The Oopsie Loopsie is a waistband extender that helps you button up those pre-preg jeans when you’re at the beginning of pregnancy (and not quite ready for maternity wear) or after the baby is born (when you’re not quite as big but not quite small enough either).

Two lucky TPF readers will win a set of four loopsie loops (two sizes) by following us on Twitter and/or by entering a comment below.

Please offer some advice to other pregnant ladies or women with newborns. What did you learn during your pregnancy? What could someone have said to you that would have helped you get through the first days with your baby with a little less stress?

Thank you for entering!

Check out Oopsie Loopsie on Facebook and Twitter.

You better watch out
You better not cry
Better not pout I’m telling you why
Jillian Michaels is coming to town!
She sees you when you are slacking
You knows when you are eating cake
She knows when you’ve been bad or good
So go to the gym for goodness sake!

All Jokes aside, one of the world’s leading health gurus and wellness experts, Jillian Michaels, is visiting 35 cities across Canada and the United States for her Maximize Your Life tour, concluding in Toronto on May 21st. Though she may have established a reputation as a ‘hardass’ on The Biggest Loser, those who have tried her fitness routine swear that is exactly what she will give you. My sister, a mid 30 year old mother with a full time career swears by Jillian Michaels’ “Ripped in 30”, giving her a quick and effective daily work-out with results. So although everyone may not agree with her aggressive motivational techniques, in the end we are looking for results, and that is what she delivers, sans gimmicks.

However, the Maximize Your Life Tour seems to go beyond fitness in the physical sense. It is an outlet for her to reach out to people on an intimate, personal and motivational level. An understanding of yourself and your goals is the backbone for willpower and the desire to lead a healthy life. It is a balance, equilibrium we need to maintain, and Jillian Michaels believes she can give us a kick-start without the hype and false promises – just results.

I am willing to hear her out. Are you?

Click HERE for the info on the tour locations and tickets

Here’s what Jillian has to say about why you should come check her out:

By Azra Manori

Azra is 22 year old recent graduate from the University of Guelph. She is living an existential crisis and is open to suggestions. She is an actor, writer, and traveller.

A few weeks ago I found myself rushing between calls/appointments, it was 130 and I hadn’t yet eaten lunch, so I was seriously HANGRY (hungry + angry).   I go through the McDonald’s drive thru and immediately feel like I should be wearing a bag on my head in case anyone sees me.   I order 2 hamburgers and then see the large sign for their Teriyaki Chicken salad. I ask the girl what’s in the salad and she needs to say no more than “edamame beans”, and I add to my order. Edamame beans are in everything right now so this salad has to be good for me, right?

As I am driving to my destination I find myself ravenously scarfing down the first burger so fast that I don’t even notice I’ve eaten paper with the first three bites; this might classify as an all time low. But in all honesty I could care less because this little burger that looks like someone sat on it, is utterly delicious.  I get to my destination having now downed both of my burgers and stare at the bag on my passenger seat that contains “the salad”.  I scoff at it and get out of the car leaving said salad behind.  The salad represents the part of me that felt guilty about ordering something that contained gluten, white flour, meat, grease, etc etc etc.

Why does it seem that everything we consume these days is surrounded with guilt or stigma.  Everything I go to eat lately makes me think a bit harder about what I am putting into my body.  This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, it just has me thinking.

We seem to be getting inundated with what to eat and not eat as the days go by, and now there are full sections in the grocery stores dedicated to diet restrictions.  There are also upscale grocery stores popping up everywhere and just being in them somehow makes us feel like we are eating healthier because even the cardboard boxes are somehow “organic”.

Over the course of the last 18-24 months, I have attempted the following, and not all at once of course: I’ve gone gluten free: I’ve stopped “doing” dairy because I heard it is hard to digest; I’ve stopped eating meat because I feel bad for the animals; I’ve contemplated and genuinely tried not eating soy because it’s the most genetically modified bean out there and there is too much estrogen in it; I’ve tried not to consume as much fish because of the amount of mercury in it (save for Japan, I live in likely the best sushi city); I’ve tried to eat only organic veggies, but then worried that the food was coming from across the Continent and the environmental impact of that; and lastly, half heartedly, tried to do the Paleo diet (the not so distant cousin from a boulevard of broken dreams of a diet, called Atkins).

So there it is. I am a total trend and fad follower. But, I truly think there is merit behind some of the dietary concerns that we are being faced with.  I am just finding myself full of anxiety and guilt about what I am choosing.

