Wednesday, January 30, 2008
It's okay to come back from a good workout and eat cookie dough.
I'm paraphrasing a little, but I'm pretty sure that was his basic message . . .
Friday, January 25, 2008
Sometime during my adulthood I guess I grew out of the asthma thing as it relates to exercise. Leaving me no excuse.
My sacred devotion to walking just isn't doing it for me like it used to. Kick boxing, while being one of the most enjoyable forms of aerobic exercise I have ever experienced, is no longer an option. Instructor Dave seems to have been fired, the gym management is disorganized and the owner is so arrogant it makes you wanna roundhouse kick him in the groin. Best that I don't attend those classes any more . . .
So I turned to running. When I first started, I felt silly. And jiggly. I commented to my daughter that running made me feel like I needed a sports bra. For my buttcheeks. Now, every time she sees me putting on my running shoes, she breaks into a fit of laughter with that visual in her head. Thanks for the support, sweetie!
Oh--and there's also that damn hula hoop . . .
I ended up buying this one--specifically meant for adults:
(Hottie not included . . . ) See all those metallic looking protrusions on the inside of the hoop? WTF are they for????? I am convinced my hoop was based on the original design sketches from this classic 18th century hoop:
Trust me, no one would dare use my modern day contrivance without sufficient protection from the evil nubbins. Here's my favored method of defense against the "hula hoop" that could surely pass for a barbaric rite of passage device:
(Hottie still not included . . . )
Between you and me? Hoopin' ain't all it's cracked up to be. Once I've got the hoop going, it's relatively easy to stay in the groove with minimal effort. I always feel it in my abs the next day, but I think the sensation I feel is the bruising from the torture spikes--not the fantastic workout.
I'm pretty sure that hooping would be a fabulous aerobic endeavor for mere mortals. But for me--former 3rd grade hula hooping champion--a cakewalk.
I guess my buttcheeks and I will stick with the running . . .
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
husband: What's the reason this time?
wife: The engine gaskets sitting on top of my pretty china hutch.
husband: I wondered if you'd notice that. I needed a safe place to put them and Youngest wanted the kitchen table to do a puzzle.
wife: Don't we have a garage and a little shop thingy?
husband: Yes, but they're both too full of stuff and these are important and can't get damaged. Anyway, how could you even see the gaskets through all the cobwebs up there?
wife: Cobwebs?!?! I just vacuumed up there 6 months ago . . .
husband: This kettle corn you made is really good, but eating the kernels hurts those teeth I just had worked on.
wife: But you had that done over a week ago. They're still bothering you?
wife: Well, have you called the dentist like I suggested a few days ago?
husband: Why bother? What's he going to do about it?
wife: Are you kidding me? He's a DENTIST for chrissake! It's his business to know what to do with painful teeth!
husband: Hey? Can you call your mom and ask her if she'd rather I didn't come for dinner since I'm still contagious?
**a short while later**
wife: Mom says it's fine for you to come over; she's not worried about it.
husband: Can I wear my sweats?
wife (mumbling under her breath while walking away): We're getting a divorce, did I mention?
husband: What was that about dementia?????
Oh sure, he probably has his side of the story too. But this is my blog : )
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Peter's parents host the birthday dinner. And I've been fighting it for as long as I can remember. The first problem is that Peter's birthday is January 16th. My own dear Number One Son's birthday is January 17th. It never fails that Peter's mom wants to have dinner on the very same night that we want to celebrate with Number One. After all this time (and Number One has been around for 22 years!) she hasn't quite caught on to the scheduling conflict.
The second problem is the chairs. Peter's mother sets a beautiful table and cooks a lovely meal. But it's rendered unenjoyable because of the rickety chairs around her dining room table. One sits cautiously. One barely dares to move enough to reach the water goblet. And if one had gained a few extra pounds several years ago, one might suffer some sort of debilitating knee injury that wouldn't go away for months because one spent the meal trying not to actually sit in the rickety chair beneath one's fat ass.
