My attempt at domesticity

I had a pile of my husband’s shirts that came out of the laundry a little more wrinkled than normal. It might have something to do with having sat in the dryer overnight. But, who knows? Maybe the wrinkle fairly came and had a party on hubby’s shirt.

So, since the kids are out of school and I have a little extra time on my hands (because I don’t have to drive them all over the country), I decided to iron his shirts rather than just throw them back in the washer.

I got out my ironing board and found the iron. It still had a little water in it, so I plugged it in and waited for it to heat up. With Christmas music blaring and kids happily cleaning upstairs, I got to ironing all of the wrinkles out of his shirt, feeling very domestic. It probably took me a good five minutes for one shirt. I pulled it off expecting it to look wonderful. It didn’t. So, I tried another shirt, and then another, all with the same result. At some point (about 30 minutes of ironing later), that old adage about doing the same thing over and over popped into my brain.

I think my iron is faulty. I texted my husband with my conclusion and he thought my phone had been hijacked and wanted to know who was texting him. Because he knows his wife, and she doesn’t iron, she puts clothes in a bag on the front porch for the dry cleaning man.

This is why we dry clean.

My first day

Today was my first day to sub for our elementary school although I’ve racked up loads of volunteer time. I’ve only subbed at the preschool prior to this.

I have to admit that I was a bit nervous about how the day would go. Would the kids behave? Could I get everything done? Could I count to 22 all day long? Well, the day went great for me.

My bladder? Not so much.

While staying at home, or working from home, or even when I worked in an office, I could go to the bathroom whenever the need struck, which for my pea-sized bladder, it strikes fairly often.

So, you can imagine my dismay when I looked at my schedule to see that I would have to wait four whole hours without even the POSSIBILITY of a bathroom break!

We recently went to see our family for Thanksgiving. They live four hours away and we had to stop twice for potty breaks. Not for my eight-year-old, not for my five-year-old, but for me – both times. My boys LOVE driving with me.

I’m not really sure what happened, because before I had kids (Yes, I am blaming them. No, I am not above it, or ashamed about it.) I could go for hours and hours without having to stop.

So, I’m contemplating this whole four hour thing and thinking, “wow, it’s really hot in here.” I broke out into a sweat over the whole bathroom situation. So, finally, after morning announcements, attendance, running club (don’t ask), reading to the kids, circle time (we called it something else and I’m still used to subbing at the preschool so whatever), some writing activities, two, count them TWO bathroom breaks for the kids, but not for me, I take my kiddos down to lunch and then I’m off to find a potty.

I stop at the ONLY adult bathroom in the ENTIRE school (a school for 1000 kids I might add) and someone is friggin in there!!! CRAP! They have no clue that I’m about to wet my pants, and going home and changing my clothes, is so NOT in my scheduled 20 minute lunch time (I had to make sure the kids got to where they are going and all – I’m sure I probably didn’t need to do that, but it was my first time). So, I politely knock. No one answers. I’m trying to decide whether to break down the damn door or call 911, when our receptionist happens to walk by. So, I ask, “Her Name, are these the only bathrooms?”

Luckily, they weren’t. They have two hidden bathrooms that are secret for people who work there and I (yes, I) got to use one. I felt honored and relieved to get to go.

Eight-year-old goes to the ballet

Today, my third grader went with a bunch of other third graders to see the Nutcracker. Just so you know, the Nutcracker ballet is one of my all-time favorites. It conjures up memories of me in a frilly taffeta skirt, patent leather shoes, and a pretty, frilly white shirt with my hair all curly and in bows. It gives me that same magical feeling you get when you go to Disney World. So, I always dreamed of taking my children with me to the ballet to enjoy this wonderful form of art.

So, naturally, I was a bit peeved, and more than a little jealous, when I discovered that the third grade field trip would be to one of my favorite ballets, and that they didn’t need any chaperones. In a 20 minute speech, I told my eight-year-old son how privileged he was to get to go and how much I love it.

This morning dawned nice and cold – perfect for my son to dress up in stuff that usually makes him hot and whiney. I sent my darling off and wondered during his time on the school bus if he was anticipating the magic that would happen on stage. I glanced at the clock later and knew that he was watching a beautiful performance and hoped that he could follow the story. Then it came time for me to pick him and some neighbor kids up from school.

“How was the play guys?” I ask.

An eight-year-old’s critique: “It was boring. And the guys wore tights!” Lots of giggling from boys and girls, and I’m thinking “Oh, great, what are they gonna say about what they saw in the guys’ tights?” And, I wait for it as the giggling dies down enough for them to speak. “ The guys wore tights, and you could see their butt cracks!”

A car full of kids erupts in laughter. And that is what an eight-year-old thinks of my favorite ballet. Oh, well, I guess I didn’t really want an eight-year-old that was cultured anyway. Then I was told that they looked like little Lego people on stage.

News Flash: I'm going to get REALLY old!

So, I had some lab work done and my doctor informed me that I’m going to live to be a hundred!

Wow! That is OLD. Although I wasn’t entirely surprised considering how long my great-grandmother and great-great grandmother lived (yes, I was privileged enough to get to know them both). But, to actually hear those words come out of my doctor’s mouth was a little surprising. He may have been exaggerating a little, but hey, who cares?

So, that puts my expiration date around 2076. If I’m going to get that old, then I expect science to make some advances in the last two-thirds of my lifetime.

We need a permanent fix to graying hair. After all, I can’t spend my whole retirement on getting my hair done. And, for those of you keeping track, I’m already retired. Yes, I know, I have a sweet life. Don’t you wish you could retire in the first third of your life?

Second, after watching my grandmothers, they really need to do something about arthritis. What good is it going to do me if I live to be 100, and can’t put on my jewelry, or write these wonderful posts?

Third, also after seeing my grandmothers, you have to do something about that whole hunched over thing. I’m already short at a whopping 5’1”. I’m pretty sure they don’t make cute clothes with a hump in your back. It’s hard enough finding clothes to fit as it is.

Fourth, you REALLY need to get cracking on this whole Alzheimer’s thing. Who cares if you’ve seen a century’s worth of innovation if you can’t remember how to walk in heels?

