda-shoulda, I guess. It’s a miracle I can even dress myself in the morning....who am I kidding, in the afternoon. Oh, you caught me; I don't get dressed. Unless lulu lemon pants and a tank top, spotted with baby-vomit (that I wore to bed), count as getting dressed. In that case, I get dressed every day. Oh lulu; so expensive, so silly, so amazing. Last year around this time I declared, rather obnoxiously, to a co-worker that I am absolutely NOT the kind of person who would ever justify buying $100 stretchy pants. Now I stand before you, four pairs richer, all because last summer I squeezed my pregnant “A” (oh, I abbreviate swear words now thanks to Isla) into a pair and instantly decided that my “A” has never looked better. Even more surprising was that while staring at myself in the properly lit lulu change room (God bless them), I was the only one who could hear the radio-edit of Baby Got Back. Even my imagination is edited, apparently. Speaking of lulu lemon, I refuse to believe I'm the only one who is utterly amused by that store. The motivational sayings scattered all over the walls and on the bags about “dancing, flossing, doing something that scares you every day…etc” are all too much. They’re lucky they have pants that make my “A” look like a Christmas ham; otherwise I would only go in there to make fun of it. I hope it’s OK that I don’t dance and floss in those pants, let alone do yoga. I wonder if I’m violating some sort of unspoken sales agreement. Anyway turns out, yes, I AM someone that would happily spend $100 on stretchy pants. Who knew?