Logistics aside, I don't know Peter's parents very well. I am uncomfortable in most social situations and find it difficult to make decent conversation. This inadequacy is compounded by the fact that these folks are furiously political. I have no quibble with someone who is passionate about what they believe, I just think it makes for lousy dinner conversation when the guests feel like they've been kidnapped and taken to an indoctrination camp.
The other dinner attendees are always some combination of Peter's girlfriend, Peter's sister, her husband and their grown children. I really like these people. And, though I am uncomfortable around Peter's parents, I genuinely like and respect them. The whole group is cosmopolitan, erudite, well-read and well-spoken.
So you'd think I could politely overcome the annual scheduling fiasco (and those blasted chairs!) and allow a little grace for two opinionated folks in their 80's. You'd think I could just show up and enjoy myself, right?
Wrong. Because there's that one last little difficulty that causes one evening every January to be the most unbearable eternity! The little difficulty's name is Amy.
Amy is a standard poodle. Amy is a house dog. Amy is friendly. And I? am the perfect height so that Amy's nose fits directly in my crotch without her having to stretch.
I'm not talking about a mannerly little sniff of greeting. As soon as I walk through the door, she makes a beeline for me and just stands there. Nose in. It's not that I'm all that special down there, it's more a matter of I'm new and she is already well acquainted with everyone else's junk.
I stand uncomfortably in the entry with Amy pinning me to the door. Peter's mother greets me and offers to take my coat. MY COAT??!! How about taking your freaking dog???? She laughs at Amy's "antics" and mildly scolds her. I'd like to not so mildly kick her. And her dog.
I have tried the tactic of turning just a bit sideways and petting the dog (as though I don't mind this embarrassing attack) but pet dander infuriates the eczema on my hands and I spend the rest of the evening with intolerable itchiness.
I have tried the tactic of not-so-very-gently pushing the dog away. But I end up feeling like such a heel for being mean to this poor, dumb creature when it's her masters that are to blame.
Sweet hubby has learned to come to the rescue. He has learned to distract the dog by showing her affection. And he spends every blessed moment of the party patiently petting and playing with the dog so as to keep her the hell away from me.
In accordance with my ongoing crusade to broadcast important public service announcements, I offer you this advice: When hosting a dinner party, it's probably socially unacceptable to allow your pet to molest your guests. Or maybe I'm just being picky.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
I feel like I should be more grown up than this. Like I should be more even keel. More dependable. Less spread out over the spectrum. But I'm not.
I want to blame my lack of rock-solid steadfastness on hormones. Because that's easy. But it's not a hormonal thing. It's a chromosomal thing : )
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
This got me to thinking.
I've never been to Vegas. There are lots of places I've never been. I've also never had a weekend gambol with just the girls. Some of my fondest memories are wrapped up in the two roadtrips Beautiful and I took together to go see big figure skating events. (Stop laughing--I am addicted to figure skating : )
I am too practical to have ever had a "List of Things to do Before I Die." But maybe I should have one. Not so I can punctiliously check things off, leaving me feeling accomplished at the end, but so I don't forget that there is a whole world full of wonders beyond my little mouse house. So I don't live my whole life in the same place with the same relatively unchanging perspective. There are things I want to do and, for crying out loud, why have I put them off so long?
I'll leave the question of why alone for now. But how 'bout that list?
For starters--definitely go to Vegas!
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Another tip: if you're asking for a favor, maybe don't deliver an insult--no matter how funny it seems at the time . . .
"Oooh, Hubby, do that thing you did last night. Remember, when you stopped in the middle?"
"Sorry--I don't remember. I don't plan these things ahead of time. I work by natural instinct. Like an, ummm . . . what's that called?"
"An idiot savant?"
I've been over it and over it in my head--what can I do in honor of Cheek on her 40th? Send an unusual card? Have one of those bacon flavored chocolate bars delivered to her house? Maybe a CD from an up-and-coming local band? And then I saw this video. And it's perfect : )
Consider this a birthday toast, Cheek! (with a side of bacon, of course : )
Happy 40th and may the next 40 be filled with adventure, great friends, fabulous music and food that makes you want to sing!