Fifth, you need to do something about heart disease. Hubby’s response to the news was “Wow, that’s great honey.” Quickly followed by “I guess that means you’re going to have a second or third husband.” But, really, how could I ever live without my wonderful, sweet, charming husband? Gag. Yes, well, maybe next time I’ll marry for money. Love you honey!

So, here’s to science and hoping they can learn to make cute shoes that don’t hurt your feet! Get crackin’ guys!

Oops!

Is anyone else ever nervous when they back out of their garage? I’m always scared to death I’m going to hit something. I get that feeling in my stomach where it feels like I’ve just suddenly dropped 10 stories.

So, here’s the deal. My hubby and I take turns parking in the garage. Do we have a one-car garage? No. Embarrassingly enough, we have a 2.5 car garage. But somehow, all of our crap takes up the equivalent of 1 and a half cars! It really isn’t all that unorganized either. We have floor to ceiling shelves that line one side of the whole .5 raised side, then we need room to walk and get to the shelves. But, you do have to walk around the huge Taylor Tot-size battery-operated Hummer and the Radio Flyer wagon, because you just look at that wagon, and who can rid of such a thing? Apparently, not me, despite offers. So, on the other side where a typical car would usually go, are our bikes. I have one, hubby has one (his takes up the most space), older tot has one, and younger tot has two – don’t ask. Therefore, hubby and I have to take turns parking in our 2.5 car garage – I know…kinda pathetic.

So, he gets to park his fancy smancy car in the garage when it’s hot, but as soon as the temperature drops to 60 in the mornings, he gets the boot. This is because he is cold tolerant and I am so very not – that’s why I live in Texas. On the flip side, I can handle the heat – I guess that is also why I’m the one that cooks. Ba dump bump. And, he really isn’t heat tolerant, so I’m not sure why he wants to live in Texas?
Any who, he argued for years that he deserved to park in the garage because he was the one with the expensive car, with the blah, blah, blah, whatever. While I, on the other hand, have a very practical car – a typical suburban mom car. It’s a Honda – how very mom of me. It’s a Pilot so that I can shuffle the Taylor Tots and their friends around – also very mom of me. AND, it’s silver – to hide the dirt – also very mom of me. And it looks like every other car in our suburban town. In fact, I often get mine confused with the others and go to the wrong frigging car. Yes, you would think that the gigantic (the only size they sell) stickers declaring my child’s name and favorite sport might be a hint, but alas, no, not so much.

Hubby, meanwhile, has the expensive car with the yadda yadda whatever. I just know that it’s cool and goes really fast. So, hubby had traded in his two-seater Porshe for a much more family friendly (well, it has 4 seats) Beemer, that, I found out, is faster than the Porshe that he had (this self-sacrifice thing is looking rather dubious). So, four little months after he sacrificed? his Porshe for the good of his family, I back out of the garage to take the kids to school, and take out the ENTIRE right side of his car with the left side of mine. It caused quite a bit of damage. Oops! (BTW – LOVE my insurance agent)

In my own defense, I was recovering from the flu or some such debilitating illness, and he really should’ve gotten out of bed to take the kids to school anyway. So, really, it’s all his fault. What’s so bad about it is that I did take out the ENTIRE right side of his car. Everyone asked, “Didn’t you feel yourself hitting his car?” Well, no, I didn’t. I felt my car go over the little hump in the garage that separates the garage floor from our driveway, and then, well, by the time I realized that I was taking out his car, I had already made it to the end. Did I say, oops?

So, you can see why my stomach always falls when I back out of the garage. And, even if I hadn’t hit a parked car, you have that whole side of the garage thing to worry about. Which, to be fair, several of my friends have had issues with – just look at their cars before they get them fixed. Sometimes it’s their side-view mirror, sometimes it’s the whole side of their car, sometimes, it’s forgetting to put it in park and rolling into the garage and taking out the little column thing separating the garages (see, at least, I didn’t do that!) So, clearly, this is an issue that builders should look into. Maybe it’s their fault?

Hubris in the "real world"

I was astounded at this woman’s hubris! A working mother emailed another volunteer and I to enlighten us on the ways of the “real world”. As if our world of stay-at-home moms and the teachers at our elementary school are make-believe.

I can assure her that there is nothing imaginary about cleaning up diarrhea, giving breathing treatments and medicine every four hours to two sick kids, and trying to recreate the boys’ school day so that they don’t get behind while baking bread, doing laundry and cleaning the house.

I can also assure her that there is nothing imaginary in a school teacher working a long day with 22 kids and then going home to grade papers. Even if I am not a school teacher, I can appreciate what they do. After all, I’m related to a few, and have been taught by several exceptional ones. I know that they feel that there is nothing imaginary about dealing with difficult children, or in some cases, their more difficult parents.

But the sheer arrogance of this woman to assume that no one else works in the “real world” is astounding. What does she think? That we all got our degrees and then stayed at home to pop out babies, cook and clean while filling our heads with daytime television?

Not that I’m knocking that route at all, or any route for that matter. But, almost every stay-at-home mom in this neighborhood left their careers to stay at home with their children. We understand what working in the “real world” is like thank you very much. And more importantly, we also know what it is like to stay at home. Us stay-at-home moms in this neighborhood have college degrees, nursing degrees, master’s degrees, and even a couple of doctorate degrees. A few of us are even former teachers.

Now, I had debated about sharing how this whole thing started because a few of those wonderful teachers at our school read my blog. But then I also know that they’ve heard it all before.

So, it all started with a simple email telling the parents in our children’s class that our grade level is providing snacks for the upcoming monthly staff meeting and asked if any of the parents would be interested in contributing anything from a list of items.

Instead of ignoring the email, or responding to our homeroom parent directly, this woman responded to the entire class telling us how shocked she was to receive this request. She asked, “What next, contributing to the teacher’s lunch fund?”

We responded by saying that we were sorry that she felt that way. And, that as she mentioned herself in the email, this is optional and not required. I also added that this has been done in the past and that our teachers work very hard. This is simply one way we choose to thank them.

Well, that pissed her off.

She wanted us to know that her child had gone to our school for the past few years and she had never received this request. (Quite possible, as every homeroom parent handles this differently – some provide the snacks themselves, while some others ask a few people directly.)