My husband recently became a vegetarian after reading two books and watching one movie.  This has all happened much to my annoyance because he does most of the cooking in the house, and one can only consume so much quinoa and kale without longing for a meal riddled with bacon and chicken.  Having not given something up for Lent since I was 8 and in Catholic school, I decided I would give up meat and appease my husband to at least try it.

After almost passing out on my spinning bike 2 weeks into my “challenge”, I caved and ate half a flank steak.  I didn’t bother going back to a non-meat diet, because I had crossed over; I was going to Hell anyway because I didn’t have the will power to last the 40 days until Easter. I will, however, to continue eating some meals without meat.

We need to start thinking more and more about where our food comes from because there has to be a reason that there are so many options that are gluten free, dairy free, soy free, meat free, organic, grain fed or wild.  But have we gone too far?  Is it necessary that we pay $4 more for a box of crackers because they are organic? Is buying organic more of a status symbol to some? What is the impact to our environment if we are buying out of season, organic produce that has to travel from another country or continent to get to us?  What is the better choice, looking after our environment or looking after our body?

I live on the west coast and if I was reading the above I might automatically think that the person writing it is a hippy who wears hemp clothing that they made themselves. But that’s not me, not even close. I have just been trying to be more aware of what I am consuming as of late, because I think it’s important.  But, what is the right mix?  Who should we be listening to?  I think if we are all just a hair more conscious of where our food is coming from, it’s a start.

Unfortunately I don’t have all the answers; I just have anxiety, which I tend to curtail with red wine and Old Dutch Ketchup chips.

Sue Cleall

A nice health conscious new age chop salad:

Chop/dice the following: kale, arugula (or another green of your choice), peppers, green onion, carrots, avocado and/or any other veggies.

-Add salt and pepper, hot chili flakes and pressed garlic

-1 or 2 cups of Qunioa for protein and a bit of olive oil

By adding olive oil, avocado, salt and garlic, you don’t need a dressing.  The creaminess from the avocado tends to mix in really nicely.

At 30, I found myself single having just ended a 6-year relationship, and a cancelled wedding. After taking some time to ‘find myself’ and do all the things I thought I couldn’t do whilst in ‘coupleville’, I found that re-entering the dating game was harder than I thought.

Fast forward three years and I am now at the start of a new relationship. Well, I think I am.

The rulebook has changed, and the lingo is different from the last time I went down this path. Firstly, my friends have differing views. Some say that my current beau (we are on date 7) and I are ‘seeing each other’. Others say that we’re ‘dating’. Personally I’m stuck in limbo trying to work out how not to screw this up, and what the hell the difference is.

When, in fact, do you become boyfriend and girlfriend? Is there a timeframe? A conversation that has to be had? Answers on a postcard please.

Let me explain myself a little better. After realising that Prince Charming and I were never just randomly going to meet, I plucked up the courage to try internet dating. After completing a questionnaire, which felt like hours and hours of answering the most bizarre questions, I was given the promise to ‘match me to the one’.

I got a few messages from men, and then some dates followed. There was Rodger, who turned out to be 45, not the 37 he had promoted himself to be; Chris, the pilot, who rather cheesily offered to ‘show me the world’; and then there was Liam, the Probation Officer who lied about his height (he was closer to 5ft than 6ft). None of these led to a second date and my self-esteem hit a low point. About to give up, thinking that the world of spinsterhood was my only option, I got a message in my inbox from Andy. And this is where my story begins.

Andy’s photo showed him to have the friendliest smile I had ever seen. He looked like a genuine, fun guy without arrogance.  He appeared to be someone you could laugh with for hours. Deciding to delay my calling to spinsterhood a little longer, I messaged him back, and we eventually met up for a drink.

The date had gone well. I managed to avoid knocking any drinks over, conversation flowed, and there was no need for an emergency call from my friend to end the date early (she was a pro having done it three times previously). With the end of the evening and our time to say goodbye soon approaching, we boarded a train to get to our various destinations.

My stop came up first, and we both got up to say goodnight. I went in for a cheeky kiss; the train jolted, and instead of a bit of a smooch, I head-butted him. As you can imagine, it wasn’t the most impressive thing I’ve done. As I got off the train and looked back at Andy, he put his thumbs up. I wanted the platform to open up and swallow me on the spot. Thankfully, Andy had found this amusing and date number two happened.

On date number three, I invited Andy over to mine for dinner. Cooking is not my forte, and why I offered to cook dinner still astounds me. Thinking Macaroni and Cheese was a safe bet (after all, what should you cook on a date?), I got busy in the kitchen with Andy chatting away about his day.

