I should probably save all these tips for upcoming Works-for-Me Wednesday posts, but since Shannon could not be bothered to acknowledge my seven million shout-outs to her the other day (forget what I said about the Golden Rule, okay?), I just might start boycotting the carnival, which will really show her!

I mean, since she only has six million other participants and probably gets to multiply her gross revenue column on BlogHerAds by 60% instead of the lousy 50% I take home get to watch accumulate like sands in an hourglass. Speaking of which, let the BlogHerAd income ignorance come to an end. In the seven weeks that I’ve been running ads on my site, I’ve made 36 dollars.

Which is half a day’s pass to Disneyworld, or one meal at Disneyworld or a princess dress on clearance at Disneyworld, or 9/100dredths of a plane ticket to Disneyworld. And you should note that I wouldn’t need one of each of these things but five, only not of the princess dress. Dick would rather have a Mr. Incredibles costume.

Top Five Four Tips for a Less Klutzy/More Together Life

1. When making Cook&Serve chocolate pudding in your first year of college, and resolving to study while you eat, and to thoughtfully clean up the kitchen and store the leftover pudding in the fridge (because back then you cared about portion control) before you study, LET THE PUDDING COOL BEFORE CLOSING THE TUPPERWARE CONTAINER. Otherwise it could explode all over the kitchen and burn your neck, and you have to go to class with a bag of frozen peas clutched to your esophagus. And people will think you are just trying to get attention and are not really IN PAIN.

2. When speedwalking on the treadmill at the YMCA, and talking to your best friend whom you have not seen in 24 HOURS, and she gets off the treadmill and starts to walk out of the room, DO NOT maintain eye contact with her. Otherwise, your legs might follow your eyes and you fall off the treadmill, which is harder than it looks. It might even look like you are trying to get back on the treadmill, but really you are just trying to GET OFF THE DANG THING but it WON’T LET YOU GO. And then you will get lots of attention from employees who don’t want you to sue.

3. When going to Bear Lake to be the head cook of a Boy Scout Camp and you are almost nineteen-years old and have finished your first year in college and obtained your Open Your Own Restaurant Food Handler’s Permit and have clipped every recipe out of Family Fun magazine for the past ten years, and 569 Boy Scouts are relying on you to keep them from starving, and you have a cookbook and access to Allrecipes.com, do not call your older sister to ask her how to make Baked Potatoes, or she might think you were dropped on the head more than that one time she knows about.

4. When getting the kids ready for bed and your husband is busy “folding laundry,” and the older hooligans are still in the tub, but you got the little one out because she was screaming, but then you forgot about her and started blogging again, DO NOT forget to buy lots of carpet cleaner that morning. Otherwise, theoretically speaking, it might be really hard to clean up the trail of poop from the main cache to the dinner table where she climbed on a chair to graze on leftovers from dinner.

There was one other one, but it was just sad, rather than highly educational. Please share your own best klutz-tips. As you can tell, I need all the help I can get!

****Updated to say****

5. Because it has been pointed out to me (by someone I USED to think of as a friend, see #2), y’all FrumpFighters should kick me out of your carnival because I never actually talk about beautification of the physical body. But I did have one that mentioned makeup, so I’ll put it back in: (Thank me later for this amazingly original tip):

When buying lipstick and reminding your fellow Fight the Frumper that you cannot just write about your favorite lipstick as you have no idea what brand you have ever bought, as you always just buy whatever is on sale at the grocery store (as long as it mentions some form of chocolate in the color or “mocha”), do not leave it in the car where it will melt even if there is still ice on the windshield. Stick with melting crayons and fruit snacks and dumdums and old milk in sippy cups and actual chocolate.

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Go Fight the Frump with real experts at Fussy’s.

In a stunning gesture that MY HUSBAND COULD LEARN A LOT FROM, Brad hopes to surprise Hannah with new sheets when they both get home. It sounds like Hannah has been dropping subtle hints, subtle enough that Brad, who despite being a good husband is still a man, had no idea where to begin. Flannel? Silk? Cotton? Hemp? Thread-count? He wondered if he should wash them before using them the first time. (Yes, unless you want the option of returning them, then No).

These look rather slippery to me.