Then she gets on a roll to let us know that she works very hard too and doesn’t get snacks at her staff meetings. (Maybe she’s jealous?) She understands that our teachers work very hard too, but that her expectation is that they should have a potluck, or that their manager should provide something. (Does she really think the principal should provide snacks for more than 60 people at each meeting?) “Just a difference of opinion as someone who works in a real world environment.”

Can I just say, “Wow!”

I’d love to respond and tell her that maybe she can go to a “real” bookstore and find a “real” book on manners and etiquette and shove it up her “real” butt.

But that would be a waste of time. I can tell that this woman prefers to climb up on her cross and there isn’t anything that I can say that will make any difference at all. So, I’ll just be satisfied with sharing with you all instead.

Enjoy your hump day!

Shoes, shoes, shoes!

Tallion got a new shopping app for his iPad. So, naturally, I was looking at shoes.
Oh, those shiny, beautiful works of art. All of a sudden, an hour had gone by and I didn’t even realize it.

Louboutin, Choo, Gucci, Prada, Kate Spade how I love thee…

He looked over my shoulder to see what all of the fuss was about. Of course, I had periodically exclaimed, look at these! And, even the more fun, aren’t these just hideous! But, I had just found a pair that I adored. He was shocked and exclaimed, "You can get a used KIA for that price!"

Trying to be helpful and reasonable, he said as he was typing, “I wonder if you can filter it by price and set a price cap.” I assured him that you probably can, but what was the fun in that?!!

Then he hit “done.” He had reset all of my shoes to just show cheap shoes! I didn’t want a price cap! What does he think this is? I don’t dream over shoes from Walmart. He quickly found out that was not what I wanted and fixed it back to my original shopping page. Thank God! I thought we were going to have to divorce.

Ah, men, they just don't understand a woman's love affair with shoes.

My foray into laser hair removal

After going in for my initial appointment to see if I’m a good candidate, sitting through an hour sales pitch, and asking questions verifying that yes, in fact, they can completely remove the hair in the areas I want, I take my quote home to hubby to discuss. My birthday, Mother’s Day and our anniversary are all coming up soon. So, he tries to surprise me with the whole package.

The surprise is foiled however, when the laser center in question (actual name rhymes with laser center) calls me to confirm the package and set up an appointment. This is despite the fact that he explicitly said that it was a surprise gift that wouldn’t occur for a couple of weeks.

So, after the blown surprise, I set up my first laser appointment. Upon entering the facility, you are instructed to wait in a small waiting area before being ushered back to a room. After the tech comes to get me, we are walking to the back when I hear: “Ahhhhh! Oh s*#@! Ouch! Ooooooo!Eeee!”

Me, in horror: “Is someone in labor?”

Blonde tech whispering and giggling: “Oh, no, she’s just a little sensitive.”

Me giving blonde tech a raised eyebrow scrunched up face look that makes me look like the Bride of Frankenstein: “Seriously?”

Blonde tech, giggling again: “Oh, yes, most people just feel a little snap kind of like a rubber band popping you.”

Okay, let’s just stop right here. My dog trainer was over the other day to work with our beast of a wild dog. After months of training, he brought out the big guns – a shock collar. I know what you’re thinking, I was horrified at first too, but it really isn’t all that bad. He demonstrated it on me by having me hold it in my hand. He zapped me on a 1. He said, “Did you feel that?”

“Yes, of course I felt that, it tingles like something is vibrating my hand.”

Dog trainer: “Oh, you must be very sensitive because most people don’t feel it until at least a 2.”

So, yes, for some reason, I feel everything. I feel it when an ovarian cyst bursts inside my body. It is highly painful and most people never feel it. I feel the softest touch. My nerve endings are highly sensitive.

So, I go in for my first laser hair removal appointment. I’m basically getting my ENTIRE body done. No, I’m not a hairy beast, but I like to be hair free, so here we go.

“Holy…. AHHHHH. Oh my god. Hmmm.”

By the time I’m done, the tech is convinced that I suffer from Tourettes. Hubby starts coining phrases like “hot crotch” to describe my now lobster like skin. Let me tell you, I’ve been popped with a rubber band, and no way does this feel comparable. Whatever, you do build up a tolerance for it – or at least that is what I’m told. After a few treatments (about a year later), I really don’t feel much anymore.

Think you want laser too? Three years later, I still have enough hair left that I have to shave each day plus I’ve had two burns from the techs that rotate out of there like it’s a ride on the Ferris wheel. The first burn was on my face when they accidentally zapped the hair on my head that was lying on my face. It burned the side of my face and left a line where the hair was. Then I got a whopper of a burn up and down my shin. It looked like someone mistook my leg for a fish and tried to grill it. They actually had to give me microderm to remove the scar.

And, as for not feeling it much anymore? Well, that is because for over a year, they had it turned down really low so that not only did I not feel anything, but it also wasn’t removing any hair.

After three years of erratic treatments with each tech having their own ways of doing it as well as their own rules, I was left with over 50% hair on my legs, among other places. Over these three years, I had several meetings with the managers there (another revolving door position) to try and get a handle on this. None of them really did anything about it, although they assured me that they were going to. One tech will run through the treatment with the thing beeping in the air, while others will tell you that they can’t get that spot around your eyebrows.

Funny thing is, when they are selling it to you, they can get all of those places. I guess the sales manager doesn’t actually talk to the people they train. The laser centers’ suggestion to me? They were gracious enough to offer to sell me another package. I’m sorry, maybe I’m crazy, but after $3000 and 3 years, and they weren’t able to completely remove hair from any one of the “treatment areas” and I decided to pass.

Cover letter and resume tips

My husband recently went through the arduous process of hiring an assistant. When he posted the job online, he received more than 100 applications. To give this some perspective, when he did this three years ago, he received about 40. After reviewing some of these choice pieces of prose, I just have a few pointers for some of the job seekers out there.

1. Proofread. I mean really it is a simple thing to do. Ask a friend to help you catch things you might miss. Don’t just rely on spell check.

2. Again, proofread. When cutting and pasting your cover letter, make sure it is addressed to the person you are actually sending it to. I mean, really folks.

3. Follow directions. If the job posting says send in your resume, then don’t just email questions. With this economy, managers aren’t interested in your worries, concerns, etc. They are weeding through hundreds of applications and looking at any reason at all to delete your email.

4. Address your weaknesses. Put yourself in the manager’s position when looking at your resume. If you are applying for a job that you are WAY overqualified for, then address it in your cover letter. If you are currently residing in another part of the state, city, or country, then say something about it.