You know you’re bad when someone else ends up just taking over. The nerves had got to me. I didn’t add enough water to the pasta; I forgot to turn the hob on when trying to make the sauce, and then after I turned it on, I nearly caused a small fire when I put the tea towel on the hob. Even worse, I stayed quiet when Andy raided my fridge and found some nearly out-of-date rocket. You see, I own two tortoises, and the rocket was, in fact, their dinner and not actually meant for us. Unsurprisingly Andy has not been too keen for my help when he has subsequently cooked dinner.

As we hit date six, Andy met my friends and survived their interrogation tactics as they tag teamed each other in the search for information. None of my friends had ever done the Internet dating scene, so they were curious to find out how ‘normal’ Andy was, without letting on that they knew we had met online. They liked him, and thought he was a ‘good guy’. They were impressed that he had agreed to meet them so early on in to our ‘dating / seeing each other’ journey.

And this brings up another question: when should you introduce someone to your friends? It was just drinks in my head, but perhaps a little more daunting for Andy as he met seven of my closest friends.

As date number eight looks to be on the horizon, (I am secretly skipping on the inside that there is even a possible date 8). I still feel like half the time I don’t know what to do, and I’m thinking, where this is all going?

For example, we have just got to the phone calling stage, with the longest being three minutes and very businesslike, and our texts have just started to have ‘x’ at the end of them. We are just beginning to hold hands in public. But maybe this is what it’s like to date in your 30’s? It proves to be a much slower way of doing things compared to the hormone fuelled dating of my early 20’s.

I’m enjoying the ride, but I really just can’t help but wonder where it’s going!

By Jennifer Weeks

Jen lives near Brighton in England and works in education. Jen has an adventurous spirit and loves to travel to far flung destinations including Australia, NZ, Vietnam, Nepal and Peru to name a few. 

Enter to win Oopsie Loopsie waistband extenders for when you’re wearing your pre-preg jeans (beginning of pregnancy or post baby) but just can’t quite get that button done up!

In the modern world we live in, almost everything we use includes chemicals and artificial ingredients. Understandably, many pregnant women are wary of exposing their unborn baby to harsh, unnatural substances. Here are a few simple changes I made during my pregnancy to avoid exposing my baby to harmful substances.

Clean with Homemade Cleaners
Household cleaners can easily be made with ingredients like vinegar and baking soda. This not only prevents exposing your baby to harsh chemicals during your pregnancy, but it can save you some grief as well. These homemade cleaning agents are much more gentle on your skin and breathing passages when you’re cleaning.  They also are less likely to upset you when you’re feeling queasy. As a bonus, making your own cleaners usually saves you money.

Eat Natural, Organic Food

Eating natural food is great for your baby and it’s easy to do. Most grocery stores have an organic section that sells organic food and produce. Eating natural, organic food is also a great way to stay healthy and ensure that you gain a healthy amount of weight during pregnancy. With an increased appetite, it can be easy to go overboard with junk food and high-calorie meals. Sticking to fresh fruit and vegetables and healthy meats can help you to stay healthy during your pregnancy.

Use Natural Remedies Instead of Medication
I found that I was plagued with headaches throughout my pregnancy.  To my dismay, my doctor recommended I shouldn’t take Advil, which is usually my go-to for pain relief.  My doctor suggested that I try drinking more water because many headaches are caused by dehydration.  I made sure I drank water often and found that my headaches disappeared entirely.  On that note- make sure to talk to your doctor about any major changes you make throughout your pregnancy.  I was fortunate enough to have a doctor that helped me make decisions about my health, birthing plan, cord blood banking options, swaddling and so much more!

I also came down with a nasty cold during my pregnancy.  Before becoming pregnant, I had always relied on medicated nasal spray to deal with colds or nasal pressure.  Since use of medicated nasal spray is not suggested during pregnancy, I invested in a Neti-Pot and some saline packets.  Using the Neti-Pot I was able to clear my nasal passages naturally. I continue to do this now whenever I get a stuffy nose since it’s much less harsh on my nasal passages and just as effective.

These are some simple things you can do to have a natural and healthy pregnancy. Avoiding harsh chemicals and ingredients can help you and your baby to stay comfortable and in good health!

By Katie Moore

Katie Moore has written and submitted this article. Katie is an active blogger who discusses the topics of, motherhood, children, fitness, health and all other things Mommy. She enjoys writing, blogging, and meeting new people! To connect with Katie contact her via her blog, Moore From Katie or her twitter, @moorekm26

Extending The Boundaries

Terry’s Pub was my pub, and it was the place to be if you were black and hip and in New York City. The bartenders were paragons of urban elegance, mixing and serving drinks smoothly and participating in conversations which ranged in subject matter from whether China should be allowed in the UN to the proper length of a micromini skirt.