There are a lot of sheet options (Bamboo? Felt? Cotton-Poly), so I devised the following quiz to help OTHER HUSBANDS WHO WISH TO SURPRISE THEIR WIVES. Women can take the quiz to make their hints less subtle, and men, answer with your wife in mind. Forgive the irresponsible over-generalization, but I don’t think most men care what the sheets are made of, as long as your lovely body graces them.

What Kind of Sheet Are You?

1. Your favorite breakfast is:

a) Granola with Soy Milk
b) Fluffy Buttermilk Pancakes
c) Eggs Benedict, Extra Hollandaise
d) Crepes with Berries and Creme Fraiche
e) Quiche Lorraine

2. You Usually Sleep:

a) In an untidy sprawl.
b) Left side
c) Spooning
d) Right side
e) Fetal position

3. Your favorite movie is:

a) Juno
b) Sound of Music
c) Sex and the City
d) The Philadelphia Story
e) Xanadu

4. Your idea of recreation is:

a) Raising llamas
b) Reading a book in the window seat
c) Day at the spa
d) Metropolitan Museum Costume Gala
e) Roller Derby

Results
Mostly A’s: Flannel
Mostly B’s: Jersey Knit
Mostly C’s: Silk or Satin
Mostly D’s: 1200 Thread-count 100% Egyptian Cotton
Mostly E’s: Cotton/Polyester Blend

Now that you know what kind of sheets to buy, remember to wash them twice a year, whether they need them or not. And one final hint: if you have a king-size bed, you can write “foot” on both ends of the fitted sheet so you can easily tell which way they go. My sister and mom draw big arrows too, but I’m not sure that’s necessary.

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For more Fight the Frump goodness, visit Fussypants.

Most of the time I feel really grateful for the money Dick brings home. He also doesn’t complain about his job like he did when he was teaching, which is good because then I don’t feel like telling him to shut up at dinner because AT LEAST YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO LOOK FOR KID SHOES TODAY. SEVEN TIMES.

But house-hunting, even in a housing “slump,” is stealthily depressing. It’s like how I usually feel pretty good about my body, just glad I have shoulders and knees and elbows, but then I try on clothes, or get my picture taken with anomalously skinny people, and suddenly I am plunged into a real slump.

Here’s a great cure for the money-grubbies: Global Rich List (via FMH). Someone asked me tonight how the BlogHer Ads thing is working for me, and I was embarrassed to say that I still have not remembered my password, so, beyond meeting some great other bloggers (like Marianne and Beth) in my “circle,” I don’t really know how it’s going. I’m sure millions of dollars are waiting for me to claim.

I started with BlogHer after talking to a bloggy friend of mine who joked about how she would be retiring soon on her $28/month ad income. So I thought it would be instructive to see how an income of $336 a year (28 x 12) stacks up:

Since I know my bloggy friend has a couple other sources of income, it’s probably only of interest to me that if one were to make just 336 dollars per year from one’s blog, one would be richer than quite a few people in the world. One would also be annoying for saying “one” all the time.

For those who don’t measure everything in terms of blogs(!?!), Wikipedia says that the median household income in the U.S. is $46,326, which stacks up like so:

I just have two words to say about that: Ho-ly Cow.

If only there were a website that could make me feel this positive about my body. It would tell me that, compared to most mammals, like whales and elephants, say, I really look like this:

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I have fought the Finance Frump before, and probably will again, but I hope this helps in the war against all manner of frumpiness!

Most of the time when people talk about fashion, I think of the Emperor’s New Clothes fairytale. Or Thoreau, who advised: “beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes.” This is when I’m not thinking about other intellectual things like what’s for dinner and what was on TV last night.

Fashion is a creative, subjective thing. One person’s [insert high-fashion label] is another person’s thrift shop bargain (unless by thrift you mean “vintage,” in which case they really ARE the same thing). Consider this ring featured in The New York Times.

The comments were the best thing about this column, proving again that the Internet really is like manna, a gift from Heaven that nourishes and allows the unempowered a format for correcting the hubris of salaried journalistas. Here are just a few:

is that my highschool ring? (Mary)

What a find! It must be really difficult to research and source these unique items, what with a Banana Republic on every other corner in NYC and most shopping malls around the country. Maybe you could do a piece on gum ball machine jewelry too. (Sar Casm)

That is one ugly ring — why not go to Salvation Army or Goodwill and pick up something for $1? (Casino Con)

Man, I love the internet. Only, let’s not diss Salvation Army, ok?