5. Do your research about the company before applying and tailor your resume and cover letter to it. This may help you stand out unless they’ve read my tips too.

6. Send a thank you note. This tells your interviewer that you are interested in the job and really is just basic common courtesy. So take a couple of minutes, find a card and a pen, and write something heartfelt out.

So, I can’t guarantee that you’ll land that perfect dream job by following my tips, but I can tell you that your resume will be less likely to end up in the trash pile (assuming you have a decent resume, which would be another article and more advice than I care to give tonight). Good luck with your job search!

Head injury

I've just finished my first two-hour check on my oldest son Dylan. I can already tell you that it is going to be a very long night. I will check on him every two hours to make sure he is still moving in response to a slight touch. I already knew that it was going to be rough waking up every two hours, but frankly that one thing did nothing to calm my fears that this could be a skull fracture and we could be looking at much bigger issues than a big ugly goose egg on his head.

This afternoon, I took my boys and some friends to the local ice rink. We are planning to go out of town to see family this week and he is going to miss his regularly scheduled Thursday hockey practice. Typically, when you go to public skate, you don't wear a helmet as you do in hockey. Dylan is a pretty decent skater, and doesn't usually fall unless he is playing hockey. But, his hands got cold on the ice so he stuck them in his pockets and when he lost his balance practicing different moves on the ice, his head was the only thing to hit. I was probably 5 feet behind him and couldn't do anything to help him. He started crying immediately and when I got to him, his forehead was dented in right above his right eye. I'm no doctor, but I knew that your head isn't supposed to be caved in.

Everything snapped into focus and I knew he needed help. One of the girls that worked there came over and we got him off the ice. I asked her to go get the head of the hockey program and some ice while I carried Dylan to a table. I took off my outer sweater to make a pillow for his head, held his hand and asked him simple questions, held up two fingers, etc. It seemed like hours were passing and I wasn't sure how serious his injury was. And, where the hell is that ice?!! I felt extremely inept at helping my baby boy. So, I went and asked the girl that runs the sports shop to get us some ice. Finally the girl returned with a bag and we got the ice started to help reduce the swelling. The head of the program comes over and asks him some basic questions to check for a concussion.

After he had the ice on for almost 10 min, we sat him up. Thankfully, he didn't get dizzy or pass out. We sat with him for a bit more and began alternating the ice 10 on and 10 off. The head of the program suggested that we continue to watch him, that he seemed fine.

After we left, I thought I would call his pediatrician just to alert them to the situation. I had forgotten that they leave early on Tuesdays. Of course, they left early today! So, I'm directed to the on-call pediatrician. They instruct me to take him directly to the emergency room. By this time, we have made it back to the house, and Dylan still seems absolutely fine. I tell the pediatrician's office that my main concern is that his head was actually concave after the fall and that was what made me nervous, but that all of his symptoms point to him being fine. So the nurse checks with the doctor and he confirms - take him to the ER.

So, we all pile in to the car. At this point, my adrenaline rush comes crashing down and I start thinking why didn't I bring his helmet in? He would've worn it, no problem. Why didn't I bring his gloves in? He wouldn't have put his hands in his pockets. Why didn't I tell him to take his hands out of his freakin' pockets? It never occurred to me that he wouldn't be able to catch himself in a fall. What kind of an idiot mother am I? Then I start thinking, what if I lose my baby? I've read several articles where kids have head injuries, seem fine, and then die suddenly. At the time, I didn't remember that it was often due to a second impact and returning to sports too soon. Thankfully, before I work myself into a complete and utter panic attack, I force myself to stop thinking that way and focus on driving downtown in traffic, because there is ALWAYS traffic on I-35.

So, we go to Dell Children's ER. Everyone is very nice and helpful. We eventually get a room and the nurse comes in to check on him and ask some questions. He wants to know if Dylan is nauseous, has a headache, etc. So, he gets Dylan some Tylenol for his head. Hopefully, it wasn't a recalled one. He doesn't ask me if I'm about to toss my cookies, because I was. My stomach couldn't have been twisted any tighter if it was maypole.

After the doctor completes her examination, she recommends that we not get the CT Scan because of the radiation issue. She doesn't feel it is truly necessary. Since I had read a report on those issues and the fact that Dylan has already had one, as well as other X-rays, I'm not inclined to subject him to something that could lead to a brain tumor down the road. So, we opt for a night of checking on him every two hours. That decision seemed a lot better in the light of day, in a hospital room, with Dylan alert and responsive. Now that we're home and I have no idea what his simply moving in response to my touch is supposed to tell me? Yea, well, not so much.

Make-up boot camp

We had make-up boot camp today. The four of us cannot make our normal Thursday morning boot camp, so I worked out a deal with Drill Sergeant to kick our butts on another day. Well, we dropped like flies and it was just me and Brownie in the end. Blondie just had to go to Destin with her family. I think she wanted to beat the oil there. And, Sucker texted me in the middle of the night on the Fourth of July to tell me that they had decided to go out of town and she needed to pack. Whatever, she just drank too much.

Make-up boot camp is a bit like make-up sex minus the happy ending. It goes on forever; it makes you really sweaty; and you near heart-attack status.

It is boot-camp eve and I have to get up at 4:45 in the morning to go pick up Brownie so that Drill Sergeant can hear us beg for mercy tomorrow. We had a birthday party at a water park tonight and my oldest is having a sleepover. As soon as we get home, my lovely husband informs me that he’s going to watch the Yankee game. Excuse me? What part of, I have to get up before the dawn even thinks about cracking and we have people sleeping over did you not understand? Oh, he is so sleeping on the couch tonight (or the guest bedroom, whatever), and I’m having some yummy ice cream. I don’t care what Drill Sergeant says.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Boot camp: Week "too long"
Ok, so I’m totally rockin’ these cute white shorts after our excruciating boot camp this morning. I’m home trying to let the dog out to go to the bathroom and get to my hair appointment across town on time. (I may have been late to everything including my own wedding, but I am NEVER late to a hair appointment – it’s important business.) And, let me just tell you, a big black Bernese Mountain Dog and white shorts DO NOT mix. Hello! Does he have to show his affection all over my shorts and Pliner shoes?!! I could do with a little less affection thank you very much.