Friday, January 11, 2008
The "jogging" has made me cranky. It's my own fault. I eased up on my semi-sacrosanct devotion to holding on to my health back in December when things got really busy. I'm paying for it now. The Holiday Pounds, though coy about making themselves known, did, in fact, present themselves. The attempt at getting back into the groove has been daunting.
The house is exactly the same now as when I left it 45 minutes ago. Only now it's really bothering me because I'll be leaving for work shortly and I know it's going to look even worse by the time I get back.
I start barking.
"Youngest! Your quilt belongs on your bed, not out here. And what's with leaving your books, pocket knife, Legos and--what's that, is that your tool box? Why is it all lying around out here? You know better. Get them put away."
Youngest recognizes the tone in my voice and the pattern of my rant. He quietly, meekly, gathers his things and disappears into his room to play his guitar. And I feel like a shrew for having spoken to him that way. But it doesn't stop me.
I direct my ire at my husband.
"And you," I accuse, "you're the one who constantly complains about the rest of us and how we 'never put anything away,' " I chide in a mocking sing-song. "I'm constantly picking up after you! Look how much crap you leave lying around! That baseball cap on the piano bench? You left it there two days ago. The pretzels on the table next to your chair? You were eating them last night and didn't put them away. There would be hell to pay if any of the rest of us had done that. And why is that flashlight still sitting there?! And 3 PAIRS OF SHOES!!!" The shoes left to trip over in our tiny living room are my pet peeve. "Don't give me that bullshit about how you just took them off and they're drying by the fireplace. You weren't wearing ALL THREE pair!"
He's defensive. And he's been really sick for days and is only feeling like himself as of this morning. A small explanation for my sudden lack of patience with him. But really, it's too small an explanation to excuse my irrational nagging today.
"You could help me, you know," he lamely shoots back. "You could make me some oatmeal." This man is forever wandering from the main thrust of an argument.
Can't you follow this thread to its logical conclusion? I think to myself. And the conclusion is that I'm right--as always--and you need to tow the line.
But what I rudely retort is, "Since when do you eat breakfast?"
He answers through a genuine coughing fit and with a hurt look on his face, "You told me yesterday to eat something before taking any medicine. I feel like crap and want to take something."
That should be enough to back me down off my impossibly high horse. But it isn't. I'm on a roll. And I ungraciously reply, "I told you yesterday to make yourself a piece of toast," implying that he can do the same for himself now.
Ten minutes later he comes sullenly into the kitchen, "There. I put the flashlight away. Are you happy?"
I smile and hug him, "Your oatmeal is almost done," I coo as I snuggle into his broad chest.
"You're a bitch, you know."
"I know. But only because you've been sick and I'm not gettin' any," I tease.
He chuckles and kisses the top of my head.
This scene is the perfect example of why Beautiful said to us last week, "I can't decide if you two have the worst marriage ever or the best marriage ever."
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Beautiful "That's what she said! I didn't have a chance to cash my paycheck and couldn't afford to go grocery shopping. So I came here to eat dinner. And use your computer . . . I wish you'd gotten home earlier! I have to leave in a few minutes."
Me "Oh, bummer. But hey, before you leave, will you do something for me?"
Beautiful "That's what she said!"
Me "Darn it! You're so good at that--you get me every time!"
Simultaneously "That's what she said!"
Me "Okay, that's enough (that'swhatshesaid) I need you to pin up my pants so I can hem them."
Beautiful "Uuuuuuugggggghhhhhhh! I HATE HEMMING!!!!!!!!!"
Mom "I know, I know . . . By the way, did you remember to make that doctor's appointment?"
Beautiful "By the way, did you remember to STOP NAGGING?"
Mom "Just because I have a natural talent for it doesn't mean I enjoy it."
Beautiful "That's what she said!!! Now, hold still so I can line this up right."
Simultaneously "That's what she said!"
Beautiful "Stop laughing! It's making you move too much! (that'swhatshesaid.)"
Mom "Are you done yet? It's hard to stay still in one position!"
Simultaneously "That's what she said!"
Beautiful "You know, one of us should really think about growing up."
Simultaneously "Not it!"
Mom "That's what she said?"