Speaking of fashion and motherhood, though, my good friend Andrea dropped out of high school to marry her high school sweetheart. (And no, she didn’t “have to”). She later took the GED and got a plaque from the state of Utah congratulating her on getting the high score that year. Then she became a pharamicist, and then later she said something profound about fashion and motherhood, which brought me a lot of vindicatory satisfaction at the time.

In her visits with new mothers at the hospital, Andrea said she could often tell which mothers were going to breastfeed by how they looked after the birth. Breastfeeding was less common in those mothers who fussed over their hair and clothes and makeup than those who looked like death warmed over. Since I looked like death not even warmed over after giving birth, I thought this sounded only fair. Who has time/energy/desire to primp with a bloodsucking eel attached 24/7?

Then Mrs. Fussypants had to go and give birth to her fifth boy child. And then she had to go and wear pearls. And earrings. And, is that mascara? And I KNOW she breastfeeds.

At least she did have to suffer the crime against humanity known as the hospital gown. Otherwise I’d have to hate her. As it is, I’m thinking I need to reconsider my principled stand against Beautified Mother Barbie. Now that Barbie breastfeeds, and all.

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p.s. Thanks to Fussy for allowing me to use her picture.

p.p.s. I didn’t ask Andrea’s permission before outing her as a smart high school dropout and probably misrepresenting her words egregiously. I hope she can forgive me.

But now I get it: I’ve been depressed the past couple weeks. It’s a situational depression that will go away soon, rather than clinical depression requiring medication or therapy, but, if I felt like this all the time, I would be checking myself into the nearest psych ward.

And when I’ve thought about sticking my head in the oven this past week, it wasn’t in a “the kids are driving me crazy” sort of way, but rather, for the first time, a “maybe the kids would be okay without me” sort of way. I don’t mean to be melodramatic; as I said, I know this will pass, it just hasn’t, quite, yet.

A lot of exciting or friendly things have happened recently, and each one cheered me up for about ten minutes. Each time I thought about them was good for another ten minutes of cheering up, so I thought I’d share them here. If you have any good advice on fighting post-surgical or otherwise-situational depression, somewhere between eating chocolate (not drastic enough) and hospitalization (too drastic), please let me know.

Here’s how I’m fighting the frump of mind:

A Mom to take advantage of:

My mom came yesterday to take Spot (18 mo) and Susan (3 1/2) for a few five days. I felt guilty when she offered. Of course I would love to have a break from them; although I can take care of them, it is really hard right now. But how hard does it have to be before it becomes right that someone else should have to take care of my children? I still don’t know, but when I found myself sitting on the floor, Spot in my lap still unsure why nursing is no longer on the program and Susan decorating her face with marker “freckles” AND when those two normally normal things suddenly seemed unbearable, I guess that was hard enough.

Mom told me to “take advantage of this time.” Did she mean by blogging? Well, at my doctor’s appointment yesterday I was told to take off the sling only for “desk work.” Sounds like blogging to me!

Presents

Speaking of blogging, a good friend of mine from high school had this sign made for me after she read my Love you when you’re clean and sweet-smelling post. I recently visited Andrea and saw her new baby Easton. I’m happy to report that he was both clean and sweet-smelling. She should keep him.

I’d hang it in the girls’ room, but I’m afraid they’d jump on the bed and knock it off the wall. Because they’re ladies like that. Maybe the dining room.

Speaking of blogging again, I just got some cute hairbows in the mail from Gourmet Mom-on-the-Go. You can think bloggy giveaways are silly and shameless self-promotion, until you actually win something yourself, and then, just as Toni says, even if you haven’t actually won the lottery, it’s a great pick-me-up!

My girls found the bows and have been wearing them ever since, which is why I could only find one of each pair for this picture.

I also got this book in the mail from my good friend Tara as part of a get-well-soon package. Funny, practical, and so nice to know that someone is wanting to save us from all-McDonalds-all-the-time.

It included floam for the kids and even a check to pay me back money I had forgotten she owed me. That’s true friendship right there (both my forgetting and her remembering).

Finding a Dream Place to Live

We’ve been drooling over Utah’s version of Pleasantville for months now, even though we really can’t afford a cardboard box on an outlying street under a bridge. A couple nights ago we found a tiny townhome in the BEST location ever. Made an offer today.