So, this week Hurricane Alex, or Adam or whatever, is wreaking havoc on our little outdoor boot camp so we’ve had to move our little butts (yes, they are getting smaller) inside as to not damage the fields. No, Drill Sergeant is so not concerned about our hair getting frizzy – it’s the field damage that is disconcerting. So, we are in an air-conditioned (I know, poor us) room that’s normally used for Zoomba, karate, etc. with mirrors everywhere. I mean really, do you think I want to look at myself at 5:30 in the morning? Um, no – my hair isn’t done, I have no make-up on and I haven’t showered, because really what’s the point? (Shut-up! No comments from the peanut gallery about my lack of showering.)

So, this is what I want you to do: Stand on one leg, put the other leg straight behind you. Put one hand behind your back and the other just barely on a chair for balance (if you need it). Now, bend the leg you are standing on – shoulders back, chin up. Now, stay there for 5 minutes. Feel that? That is your ass and that fleshy part of your thigh with all of those dimples that is melting off. You can thank me later. Blondie, Brownie, Sucker and I did it, so you can too.

Okay, so maybe we whined a bit and let our foot down when Drill Sergeant wasn’t looking. But, when you only have two rows of people and all of those damn mirrors, you really can’t get away with much. Creative counting does NOT work here.
After our upper thighs and derrieres fell off, we did some crunches that would have Jillian Michaels yelling uncle. Combine all of that with these weird push up things with weights and rolling around so that your arm is in the air and running laps and stairs and that constituted our workout today.

So, I can gladly say that today I burned a whopping 500 calories compared to Tuesday’s paltry 300 and I am ready and able to eat all of the juicy ribs and hot dogs that the Fourth of July has to offer. Oh, and ice cream, did I mention before that I liked ice cream? What’s the Fourth without ice cream over cobbler? Besides, I’m sure that I’ll have to run up and down the stands at the baseball game getting all of those delicious things that Drill Sergeant has banned. As if! He thinks everything we eat should fit in a sandwich bag. Maybe he means that I can eat all of the ice cream that would fit in the bag, and all of the ribs, and potato salad, and cobbler. I bet that’s it.

Here’s to a Happy Fourth!,

Spam - not just meat in Hawaii

I have an email account with Yahoo! (picture dudes from Ricola commercial blowing their horns). Supposedly, Yahoo! has a filter for spam. But, upon opening my email account, I am updated about a White House meeting; receive an urgent notification about something that requires my SSN, birth date, waist size, and my first born; congratulated on winning $1000; told I can find the love of my life (apparently my current husband isn’t cutting it); am questioned about my 5-year-old being delayed or okay by someone who has never met my 5-year-old; and am told about the spiraling violence in Darfur.
This doesn’t even begin to describe the news I actually signed up to hear, like the latest Jennings Sandal (apparently it’s so sensational it needs to be capitalized) from Michael Kors, 25% off at MLB.com (I wonder if that includes 25% off A-Rod), 30% off at Ann Taylor, 40% off at the Gap, and a big sale and new items from Tommy Bahama. Not to mention all of those Facebook updates. Oh, and occasionally an actual email from an actual friend.
I’m not sure exactly what this tells me about my life. Do I shop too much? (Maybe, but it’s all relative.) Do I need more friends who email? (Probably.)
I’ve had this account since I left college umpteen years ago (we won’t discuss timelines here, it’s the general principle of the thing). So, giving it up might be hard. I hate it when I have to change someone’s email address in my contact list. And, what happens to said list? Does it go away, can you take it with you? Does it transfer like a telephone number?
What I do know is that 1. If Yahoo!’s spam filter actually works, I don’t even want to know what it’s filtering, and 2. How am I ever going to get that novel written when I have to read about all of this stuff and then subsequently write about it?
You might think I’m allowing it to rule my life instead of me ruling my time. You might think that I’m just procrastinating about writing that novel. This is where I would tell you that You can go take a flying leap, off a high bridge. I’m not procrastinating. What I’m doing is babbling. So I think I’ll stop.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Boot Camp: round 2, week 2

Drill Sergeant surprised us when we got there this morning (just a tad late). It was Brownie’s turn to drive and she was late picking everyone up, then we had to park a mile away because Blondie had run over everyone’s mats last week in her “I don’t know what a break is” style of driving.

So, after we all drop off our stuff and join everyone else on the run, he started filling us in on what all we were going to do today and then let us know that he brought donuts and milk. I was all, “Sweet, thanks. That was really nice of you to bring us breakfast.” Yeah, not so fast.

Um, let me just tell you that the donuts that you and I are thinking about right now are not the same kind of donuts that Mr. Drill Sergeant is thinking about. Oh no, not those yummy Round Rock donuts covered in that rich secret ingredient, or those deliciously filled with whatever-your-heart-desires Shipley donuts. No, no, the donuts he was talking about are black and rubber, one might call them tires. We had to flip them over all the way down the field. And that milk in the cooler. Well, that was just 10 lb dumbbells that we had to get out to do walking lunges and bicep curls while changing hands under our legs as we went. Brownie quipped, “Well, I’m lactose intolerant.” Yeah, me too, and when good ole Drill Sergeant wasn’t looking, I was rolling my donut.

That, plus some weird contorted ab killing work and more running (done several times over and over) pretty much constituted our workout for the morning, which totally beat our last workout with some sort of overturned soccer goal that we had to push down the field.

Oh my goodness, that thing was hard work. Ours kept getting stuck in these divots in the grass. We all had to break into groups of 4. Hey, look, we’re already a group of 4! Two of us get on the tall side of this soccer goal (I think Drill Sergeant is just trying to come up with new ways to torture us) so we can push, and two get on the short side so they can pull. Well, I soon found out that if you’re pulling, and the thing gets stuck, your toes end up getting run over. That doesn’t do anything for my pedicure. In fact, I think Drill Sergeant owes me a pedicure for messing up my last one. Anyway, the first time we do this, plus some push-ups while balancing on a soccer ball (the man has a thing for soccer) and running in place parallel to the ground while balanced on a soccer ball (again with the soccer – the man has balls on the brain), etc. we come in dead last. Of course, we are the only all-girl team. But, who’s your momma? We’re apparently the only ones with stamina, because we ended up kicking everyone’s butt and winning in the end. So there.

