Booze boob

A bottle of Prosecco, three bottles of Secret Stone and being the last to leave Nobu with B and R... Today is a dusty day.

My friendship with these two ladies blossomed on one of those after work drink nights gone wrong. At the Monday morning meeting there was an unspoken vow never to talk about that night and where we ended up. Our bond was forged.

Many would say they are party girls and that's our friendship. But it is much more than that. However, we do like to drink.

Which is why, two months after giving birth to Mini Me I find myself writing this feeling a little dehydrated.

After months of denying myself of sashimi and sushi, my lunch staple, I've come back with a vengeance and Nobu delivered. But no amount of deliciousness could soak up our drinks.

This poses a problem. Booze boob.

Though I joke about giving Mini Me kaluha and milk, I certainly don't want to be the one to introduce the vices of alcohol into her life. It's bad enough she'll get a foul mouth from me.

As I quietly glided (loudly stumbled) into the house and climbed into bed I suddenly remembered... Pump and dump! 

This was actually big of me to remember. I have never, yes NEVER, cleaned my face of make up after a night out. My pillows resemble an abstract painting full of black smudges and gold glitter (that was from my diva stage). It's lucky I remember to take out my contacts and shoes.

At 1am I found myself with the breast-pump, willing it not to sound like a tractor pulling a load up a hill and trying to stay awake with Minion Rush (Facebook had nothing interesting to read). It was a little heartbreaking to ceremoniously pour the offending milk down the drain. After all, my body worked hard to produce that milky goodness. Even if it had a vintage SSB tang.

Though it kept me away from my sweet, sweet bed, though Mini Me's morning feed felt like getting up for a marathon and though her cries today are like jack hammers to my brain, I'll probably do it again.