Our dream cardboard box looks nothing like this, but we could walk by here every day, if we wanted.

Forgive us our trespasses

I got really upset last week. My sister Mary had posted some of my recipes under her name on a new family recipe site she’s created to make sharing our favorite, modified recipes with each other easier. I got on my high “copyright,” “plagiarism,” “hard-work-taking-those-pictures and revising-and-writing-up-those-recipes” horse and made her feel bad. And THEN, yesterday? I wrote a post in which I showed some blog buttons that I have made. And my friend Tara said, Wait, I made that button. I heard (unspoken) words like “hypocrite” and “scraper” and “not-good-blogger-etiquette-r.”

Who hates that feeling (however deserved) of knowing that they have done something wrong? Do you get that awful, headachy, sick feeling? In Mary’s case, she did what she did because she thought she was helping me (remember, ole’ one arm over here) and that I wouldn’t care. I did. In my case, I thought there was a clear distinction between graphic and button — and had meant that I’d taken a graphic and created the html code to turn it into a hyperlink. I wasn’t clear enough.

My sister made amends, I made amends. One of the great things about blogging is that posts can be edited, or even taken down, if necessary. But even after Mary groveled sufficiently for the hardest of hearts, I still felt just a bit of nice self-righteous superiority. Hello! I would never do something like that. And then I did, and even though I fixed the problem and said I was sorry, I couldn’t blame Tara if she’s still just a bit miffed. Although I would never hold a grudge.

Luckily, Tara is superior to me in every way, so I’m sure it won’t take a mistake (which we’d be a long time waiting for) on her part for her to realize how easy they are to make.

Amen.

THEN I had three kids, and stretch marks from my breasts to my calves, and a creepy mommy-pouch, which might work quite nicely if we were marsupials. Only another mother can truly appreciate how disheartening it is to look like an old bag (literally) at thirty. At least, I thought only another mother could, but it turns out that cosmetic surgeons are both deeply empathetic, and eager to fix the problem. As the great Dr. Stoker says in the Times article,

The severe physical trauma of pregnancy, childbirth and breast-feeding can have profound negative effects that cause women to lose their hourglass figures . . .

Twenty years ago, a woman did not think she could do something about it and she covered up with discreet clothing . . . But now women don’t have to go on feeling self-conscious or resentful about their appearance.

Ah! Ah! That’s me. Severe physical trauma, lost figure, self-conscious and resentful. All I need is a breast-lift (implants optional), tummy tuck and some discreet full-body liposuction, or, in other words, The Mommy Makeover, and I could be better than new.

I could go from this:

To this:

Who wouldn’t want to go back to their 11-year-old self, strange costumes and big hair and all? And for only $15k – $30k? I don’t have anything better to do with that kind of money. It’s not like children are starving in Africa. Or, if there were, it’s not like American Idol and tons of celebrities aren’t doing EVERYTHING they can to solve that problem.

I’m tired of Fighting the Frump with baby steps. Exercise and drinking water and avoiding unflattering clothes and taking a ding-dang shower and having a positive outlook: great ideas, but do they get rid of my marsupial pouch? Are they as easy and convenient as one-time surgery? Will they make me look like Katie Holmes? I don’t think so.

After months of deliberation, I went under the knife last week. I wasn’t prepared for the pain. Or the brain fog. Or the constipation. Turns out it’s serious business, that general anesthesia. As they strapped me to the table (I had to be sitting upright for the surgeon to have access) and put the oxygen on me, I had second thoughts. What if something happened and I never woke up? Would my kids be glad I looked AWESOME in my coffin?

Was it worth weaning Spot? I know it’s not too early to wean her; she’s 18 months and happy as a clam on 2% milk, but when she climbed on my bed and tugged on my shirt a couple days before the surgery, I cried. Sometimes I think she’ll be my last baby, but those are usually the days when I’m not even remotely sad about no longer breastfeeding — no longer being the human pacifier, the body that has grown saggy and baggy and old with the business of bringing three babies into the world.

Then I woke up and Dick was there, and I felt so sad. I thought my heart would break. Is sadness a side effect of anesthesia? Shouldn’t I be feeling sassy and fresh?