The regulars were writers, models, high school principals, actors, journalists, movie actors, musicians, and college professors.

One afternoon I entered Terry’s to find myself surrounded by well-wishers with wide smiles and loud congratulations.

The bartender showed me The New York Post and then presented me with a huge martini. I was featured as the newspaper’s “Person of the Week.” The regulars suspended their usual world-weary demeanor, giving hearty compliments, which I accepted heartily.

Eventually the toasters returned to their tables and I was left to grow gloomy in silence. Moodiness and a creeping drunkenness from too many martinis dimmed the room and my spirits.

Here, in my finest hour, I was alone. What had I done to any man to make him want to leave me and, even worse, not to win me to his side in the first place?

The questions came in the order of a military phalanx. Each marched into my consciousness, was recognized, and proceeded to make way for the next. I ordered another martini and resolved to soberly answer the inquiries. I was forty-one years old, slender, tall, and was often thought to be around thirty. No one had ever called me beautiful, save the odd Africanist who told me I looked like an African statue. Having seen many Yoruba and Fon wooden sculptures, I was not lured into believing myself anything but rather plain. I did dress strikingly and walked straight, my head evenly upon my shoulders, so kind people often said of me, “That’s a handsome woman.”

But here I was between affairs and alone. Like many women, I did regard the absence of a romantic liaison as a stigma which showed me unlovable.

I sat at the bar, mumbling over my inadequacies and drinking at least the fifth martini, when my roving eye fell on a table. Near the window sat five young, smart, black journalists enjoying each other’s company. They had been among the people who crowded around me earlier when the day had been bright, my present glorious, and my future assured. But they also had retreated, gone back to the comfort of their own table.

A tear slipped down my cheek. I called the bartender to settle my bill, but he informed me that all had been take care of , anonymously. With that pronouncement of kindness before me and the self-pitying thoughts behind me, I gathered my purse and, removing myself from the stool, gingerly pointed myself in the direction of the journalists’ table. The men looked up, saw my drunkenness, and became alarmed and guarded.

I pulled a chair from another table and asked, “Do you mind if I join you?”

I sat and looked at each man for a long time, and then I began a performance which now, more than twenty years later, can still cause me to seriously consider changing my name and my country of residence.

I asked of the table at large, “What is wrong with me? I know I’m not pretty, but I’m not the ugliest woman in the world. And if I was, I’d still deserve having a man of my own.”

I began to list my virtues.

“I keep a beautiful house, tables polished, fresh flowers, even if daises, at least once a week.

“I’m an excellent cook.

“I can manage my house and an outside job without keeling over in a dead faint.

“I enjoy sex and have what I hope is a normal appetite.

“I can speak French and Spanish, some Arabic and Fanti, and I read all the papers and journals and a book a week so that I can share an intelligent conversation with you.

“And none of all that appeals to you?”

I raised my voice. “Do you mean to tell me that that’s not enough for you?”

The men were embarrassed and angry with themselves at being embarrassed. Angry with me for having brought such unwieldy, drunken, awkward questions to their table.

In one second I realized that  I had done just what they feared of me. That I had overstepped the unwritten rules which I knew I should have respected. Instead, I had brazenly and boldly come to their table and spoken out on, of all things, loneliness.

When I realized my intoxication, I started to cry. An acquaintance at the bar walked over to our silent table. He greeted the men and asked, “Maya, sister, can I walk you home?” I looked up into his dark brown face and began to recover. His presence seemed to sober me a little. I found a handkerchief in my purse, and without rushing, I dabbed my face. I stood up and away from the table. I said, “Good-bye, gentlemen,” and took my rescuer’s hand. We walked out of the bar.

The long block home was made longer by my companion’s disapproving sounds. He clucked his tongue and muttered. “You shouldn’t be drinking martinis. Especially by yourself.” I didn’t have the will to remind him that I thought I had been with friends.

He continued….”You draw people to you; then you push them away.”

I sure didn’t have to push the journalists away.

“You give that big smile and act like you’re just waiting for a man to take you in his arms, but then you freeze up like an iceberg….People don’t know how to take you.” Well, they must not. I hadn’t been taken.

We arrived at my apartment, and I gave my attendant the sweetest, briefest smile I had in me and stepped inside and closed the door.

I entered into a long concentration which lasted until and even after I sobered myself.

At the end of my meditation I came to understand that I had been looking for love, but only under specific conditions. I was looking for a mate, but he had to a certain color, he had to have a certain intellect. I had standards. It was just likely that my standards eliminated a number of possibilities. 

