Temu-bies: Lessons were learned

Let’s face it: women are always trying something new in the name of looking good. Lesson learned — sometimes those “somethings” fight back.

I’ve wanted to start this blog since July. Life, however, has thrown me more curveballs than a Mets pitcher on a hot streak. Some days I wake up ready to attack the world. Other days I’m stuck in an executive dysfunction loop that crushes me before I even start. Having a 3-year-old in your 40s is a different beast. And this is the first time I’ve ever been a full-time stay-at-home mom. I used to juggle all the things, but lately, I feel exhausted to my core.

So tonight, I’m sharing a story. Because if you can’t laugh at it after the fact, it’ll just get added to the long list of things that make you cry in the bathroom.

The Setup

It was July. The summer heat was relentless, and my husband’s birthday was coming up. For once, we were actually home and able to celebrate with friends — on a weekend no less! I planned a shrimp boil and found a pretty, out-of-my-comfort-zone dress after hours of scrolling Amazon without my glasses on (you know, the dangerous kind of shopping).

The dress was backless, which meant I needed some kind of engineering miracle to wrangle “the ladies.” Enter: adhesive chicken cutlets, a.k.a. sticky boobs.

Context: I’ve never been smaller than a 36C since I was 13. I’ve had four kids. Gravity and I are well acquainted. So, when I say “the ladies” require feats of nature to stay in check, I’m not exaggerating.

Fast-forward four days (yes, Amazon takes that long to reach us in the middle of nowhere). The dress arrived. The stickies arrived. The dress? Gorgeous. The stickies? A disaster. I wore them for five minutes before ripping them off and immediately requesting a return.

The Backstory

Quick rewind: six years ago, after my mom passed away from an enlarged heart, I went through my own cardiac work-up. Turns out my irregular heartbeat is actually… my regular heartbeat (lucky me). But during that testing, I wore a heart monitor taped to my chest for 30 days — and developed a nasty adhesive allergy. Ever since, I’ve been careful with medical tapes, Band-Aids, you name it.

But apparently, I didn’t think to add “cheap Amazon boob adhesives” to that list.

The Fallout

Wednesday night: tried the stickies.
Thursday morning: mild rash.
No big deal. I washed my skin, boxed up the culprits, and planned a date night in Syracuse to see the Mets with Nick.

It was hot. We walked, ate, drank a little, and made it to the 8th inning before I started feeling really warm. I went to the bathroom — and almost screamed. My lips were swollen like I’d gone ten rounds with a bee hive.

Nick took one look at me and said, “Oh. Wow.” The concession stand worker cheerfully told me, “My daughter pays good money for lips like those.” (Thanks, Karen. Very helpful.)

Cue: frantic ice hunt, a quick ChatGPT inquiry, and an emergency Walmart run. Half a bottle of children’s Benadryl later, I was out cold.

Saturday morning: still swollen, now itchy. I lifted my shirt and found my torso covered in hives. All the way to my hips. Emergency room. Steroids. And Nick, ever the comic relief, coined the term that stuck: “Temu-bies.”

The Lesson

From that day forward, I made a pact with myself: either I buy clothes that can handle a real bra, or I let the ladies hang. If someone catches a nip? Happy birthday, I guess.

But here’s the bigger truth: this whole ridiculous, itchy, swollen mess became the push I needed to finally start this blog. For years, I’ve been surviving — running on fumes, juggling school forms, illnesses, marriage, family, and trying to find myself outside of being needed.

I’m not a perfect mom. I lose my patience. I say things I regret. I’ve had weekends lost to prednisone haze and edible experiments gone sideways. But through all of it, I keep circling back to the same desire: I want to be myself again. I want to laugh at the nonsense. I want to dance in the kitchen. I want to share the raw, unfiltered moments no one else talks about — the ones that aren’t gossip but still stick with you because they’re real.

The world is heavy enough. If my swollen-lip, rash-covered, Temu-bie disaster can make you laugh (or at least feel less alone), then I’ll consider this first post a success.

Here’s to more stories, more honesty, and hopefully fewer rashes.