Dick held my hand (tighter!) and asked why the doctor had written Y-E-R on my right arm? And I realized there had been a big mistake. Instead of a boob job and tummy tuck and full-body liposuction, I’d gotten surgery on my shoulder, which had been marked YES. I just hope my surgeon’s hand is steadier on a scalpel than on a marker.

Because I can’t imagine going under the knife for anything less than a seriously better body.

I ran (in the minivan) to Walmart right after walking with Shalece today. While I didn’t shower or anything, I did change out of my exercise clothes.

But if the same kind of people shop at your Walmart as do at mine (people like me), then you know that I was NOT the most frumpy person there.

That didn’t stop Susan from saying to the (surprisingly well-styled) cashier “You have pink lips.”

WHOSE MOTHER NEEDS LIPSTICK?

This is what I looked like (Susan wondered why I was taking a picture of the mirror. Finally got her to be quiet by working her into the shot).

I wanted to get a picture of my back because that’s the subject of my Fight the Frump tip today: Hide the hunchback.

Now, I don’t know if this is a common woman problem, or if it is specific to my family, but I have to say that I think I get it from my mom. We just have a bit of a hump at the top of our spines. So I feel weird wearing shirts cut low, even a little bit, in the back.

It’s for sure not a calcium deficiency, ’cause we drink enough chocolate milk (Nesquik with added Calcium: we’re healthy like that) to float your boat (literally).

So when I went shopping with Tara for spring dresses, I kept my hunchback in mind. I picked her out a cute pink-y Easter dress and found a rather Autumnal (flattering darker colors) ensemble for myself for $15.50 at Ross. I love making Dick guess how much I paid for clothes. Perhaps he’s humoring me after ten years of this game, but he always guesses outrageous amounts ($35? $25?) and then acts all relieved when I say “$15.50″ “for both the skirt AND shirt.”

Notice how the Mandarin-ish collar hides the hunchback, but it vees in front so I don’t feel choked to death. My breasts look kinda saggy (who’s still nursing?), but I promise I am wearing a bra in this picture, one of two I own; maybe I shouldn’t have thrown them in the dryer.

Speaking of bras, and nursing (anytime, anywhere), I loved Fussy’s post this week on Nursing with STYLE. The only thing I’d add is that great longer-length camisoles can be found at ‘modesty’ stores like Shade and Down East Basics. They’re sometimes a bit shrink-wrapped for this body, but that’s not necessarily a drawback for an underlayer.

Can’t wait to see what the other Frump-Fighters tackle this week, though I am trying to keep my participation secret from Dick. Don’t want to raise any unrealistic expectations.

Because they know you are better than them, if you fight the frump. Hey, I resent resemble that.

I love Fussy‘s tagline, “We can’t both look good. It’s me or the house.” Because there’s nothing better than another good reason to ignore the house. But I have to take it a step further and tell you that it’s me (my appearance) or me (my brain), and if you could see the state of my marbles, you’d agree that I should spend 110% of my energy trying to fight that battle. So here’s to embracing the frump, with fond hopes that someday I’ll think straight enough to get to how I look.

Seriously, though (and I can be serious, with all that energy directed mentally), I think the reason I embrace the frump is because I’m afraid not to. If I obviously look like I’m not trying, then who knows? I might be gorgeous. I might look like Liv Tyler on a good day, and the only reason you’ll never know is because I love my flip-flops and exercise pants beyond reason. Better to leave you in suspense than to get myself dolled up and remove all doubt.

And while I’m telling you how much I’m glad to have met Fussy internetally, I have a confession. I’m Jane, and besides all the other great blogs I love, I’m a Dooce-aholic. I love Dooce, who is also loved by Fussy and Bossy. If they (Fussy and Bossy) don’t know I exist, and Dooce doesn’t know that they exist, if a tree falls in the internet, do I exist?

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Update

Ok, I’m a dork. That was probably obvious, but here’s why I’m specifically a dork today. I wrote this for Fight the Frump two weeks ago, but got it done on what might be called “Saturday” instead of “Friday,” but only by those picky enough to think of midnight as the cutoff. This is why (I tell myself) it didn’t get any notice from the other Fussy carnival-ers. I felt so bad, I took it down. I know, Dork. So here it is again. Giving it one last chance. And if nobody still doesn’t like it (?), I’ll somehow think up a real Fight the Frump tip for next week. Even if I have to go get a makeover.