I had married a Greek in my green youth, and the marriage had ended poorly, so I had not consciously thought of accepting any more advances from outside my own race. The real reason, or I think another reason, for not including non-African Americans in my target area was that I knew that if it was difficult to sustain a love affair between people who had grown up next door and who looked alike and whose parents had attended church together, how much more so between people from different races who had so few things in common.

However, during that afternoon and evening I arrived at the conclusion that if a man came along who seemed to me to be honest and sincere, who wanted to make me laugh and succeeded in doing so, a man who had a lilting spirit–if such a man came along who had a respect for other human beings, then if he was Swedish, African, or a Japanese sumo wrestler, I would certainly give him my attention, and I would not struggle too hard if he caught me in a web of charm.

-Maya Angelou

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Is Anyone Ever Too Much?

There are a few misguided wits who think they are being complimentary when they declare a woman is “too much.” While it is admirable and desirable to be enough, only masochists want to be “too much.” Being, claiming, or accepting the status allows others to heap responsibilities upon the back of the “too much” woman, who naturally is also referred to as “super.” “Super Woman” and “Earth Mother.”

The flatterer, for that is what the speaker means to be, exposes himself as a manipulator who expects to ingratiate himself into “Earth Mother’s” good graces, so that she will then take his burdens upon her and make his crooked ways straight.

When the complimenter is confronted, he will quickly disavow any scurrilous intent and with hurt feelings will declare, “I meant ‘too much’ to be a sign of my appreciation. I don’t see how you could misread my meaning. You must be paranoid.”

Well, yes. A certain amount of paranoia is essential in the oppressed or in any likely targets of oppressors. We must stay vigilant and be very careful of how we allow ourselves to be addressed.

We can too easily become what we are called with all the unwelcome responsibilities the title makes us heir to.

-Maya Angelou

From Wouldn’t Take Nothing For My Journey Now

I left my marriage 3 years ago; it had not been the deep love connection I’d always wanted. This was just one of many safe relationships in my life. I invested less of myself, minimizing the risk of getting hurt.  The grief that followed had more to do with the upheaval in my life; losing my home, the life I built, and the crumbling of a dream. Now at 29 years old, I wondered if I would ever find love again.

On the heels of ending my marriage, I met Jason. We shared instant chemistry; he was the first person with whom I felt safe. At last, I could let go. I was no longer alone to hold the world together. In Jason’s arms, I felt safe, small, and beautiful.  The world and its’ challenges faded away when he wrapped himself around me. I craved that feeling.

A child of divorce and the oldest female, I played mom to my brother and sister, and then married someone who needed the same.  Jason was strong, independent, and financially established. He was tough on the outside and soft and warm on the inside. I’d finally met my equal. It was that feeling. I had found it!

I fell deeper and deeper. I didn’t question the things unspoken; I gave my whole heart.  He was shy about his past. I understood, and it was ok with me. We both had scars. Despite our feelings for each other, we were both broken on the inside. Small arguments lead to periods of uncertainty. It hurt, I didn’t understand.

But I wouldn’t push, although I longed to understand so many things. In February, two years ago, something irrelevant blew up, and it would be the end. He closed up and cut me off. In April, he came to talk and tell me he was moving across the country. He said that I deserved a lot more than what he could give, and that he was broken and afraid to cause more pain. He said he cared more for me than anyone.

We embraced; he wiped my tears. He assured me someday there would be an answer, and then left me weeping in my kitchen.  The sobs choked the breath out of me; I cried from the depths of my soul.  I heard of people dying of a broken heart, but never in my life did I understand how possible it was until then. My heart ached, and I had no answers.

I cried for months as he had cut all ties. I felt punished; I’d done nothing wrong.  I reached out months later because I couldn’t believe it was over. Nothing made sense. He told me he missed me and we communicated by email for the next five months.

Finally, I was ready, and I asked the question. The truth would knock the wind right out of me. He’d had a child with someone else; it happened while we had taken some time apart. He found out while we were back together, and that was the beginning of the end for us. He never wanted me to find out, and while he never meant to hurt me, he didn’t want me to let him go either.

I was angry and hurt. I told him I’d never let another person in; I wasn’t going to trust again. In fact, the next person I dated didn’t even live in Canada. I openly labeled myself emotionally unavailable.

Time healed, and armed with answers, I reached out to Jason. The only way to set me free was to forgive him with all of my heart. I was now free to love him forever in my heart, and had a sense of peace and hope that I would find it again.

I did. I was ready. I ended the long distance relationship with a man in DC, and immediately met Chris. Conversation was effortless, deep, captivating. We clicked. He made us promise that we would never punish one another for our own pasts. I obliged, wholeheartedly. I was falling again, and this was different.