Beautiful "That time it didn't even work."
Simultaneously "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!"
Mister's voice from the other room "Alright you two, you've had enough fun."
Whispering simultaneously "That's what she said!"
I don't have big traffic here. More of a small, but dedicated, readership. There might be a lurker or two though. So--if you be lurking here, say hey if you feel like it. Or not. I'm good either way : )
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Head Esthetician, Alicia, and I agree that the notable abundance of unwanted (and unfairly unfeminine) hair growth on women must be due to all the hormones in our food supply. I'm pretty sure it's unrelated to the fact that my maiden name is Sasquatch.
For the last five or so years I have been religious in my devotion to waxing. Even though our family has suffered a few hardships; even though we sold our large, beautiful home and moved into a mud hut--dammit, I got waxed! I would sooner deprive my growing children of milk than go without getting all those ugly ass extra hairs ripped out painfully.
But now that I'm the bread winner around here--now that I work 24 whole hours a week at just above minimum wage!--I am treating myself ('treating' is a seriously awful way to describe it) to laser hair removal. Or, as the clinic refers to it "laser hair reduction." (Thereby avoiding any sticky legal wickets should the procedure not, in fact, be a permanent state . . . )
My first treatment in the five month process was today. Sweet, young, fresh faced Alicia led me to the dungeon--(strike that)--the treatment room where she took great pains to lull me into a happy state of mind with no worries whatsoever about the upcoming agony.
She showed me the cute little ultrasound wand (ultrasound--can't be that bad, right? Just like when I was pregnant and they showed me my sweet babies.) She described the almost painless procedure and placed the protective goggles over my eyes.
Yeah. Not so much protective goggles as a blindfold for the damned.
At first it wasn't too bad. Kinda like an occasional pin prick. By a pin dipped in ACID.
In the areas where there stood a lone tree, it wasn't so bad. But as soon as she got to the thicker underbrush--O.M.G.
"How is the pain?" she chirped. Bitch. "On a scale of one to 10 with 10 being the worst pain you've ever had?"
What I was thinking was, "I've endured two harrowing C-sections. I know pain. I lived to tell about a root canal where the doctor insisted on jamming a sharp instrument directly into the nerve and cackling manically. I know pain, sister!"
What came out of my mouth was, "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!"
Did I mention the nauseating stench of burning hair?
And not only did I sign on for 5 months of this hellish, self-induced punishment, I added the bikini area to the docket starting next month. You know, because I didn't have quite enough fun today . . .
And one last note to the guys (assuming you're still reading--which I expressly told you not to!) I know it's all the rage now for y'all to denude your naughty bits, but that's usually with a razor, isn't it? Until you perform that bit of maintenance with scalding hot wax or the destructive waves of ultrasound technology or that other procedure that ends in 'lysis' (the medical suffix for death) you are not even qualified to join this discussion. I'm just sayin'.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Arriving home, I was also hungry, but dinner wasn't quite ready. I just wanted something light and comforting, so I put a slice of bread in the toaster.
A few minutes later, I walked through the living room where Youngest was sitting, reading a book. He saw what I was holding--a piece of bread and a decadent drink.
"Ooooooooh," he murmured with envy, "toast!"
Sunday, January 6, 2008
He's crazy about this girl. So much so that he has been willing to suspend his extreme Spartan ways for her. It's a nice change to see in him : )
It took some time for her to be ready, but she came to the house a couple times to hang out here and get to know us.
She's about 5' 2" with long, dark hair. She's very cute. She's bubbly and cheerful, but underneath that exterior lurked a little insecurity--a little nervousness to make a good impression.
She is very bright, but not quite as philosophical/intellectual as Number One. She, however, is much more accessible than Number One is : )
She takes school very seriously and has worked hard to get good grades. An early education major, she is on the cusp of devoting her adult life to the teaching of children.
Unlike her boyfriend (who is a body Nazi and super health food freak. No, make that SUPER HEALTH FOOD FREAK!) She is of a more normal persuasion--going so far as to enjoy a cold Coke and some Rice Krispie Treats while we sat around the table playing games. Oh, and speaking of games? She is very competitive--but not so much that it's no fun to play with her.