So, Brownie is hooked up on when local eateries have free stuff. This morning, Whataburger was offering a free breakfast sandwich. What a great way for us fabulous moms to finish off our morning workout. Brownie was trying to be nice and told Drill Sergeant about this and he said that he can’t have that – whatever, dude! So, we pile in the car and head to Whataburger. We’re there at 6:45 a.m. Well, guess what, the free stuff didn’t start until 7. Whataburger wanted us to wait another 15 minutes. That was so not happening. Drill Sergeant foiled us again. Something tells me he has an in with these places and has already bribed them not to sell to those Round Rock housewives. That’s Drill Sergeant’s new name for us, like when he’s yelling at us, “Don’t let those young ones beat you.” Seriously? I think he just called us old. Then to the “young ones” he says, “Those Round Rock housewives are gaining on you fast, you better get on the hop!” Well, hop on this Mr. Drill Sergeant man.

Mean boys

While driving in torrential rain to help a friend buy jewelry, we're listening to the radio and this song comes on and I'm sorta listening. Trent says, "THEY SAID THE 'S' WORD MOMMY!!!"

Um, what 'S' word are you referring to honey? (I'm thinking, Oh, S***, have I really been so negligent?)

"You know the S word!"

It's okay honey you can say it and you won't get in trouble. I just didn't hear it.

Radio plays: "According to you, I'm stupid, I'm useless.."

Ohhhhh, THAT 's' word. "Yes, honey that isn't a very good word."

He says, "A boy is saying those things about her."

Uh, huh.

He says, "Only mean boys says those kind of things to girls. Nice boys don't do that."

I say, "That's right honey, only mean boys say that, you sweet little boy."

Hopefully, he'll remember that when I tell him to pick up his room.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Boot Camp, round 2
What kind of sadistic twit schedules boot camp at 5:30 in the morning during the summer? I mean seriously. I finally have two kids that are fairly self-sufficient and don’t require constant, vigilant, direct attention. I’m in this special, wonderful time of life when I don’t have to work and my kids can fend for themselves. So, what gives?

I guess in their infinite wisdom, they decided that boot camp at 6 o’clock in the evening during the summer was going to be too hot. Or maybe this is just another form of torture. Because I’m getting too old to stay up til 11 or midnight having a good time with my peeps and then get up at 4:45. So, something is gonna have to give after a few days of this boot camp. And, I’ll give you wild guess which one is gonna get the boot.

When the girls picked up my pieces and put me back together after the last boot camp, they must have missed some because I had actually lost inches and some weight. Sweet. And, I wasn’t even trying. Imagine what would have happened if I had dieted (so not a chance), ran (yeah, right), and tried harder (hey, I did try). So, here we go for another round of torture courtesy of Drill Sergeant.

Blondie, Brownie and I recruited a fourth for this round of boot camp, which only starts at some ungodly hour of the middle of the night. We’ll call her Sucker.

So, while the stars were still out and every sane person still asleep, Blondie picked up the three of us to make sure we all actually go. Without Blondie’s taxi service, I’m pretty sure I would have said some off color word when my alarm went off at 4:45 this morning, shut it off and gone back to sleep. Instead, when my alarm went off this morning, I said some off color word, laid there for a moment considering how crappy my friends are for making me get up at this horrific hour, and crawled out of bed to get ready.

Because in my stupid little brain, I didn’t want to let them down when they got to my house and still be asleep in bed. Most likely, given Blondie's history, she would’ve laid on the horn at 5:15 until she had woken up everyone in the neighborhood. Let me just start by telling you that we do not live in a neighborhood where you honk your horn at any hour, much less in the middle of the night. That would make one ugly mess. I can just imagine, the police would’ve received several calls and since they have absolutely nothing to do in our safe town, about 10 cars would’ve shown up all bearing the individual police officer's name, I would’ve received at least a ticket or two, then the HOA would’ve been notified and I’m sure I would’ve gotten some sort of fine on top of that. But, that wouldn’t be the good part. Blondie has a mouth on her. She would’ve said something uppity to those police officers, probably about where they could put their sticks and gotten hauled off to jail. Then the HOA would issue her a fine and then our hubbies wouldn’t allow us to play together any more.

Hey, that would get me out of boot camp. Maybe I’ll try it and see how it all goes down. After all, I know a good attorney who can get Blondie out of jail.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

We wanted to give you all an update about Wimpy Mom, a.k.a. Tweedle Dum. You see, she would have been posting regular updates, but she started losing body parts at each boot camp.

We've tried collecting them all, and we think we can put her back together again (a la Humpty Dumpty). So, we'll give it a shot when we get back from Mexico. Wish us luck!