I felt comfortable as I gradually opened myself up. After a few weeks, Chris pulled back and slowed things down. I now know that was the moment it all came flooding back: the hurt, the pain, the memories, and the fear. I shut down on him, and it was the first time I attempted to run for safety.

He recognized this, and pushed for answers as my guard went back up. He questioned my behavior and my reasons. I had been telling my story for so many years; I believed it myself. Now, I questioned my own story.

I began searching deeper for answers. He left no stone unturned, sending me on a painful trip through my past. Suddenly, he knew my deepest darkest secrets, in fact, I now knew them too. All the fear stemmed from a painful childhood experience. I had walked away from a parent as a little girl torn between divorcing parents and that parent had never chased me. The wound was deeper than I understood, and now at 31 years old I realized it was affecting my ability to be vulnerable.

It hit me; I’d broken my promise to Chris. I punished him and every intimate relationship in my life with the pain I had known as a little girl. The guard around my heart was titanium for years, and now it had a gaping hole in the presence of a man I’d only recently met. I was angry, yet I think he understood. In fact, he had dealt with his own childhood pain.

The relationship continued to dig up my past. He grew closer, and then pushed me away several times, triggering every fear in me. I was on a new journey into awareness. I was inspired to understand and to heal. I was falling in love again. He was the inspiration I needed to continue to grow as a person. I wanted to let him in, as I felt strong enough now. My amour was now strangling the relationship and me.

Things never materialized with Chris as I had hoped. It hurt. With time and hindsight, however, I am grateful for the experience. Both Jason and Chris came into my life and offered me a precious gift in my journey. Maybe, just maybe, each heartbreak was meant to open my heart up for the deeper love that is to come. They have both left me changed. But I believe, for the better.

“There are two kinds of pain. The pain that hurts you, and the pain that changes you” ~ Anonymous

By Jackie Mattioli

Jackie recently moved into the City to continue developing her Professional Career and in the hopes of finding love in the heart of a bustling young community of singles. A hopeless romantic focused on remaining open and vulnerable to love in the face of pain. Jackie turned to writing over a year ago to share her journey through the world of singlehood. She is intrigued by the trials and tribulations of dating, self-discovery after breakup, growth, healing and the superb influence of timing in life.

In sixth grade, I had my one and only socially-recognized boyfriend. The “relationship” lasted a week and then he broke it off. It all happened so quickly that it probably didn’t take up more than a page in my diary. What I remember more vividly than the relationship itself, is my pack of grade-school girlfriends commenting on how strange it was that I had a boyfriend one day on the bus ride to school. Come to think of it, I agreed with them. It was strange. What was it about the 11-year-old me that didn’t seem fit to be in a couple? And why does it seem that nothing has changed?

After all, I am thirty and single. No men in sight. And most of those girls from the bus are now married with children.

It’s always been easy for me to make female friends. But, making male friends was a skill I never mastered. This is probably why having a boyfriend in the sixth grade shocked everyone. I can count on one finger the number of male friends I currently have. Congratulations, Joel, you’re it.

The possibility of Joel being the Harry to my Sally would be something to consider if he hadn’t gotten married to someone else last year. I’ve always been under the assumption that girls who have lots of male friends have an easier time dating because they are comfortable talking to men. Plus, there’s always the chance of friendship turning to love.

Despite my current state of unwanted same-sex isolation, there was a time in my life when I had a somewhat typical dating life. I call that period “The Good Years.” Between 2004 and 2008 the pulse of my dating life was racing. Dates were plentiful; male attention was easy to come by and I even broken the heart of a really good guy (Hello, regret!). When I moved to Los Angeles in 2007, I was still enjoying the newfound and abundant company of men. Nick, Jason and Justin began taking up real estate in what was once my phone’s all-female contacts list.

Naively, I figured once it started, it wouldn’t stop. I’d spent high school and college pretty much shunned by the opposite sex, and this felt like my breakthrough. From here on out it would be men as far as the eye can see. And from those men one in particular would emerge as my one true love, and we would get married. Case closed. Happily ever after.

Unfortunately, that’s not how it went down. In 2008, I met the man that would take me on a year long adventure of wild nights, exciting firsts, teary breakdowns and lessons learned, culminating in my first broken heart. It was all down hill from there.

The men went away; dates dried up, and the bitterness began to simmer in my veins. The only guys left were the occasional liars and manipulators full of bad intentions who found the sad girl I’d become an easy target. I flat lined.