She is willing to compromise with Number One when they're deciding what to do for the day and where they're going for dinner--but this girl is no doormat either.
And one last item of note: No matter where they're going or what's going on, she's always running just a tad late.
So, at what point will this besmitten boy realize he is dating the 22 year old version of his mother?
A cherished interlude during my work day is when I get to take out the garbage. The garbage dock (or whatever it's called) is located back behind the produce department--where it's quiet! During that daily chore, I get to hang out for a few precious moments in the sanctity of the box baler and produce pallets where nobody asks anything of me. Not only that, but I frequently see Bob there because he works in produce.
Bob and I usually stop to visit for a second and sometimes he gives me produce samples. Woo hoo! I know how unmonumental that sounds, but really? A break from my astoundingly busy department and a few slices of apple is a restorative getaway : )
Shortly before Christmas, Bob had a birthday. I hadn't seen him in quite awhile, so one day while I was at the store shopping, I stopped by to say hello to Bob and acknowledge his special day.
I didn't see him out on the produce floor, so I approached one of the other produce employees with whom I am familiar. Well, I'm familiar to him when I'm in work clothes, but evidently not when I'm in street clothes.
"Is Bob working today?" I asked.
He looked at me warily. "Do you know him?"
No, I don't know him, I'm just randomly asking about handsome young men who work here . . . "I'm Kristin from Pharmacy . . . " I replied, hoping to jog his memory.
"Oh. Yeah, I think he's in the back," he said as he started to lead me to the double doors.
Dressed in my normal clothes with Produce Dude leading me back especially to find Bob, I began to feel a little funny about how this looked. I felt even more awkward when, stepping beyond the doors, Bob was standing with a group of 4 or 5 other produce workers.
Bob greeted me warmly. I wished him a happy birthday and gave him a hug (because he's a huggy kind of guy and I though I am normally a little, let's see, repulsed by human contact, I thought it would be bad form to come see him for a personal reason and step back in fear as he approached me.)
As all this was going on, the other 4 or 5 produce workers kept shooting funny looks my way. Like I was a 40ish broad especially seeking out a 20something kid . . .
This was not a comfortable situation. I wanted desperately to get out of there. Bob was really sweet, as usual. We chatted for a few moments and then I said something lame about needing to finish my shopping and get home.
Cheerfully, Bob answered (and I would swear before a judge that this is verbatim) "Have a nice Christmas, and thanks for stalking by!"
And the rest of the produce workers snickered.
Seriously. No respect . . .
Thursday, January 3, 2008
I've gotten off the subject.
So. We're at B&N and while he's seriously studying car restoration volumes, I peruse the bargain racks. Lots of lovely art books (who doesn't need dozens and dozens of art books?) tons of 2008 calendars and day-planners at reduced prices (I love the idea of day planners, but come on, this is me . . . ) and miscellaneous oddball, random stuff.
Oddball, random stuff like the guide to fabric and upholstery stain removal.
I figured I should have some familiarity with how to remove butter stains from a sweatshirt. You know, just in case one morning I'm on my way to work, eating a piece of buttered toast in the car, and a little blop of butter ends up on my work sweatshirt and I have to spend the rest of the day making sure my hair covers the big ole' greasy spot and then I come home and wash the sweatshirt but forget about the butter stain and don't put any spot remover on it, and it goes through the dryer thereby setting the effing stain and I can't very well show up at work every day with my hair artfully arranged to hide the nasty, slovenly stain. Hypothetically.
Flipping through the book (and yes, I did learn how to get rid of that hypothetical butter stain) I went to the index. Mud and dirt removal was listed. Great! Because I've always had trouble getting mud and dirt stains out of my kids' clothes.
And as long as I'm checking out the index, let's just see if . . . Yep, there it is: semen stain removal instructions for fabric and upholstery. Because you just never know!
And now I know all I ever wanted to know about butter, mud and semen stain removal. I'm prepared for anything this weekend ; )
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
For Christmas, my sweet Mister actually gave me something I had asked for! He bought me a new sewing machine. But he wouldn't let me take it out of the box and use it : ) He told me I should test drive several machines to make sure I got the one I really wanted. Thoughtful and sweet of him, no?