Cheers,
Blondie and Brownie

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Boot Camp: Day 3

Holy cow! Drill Sergeant must have read my blog and been ticked off. That man worked us like we were red-headed step-children. If I can launch myself out of bed in the morning, it will be a miracle. I found muscles today that I never knew existed – mainly in my lower back and sides.
So, we start off with our run to the Beauty School again – I find that funny since this is a boot camp. We look anything but. After we get there, Drill Sergeant tells us we should be moving at all times, so we have to run in place while he talks. Then he wants a volunteer to demonstrate our first task. Blondie and I volunteer Brownie. So, down she goes onto those nasty mats that look like they’ve been through several boot camps and obviously not fared well. Let’s hope we look different when we finish.
So, Brownie and Drill Sergeant demonstrate this funky hand holding, sit up, high five thing, which Drill Sergeant says “it’s like being at the Gilley.” Huh? He says “haven’t you all ever heard of Gilley’s? You know Urban Cowboy? Electric bull riding?” Of course Blondie has. Brownie’s still trying to picture Drill Sergeant watching Urban Cowboy and riding an electric bull. Yeah, not so much.
For some insane reason, Blondie and I team up and decide that is the station for us! We get to 25 of those high-fives and my side is burning so bad I can’t possibly high-five Blondie again and I figure out that I can high-five her without even lifting myself up. Then Drill Sergeant has to go and ruin it all, “Taylor ya’ll are too close, scoot back, get those arms up, we need high high-fives.” Seriously? He’s gonna be the death of me. Blondie and I decide that we’ll do 25 then switch sides to cut down on the “Oh, my God, you’re on fire” burning sensation in our sides.
After that fun little drill, we run over to the tires. It looks like Drill Sergeant high-jacked some trucker and took his tires – he thinks we should flip these over all the way down the parking lot and back again. Oh, and I forgot to mention that all of the stations are based on how fast the people at the tires can go. So, if you go slow, people hate you. So, we’re flipping these big assed tires, and Blondie can’t keep her tire under control. I reminded her, “you gotta push it down on it’s way down.” That got it under control, but then Drill Sergeant threw a nail in our tire flipping and told us that we’re supposed to be straddling it, “get your feet on the sides.” HELLO! Does he not see that I’m 5 feet tall, and if I put my feet on either side, I’ll do the splits? URGH!
We make our way over to the side crunch station (by the way, we were fast on the tire flipping thing), and get going with this weight bar over our heads. We have to straddle the curb and side bend down with it over our head, touching it on the ground and then pulling it sideways over our head. I get a good rhythm going, and then he blows the whistle to switch sides. I see Brownie carrying this gigantic 50 gallon water bottle and Drill Sergeant yells at her, “There’s a sale at Macy’s, get to moving!” I don’t think I have ever seen that girl move that fast. At least now we know why we don’t have water at the Y.
When Blondie and I get to the “Clean and Jerk” station, I can’t remember how to do it, so Blondie and I are looking around for the stinking paper that shows us the move. Drill Sergeant barks, “Hey Starbucks, get to moving!” (I thought I was Taylor – I guess we have new names) I have to explain to him that we don’t know what we’re doing. So he talks me through it, but tells me I have to stick my butt out (that is not a problem, it usually sticks out all by itself thank you very much.) So, Blondie and I are “cleaning and jerking” and I look over at the tire station to gauge how much more time we have left. I can’t believe it, this chick is over there staring at her tire like the damn thing is going to flip itself over. “Lady, get a move on! I’m tired of cleaning and jerking!”
Next we lugged the water jugs around (there were garbage dumpsters that we had to walk around, and you could stand there in the shade and no one could see you, it was sweet – best station ever!) But, Drill Sergeant catches me lagging and tried to pull the same Macy’s comment on me that he did on Brownie, but he doesn’t understand that he had to say there was a sale at Baskin Robbins, not Macy’s, to motivate this gal. I even wore my homemade skin-tight pink shirt that says “We’re the fat girls your mom warned you about.” Originally it said “We’re the fast girls your mom warned you about”, but my ‘s’ fell off in the dryer. Brownie, Blondie and I had made them for the Cap10K.
So then we get to push gigantic gourds on little flat dollies with wheels. I thought this was going to be an easy station, I mean their wheels, right? But, no, that would be underestimating dear old Drill Sergeant. So, I’m pushing mine along and trying to keep the stupid thing going in a reasonably straight line when Drill Sergeant yells at me to get my legs on either side and push. (You know, my husband tried to tell me that the first time I gave birth and I almost ripped his head off. He didn’t have much to say during the delivery of our second child. I think Drill Sergeant should take notes from my husband and shut the hell up.) So I tell him about the splits thing and he retorts, “good, you can walk in the splits can’t you?!!!” Um, no Drill Sergeant, I CANNOT WALK in the bleep n’ bleep splits, but thanks for checking.
So, if that wasn’t hard enough, we then had to do it walking backwards. That finally got my butt to stick out. Drill Sergeant should be proud.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Boot Camp: Day 2

Today was all about creative counting. Drill Sergeant started out with a surprise for us. (I don’t know about you, but I like my surprises to come in small blue boxes with white ribbons, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have one of those.) He walks up from out of nowhere and tells us to drop everything except our water bottles. Apparently someone had complained that we weren’t getting enough cardio. (What idiot said that?!) We trudge back across the parking lot to put everything in the car then Drill Sergeant says, “Run!”

We make our way down Mays to the Starry parking lot where we find a big ole’ box full of Girl Scout cookies. (I think we need a cookie break. Drill Sergeant says not so much. I think Drill Sergeant is testing us.)

We run down to the back parking lot of the Beauty School to find our stations scattered throughout the parking lot. I swear this guy is going to be the death of me. He has reverse pull up bars tied to a chain link fence, split-level push-ups, a step side crunch thing, that damn gargantuan weight bar for more squats, another weight station, and another gargantuan weight bar for crunches and roll outs.

I know you’re thinking "well that doesn’t seem so bad." Yeah right. During the pull up thing the three of us are working it so fast, that fence just about gave out (so did we). And, I did all of this with the sorry excuse of a circle mat that was as big as my butt, as thick as a sheet of paper, and positioned on top of a pointy rock. Yes, I did 50 reverse pull ups sitting with a rock up my ass! Well, it probably wasn’t 50, because that was when I decided that some creative counting was in order. Whenever Brownie was done, I was done.

We moved on to the split-level push-ups. Yes, good ol’ regular push-ups aren’t good enough for this guy. I thought I was going to lose my left arm. It really isn’t cut out for that kind of strain, and when Brownie and Blondie were done, I was done.

At station 3 we had to stand on the ground with one foot on this HUGE step thing that was on the grass - up on the curb. Then we had to do this step up side crunch thing. I thought I was going to die. My legs have never burned so bad in my life. We were supposed to do 50 on each freaking side. Dude, I started counting by 5s.

I couldn’t possibly run to the next station so I’m shuffling along and Drill Sergeant yells, “Taylor on your toes, get to movin’ there are people coming up behind you.” Drill Sergeant must also be blind, because everyone else was dragging their asses too.

Drill Sergeant must like squats with that gargantuan weight bar thing because that was station 4. HELLO! Didn’t we just finish working that muscle group, because that muscle seems to think so!

There he goes again, “Taylor you’re supposed to run between stations.” “I did – you missed it,” I retort.

At station 5, Drill Sergeant wanted us to balance on one foot with the other foot in the air behind us while lifting weights. Who does he think we are – trapeze artists? It actually wasn’t all that hard, but Brownie and Blondie were really having a hard time balancing. They got me laughing so hard I thought I was going to go ass over tea kettle.

The last station involved the crunches and roll outs. We have to balance the gargantuan weight bar thing on our feet and do crunches. I can finally do this. But, Brownie gets through a few of them and pants, “I can’t do these, I’ll have to do ‘em at home.” (Seriously? We paid to work out with this guy and she’s going to do stuff at home? Whatever.) With the peanut gallery going I was laughing so hard I couldn’t get to 25.