Jump ahead to 2013 and I’ve managed to rebuild my self-esteem and keep bitterness from completely taking me over. But, I have no clue where to meet men these days. Especially now that going to bars and staying out past midnight seems desperate and, frankly, exhausting. Building friendships with guys my age seems impossible as well since most of them are married. I sometimes find myself incapacitated as I try to piece together the algorithm for understanding men and thus bringing them into my life. There’s got to be some sort of formula for this process, right?

If you’re thinking daddy issues may be to blame, you’re probably right. I’ve never had a great relationship with my father. The short list of his negative traits includes: abusive (physically and verbally), critical, overbearing and controlling. For a long time, he was the one and only man in my life. Good, God! He pretty much still is.

On a lighter note, it probably doesn’t help that I work in a women’s clothing store where the only men that wander in are shopping for their wives or girlfriends. And my other job is as a writer, which is a solitary profession. Add to that a history of extracurricular activities that have been mostly either female-centric (ballet) or single-player only (photography, harmonica) and the chances of me meeting a nice guy are narrowed dramatically.

Turning to the Internet to meet men is an option many have suggested. And, it’s something I’ve tried; however, with little success. I’m a member of a gym packed with attractive men; however, do guys approach girls at the gym? I’m there five days a week, and no one has ever approached me. Each day I secretly hope my cardio session will be interrupted by a cute guy who thinks my profuse sweating is irresistible. And I’ve recently joined a co-ed intramural softball team. I am trying. I promise. Hopefully, by getting myself around men again, I will regard them with less mysticism and see them simply as human beings, with a slightly different anatomy of course.

Just recently, two men from my past came back into my life in different, yet equally unpromising, ways. Guy #1, a long-time acquaintance who spent the majority of 2012 taking advantage of my romantic feelings for him when I thought we were giving a relationship a go, asked me to coffee. The kicker: he’d been dumped 15 hours prior to our meeting and wanted to bear his broken heart to a “friend.”

Guy #2, who is currently living with his girlfriend of three years, asked me to lunch to profess his love for me and desire to, basically, get drunk, push the fajitas and fried calamari to the side and have sex right there on the table in the restaurant. This was not what I had in mind as far as meeting men.

Let me clarify, when I ask where to meet men, I mean new ones! New ones who are single and want to date me. I’m fairly certain now that the men from my past should stay there. I appreciate the guys I met during “The Good Years” for they gave me my only insight into the male mind other than what I gleaned from my father. To those men I say thank you and good-bye. It’s time for me to move forward.

I’m ready to believe again. I’m ready for “The Great Years.” Now, where are the men?

By Kendra Gilbert

Kendra Gilbert is a freelance journalist currently living in limbo, otherwise known as Fresno. She has written for publications from Boston to Los Angeles and loves writing about fashion most of all. The abbreviated list of things she enjoys includes: thrifting, photography, beer, movies, hiking and skee ball.

Get up. Get yourself up because if you roll over it will be far more painful to get up later and you won’t have gotten a work-out in. Get up. Whatever you do, remember the passport forms today.

Drive. Push it push it, spin, spin, spin. Do you want to waste away in your seventies? Look flabby in that “hot” one-piecer you just picked up? Then push it.

Drive home. Have you sent those thank you cards? I wonder how my friends are. How long has it been since I talked to Jen? Later.

Coffee, coffee, thank the Good Lord for coffee.

Kids in the house. Warm, sleepy, hugs. Delicious.

“Sorry, no yogurt today.”

“I know you eat yogurt each and every day, but there’s none today, and there’s no toast either. There are some perfectly good Cheerios. Yes I am a failure as a mother, thank you very much.”

Laundry, laundry, there’s always laundry.

Exactly six more minutes until they need to be in school. If there’s no food in their stomachs by then I’m a bad mother.

“EAT!!!! I DON’T CARE, PUDDING, CHICKEN LEGS, JUST GET SOME FOOD IN!” Was that demon me?

“What is on your feet?” Still too cold for sandals, but sandals it is, what will her teacher say. Two minutes left. “Get those sandals on your feet. Where is your homework? WHERE IS YOUR HOMEWORK!?” Bad mother. Socks might help. No time for socks. Aren’t I capable than more than these thoughts? But I love them. I love them to the ends of the earth, and I’m their mother, and that’s the truth.

Work, work. Perpetually behind. What on earth did I do with my time before? Are my kid’s feet freezing? Was it my turn for snack? What’s on for the weekend? Birthday party. Present, card, dinner. Google recipes. Healthy, of course, and fabulous. List. I need a hot grocery list.

Imagine he had to do a monstrosity like Christmas? There’s my fun thought for the day.