So, yesterday afternoon, rather than me going to do errands alone (my usual MO) I made the conscious decision that we should go together. See? Isn't that all connected and good of me?
We went to Sears. As we stood talking next to the bank of floor models, the saleswoman (we're pretty sure it's a woman) who helped Mister before Christmas recognized him and offered her assistance.
Mister had some research to do in another part of the store (research = deciding which HD TV is a necessity for us) so he went his way while I compared features on sewing machines. With the help of the sales(wo?)man.
And by help? I mean holy effing hovering, Batman!
I couldn't shake this lady. Every time I stepped closer to read the information on one of the machines, she butted right in to tell me all about functions and stitches and modes and every other feature I wasn't ready to consider yet.
Oh, and she touched me--like 3 times!!! I am seriously committed to personal space. I do not like being touched by strangers. Particularly strangers of dubious gender . . .
I peered closely at one model, SalesPerson insisted on moving it to a lower shelf, climbing under the shelf to plug it in, testing it herself and then allowing me to sit down and play around with it. Play around with it, that is, after informing me that she never begins a machine without first putting the needle down into the fabric. Um, duh? Isn't that the first lesson everyone learns when they begin sewing?
I hadn't so much as placed my hands on the fabric when she stepped back in from her polite distance of 2 freaking inches away to show me (at length, and again) how to adjust the stitch options and stitch length and width.
Maybe it's me. Maybe I have that look about me that says, "Warning: This person cannot understand the most basic instructions due to her extra chromosome."
"I don't know how much sewing you have done . . . " she said as she POKED MY SHOULDER! WTF?
So while I was sitting there and she was going over and over the same instructions that I didn't care about, I didn't hear a word she said. I was thinking, "How can I get out of this? How can I politely run the f*** away? What story can I come up with to get myself out of here?"
Finally, I came up with a plan. Translation: I came up with a lie. "I see that there's a price difference between this model and the one my husband bought me. I need to go talk about our budget with him."
She bought my story.
As I was leaving her department, I was dialing hubby's cell. "She wouldn't leave me alone!"
"I know," he replied sympathetically. "I knew that would probably bother you."
"And she touched me! Three times!!!!"
"Oh. That's not good!"
"Where are you? I need you to protect me!"
"I'm still in the TV department."
"No! I'd have to walk back past the sew and vac department to get to you! Never mind. I'll walk around the outside of the store and meet you. Don't go anywhere. Oh shit! There she is again! Whew--she didn't see me!"
Several minutes went by as I circumnavigated the department store . . .
Still on the phone with hubby . . .
"Crap! There she is again! She's stalking me!!!!!!!!"
"I know!" hubby replied, again with the sympathy, "she just found me and told me you were coming to talk to me."
I didn't end up getting a different machine. The one my thoughtful husband picked out for me is JUST FINE!
Know what else? It occurred to me that Mister had willingly tried out every machine with that overbearing (wo)man standing over his shoulder and interrupting the whole time. The depth of his love for me is humbling. I'm feeling pretty connected : )
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Mister and I talked about New Year's Resolutions this morning. Are you wondering why the subject didn't come up last night, say around midnight? He was at a party with friends. I was snuggled up on the couch reading a book. Which leads me to my resolution.
I started by telling hubby that this year I'm going to take up smoking, drink too much, put on (even more) extra pounds, swear like a sailor (out loud--not just inside my head) and generally behave like a spoiled bitch. My dear husband laughed a little uncomfortable laugh. I think he was a teensy bit afraid that I wasn't joking.
Then I got to my serious resolution. (By the way, I'm one of those people who never makes resolutions because nobody ever fully keeps them and I don't like to pretend silly things. Yet, here I am, making a serious resolution . . . )
I made a pronouncement, "I think this year we should resolve to have a more connected relationship."
Hubby quickly answered, "Why?"
He was kidding : )
Let's see if we can make it past January 1 with our good intentions still intact!