We flip over with our hands on the weight bar and knees on the ground and (no kidding) roll the bar along the ground using our abs and arms. Blondie shouts out to Drill Sergeant that she can’t do these because SHE just had a baby. She gets a pass – what a B****.

So, Blondie takes it upon herself to start telling Brownie how she’s doing it all wrong, and all of a sudden she is cracking up laughing. I look over to see Brownie spread eagle with her face in the ground – the bar had slipped out from under her from doing it Blondie's way. I’m sorry, but there is nothing funnier than seeing a person fall – especially if they aren’t hurt.

Drill Sergeant comes over to see what all the commotion is about (I don’t think we are supposed to laugh that loud in boot camp). Brownie tries to recreate what she was doing, and Drill Sergeant tells her she's doing it all wrong and makes her do it the way she was doing it in the first place and she tells him so. He asked her why she thought she was doing it wrong and Brownie retorted that “Blondie over there, the one sitting on her butt, was telling me that I was doing it wrong.”

We got to do that lovely set twice, and if you thought my counting was creative the first time, you should’ve heard it the second time.

We regroup for our water break before heading back, and Drill Sergeant had apparently emailed out a food chart thing for us to follow. Some schmuck in the back (probably the one that said we weren’t doing enough cardio) complained that he can’t possibly eat as much as Drill Sergeant wants him to eat. Dude, that is soooo NOT my problem. I love food way too much. I make sure to let Drill Sergeant know that I’ll get right on that diet plan when I get the form. He says that isn’t a problem, I should’ve known then to keep my mouth shut.

So, I’m thinking instead of running back, someone should go get my car. When I suggested this to Drill Sergeant, he didn’t seem to think it was a good idea. In fact, he met me on the way back to give me my food chart and daily food journal to start following immediately.

Brownie beat us back to the car, and with a perky smile tells us “Hey, Baskin Robbins has 31 cent scoops today til 10 “. I offer to spot Brownie and Blondie a scoop. We get to Baskin Robbins and there are like 30 people waiting in a line that is bigger than the dinky Baskin Robbins. We proceed through the drive thru with Brownie yelling in the back, “Get a car!” (I’m glad the windows were rolled up.) “I don’t know why they’re just standing there.” We go around the back to the drive-thru and the damn thing is closed. We have to drive by the crowd gathered out front and they are laughing their asses off at us as we drive by without our sweet treat. I was really looking forward to a nice refreshing daiquiri ice in a sugar cone. I think Drill Sergeant is testing us again. Damn Drill Sergeant.

Diary of a Wimpy Mom

Boot Camp - Day 1:
So, two of my girlfriends, we'll call them Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum for this story talked me into this 6-week boot camp (maybe I should be Tweedle-dum). So, scratch that, we'll call them Brownie (no relation to the Katrina "Heck of a job Brownie" that I'm aware of) and Blondie, and yes, that leaves me as Tweedle-dum. "It'll be fun!" they said. "We'll look gooooood!" they said. Whatever...

So, we start out with the indignity of having to weigh ourselves in front of everyone else and record it on a permanent card that has our name on it. During that process, Blondie tries so hard to sneak a peak at Brownie's weight on the scale, that she practically has her head in between Brownie's legs. I wished I'd had my camera for that! Brownie had told us to "GET BACK!"

If that wasn't humiliating enough, we then had to take turns with the measuring tape and measure our thighs (URGH), our arms - Drill Sergeant said to get that part that "waves back when you wave", and our belly (Seriously?!) and call out these measurements to each other - Yea me! So, the three of us take turns measuring. Any delusions I had of being only slightly larger than I was in high school completely went out the door. Drill Sergent doesn't want you having happy delusions. It turns out that Blondie and I are about the same size - measurements and all. Of course, Blondie bimbo just had a baby, which she made sure to mention. I had a baby too - 5 years ago.

One might think that the worst is over, and one would be wrong.

Drill Sergeant proceeds to guide us through our stations. Let me tell you that 50 reps doesn't sound so bad when you are just visiting each station as he demonstrates. It takes on a whole new meaning when you are doing the squats with a gargantuan weight bar thing with weights on the end, and jumping over obstacles, and doing pull ups, and incline push ups, and these weird sit up side twist kick things while holding the gargantuan weight bar thing over your head, and finishing up with weights that you have to squat with (didn't we do those already?) and lift over your head. What's Drill Sergeants' obsession with weights over your head????!!!

So, Brownie and I (we had to pair up) finish up our "set" and I find out that we are supposed to do that whole thing 2 (that is 1 and 2) T-W-O more times. At this point, my arms are barely functioning, and Drill Sergeant is yelling at me to "run on my toes" in between stations. He doesn't seem to understand that my ass was left back at station 2 and my arms fell off at station 4.

But, we get a water break (I had already had a few of those, but we won't let Drill Sergeant know that). Drill Sergeant announces that we are going to quickly stretch. Sweet - I can do that! I get a mat to sit down on and everything. It turns out that somehow in Drill Sergeant's over developed muscle mind he thinks that more push ups and holding oneself up in a push up is a stretch. Yeah, I had to skip some of the "stretching". I think Drill Sergeant had a bar bell dropped on his head and forgot that stretching does NOT include push ups of any kind.

We finish up our "stretching" and move on to another "set." Unfortunately, we only had time to get through 4 of the 6 stations on our 2nd set, and didn't have time for the 3rd either.I know, I know, we were just heartbroken. Even God took pity on us and blew in some cool air covering up the blistering sun there at the end.

We finish up with a revelation from Drill Sergeant about what we should eat and how many calories we are supposed to consume. It has something to do with adding a zero to the end of our weight and fat grams, sodium, blah, blah, blah. And, I'm thinking, "ice cream sounds goooood. I deserve some ice cream after all of that."

So, with my arms dragging the ground, I lumber back to my car and make plans to go run with Blondie tomorrow.

Unfortunately, I can't lift my arms above my elbows and the 1/2 gallon of creamy goodness in my freezer is too damn heavy for me to pick up. So, I settle for water, a shower because Tallion is scrunching up his face at my smell while I tell him about boot camp, and my nice comfy bed.