Present, done. Too much money, but fit the time window, all good. Groceries. How in the hell did this just cost $130, when it will only last two days? And I know I missed something. I hereby resolve to use every leftover that exists in my fridge from this day forward. I throw out too much. Guilt. Starving children. But what to do when my kids don’t EAT anything? I hereby resolve to force my kids to eat something.

Pick-up. Greatest smiles and reunion ever. “How was school?” Nothing. Does that mean something? What are those moms looking at? What exactly are those moms looking at?

Old. So old. Lines, wrinkles, folds. Botox? Gym. I need new clothes. I shouldn’t care.

Wine, wine, thank the Good Lord for wine.

“Eat, eat, for the Lov

e of God will you eat? And if anyone on this earth loves me, let what you eat be green.”

I clean up. And now…

“Get clean.” When I so expeditiously signed up for this role, did I realize two kids would mean I would have to shampoo hair and brush teeth every day for eight years? And, they still somehow get cavities. Bad mother.

Stories, I do love stories. I’m two lines ahead, so I can read two lines well.

Snuggles, I do love snuggles.

I love your warm little body, but not necessarily your wide, open eyes, at this moment specifically. Would you just. Please. Fall. Asleep.

Husband time. Really? Bed time. I had the biggest plans. I would have solved the world’s problems if I could have made it past 11pm. Written the best novel. Sold my house on Kijiji. But I failed. Shocker, because it happened yesterday too. The passport forms! The thank you cards! Bad mother.

Can’t sleep, although I’m exhausted. Today’s worries: Should I be doing more? Contributing more to society? Volunteering? I watch The News. I can talk politics. I have a few degrees. How do people find the time? Damn, I didn’t call Jen.

12:30am: I’m awake, I’m awake. Noises. Puking? Run, you can save it, run, run, dangle him, dangle him, well, at least you got half of it. Wash bed or wash him? Need help, but he has to work, I can zombie. He helps! Shower sleepy, sick boy, Febreeze the bed. Throw out the pillow? Food poisoning? Fever? Hospital? No fever of 104 so they’ll politely tell me I’m an idiot. Sleep half-awake and monitor, that will do. I hope to God that will do. Is he okay?

Are they okay?

Until the day I die, Are. They. Okay?

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I kind-of get it now. It’s hard, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything either.

Ann Moore

Also published on The Huffington Post

Ann Moore is a stay-at-home mom who sneaks away to write while treating herself to nachos and a pint.  She is the author of YA novel, Girl Reinvented and she is also the Senior Editor at The Purple Fig. Check her out at www.annmoorewriter.com or follow her on Twitter @AMooreWriter.

Have you heard about chia seeds? Yes, I thought of the chia pet too. Watch the original commercial here, amazing. Anyways, apparently these little nutritious seeds are the popular new health trend. I’m definitely up for trying them now that there is a fizzy drink that contains them, and also a recipe that includes champagne.

The Lemon Chia Fizz features Mamma Chia, the first organic chia beverage, and is served regularly to celebs at popular restaurant Nobu. We think your mom would totally dig this for her mother’s day brunch.

LEMON CHIA FIZZ
Servings: 1
3 lemon wedges
3/4 ounces simple syrup
2 ounces Meyer Lemon Sake
Chambord
Louis Roederer Champagne
Mamma Chia, blackberry hibiscus flavor
Chia seeds for garnish

Muddle three lemon wedges, add Lemon Sake, shake and strain into champagne glass. Add Mamma Chia blackberry hibiscus, then top with champagne and splash of Chambord. Garnish with chia seeds and serve in a champagne glass.
To serve alongside your fabulous fizzy drink, consider making these Banana Breakfast Muffins:

Mamma Chia Banana Breakfast Muffins

Created by: Sage Gordon

Ingredients:

* 1 1/2 cups organic whole wheat pastry flour

* 3/4 cup organic oats

* 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

* 1/4 teaspoon salt

* 1/4 teaspoon organic cinnamon

* 1/4 cup organic agave nectar

* 1/4 cup organic almond butter

* 1 cup organic banana (mashed)

* 1 bottle Raspberry Passion Mamma Chia

In a small bowl whisk together agave nectar, almond butter, mashed banana, and Mamma Chia (all wet ingredients). In a medium bowl combine wheat pastry flour, oats, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon (dry ingredients). Add wet to dry and mix until evenly moistened. For smaller muffins, divide evenly into a 12 cup muffin tin. Can also make 10 large muffins in larger muffin tin. Paper muffin cups recommended. Bake at 400 degrees for about 18 minutes, until a wooden toothpick comes out clean.