February 29, 2008
WARNING: long, long post ahead.
I feel bad for my zippers--the zippers on my pants that is. The poor fools can barely hold themselves together in the midst of my rapidly expanding waistline. It's true, I've put on a few pounds, and no matter how hard I try to meditate this weight away, it just won't budge.
The one thing that I have gained as a result of my meditation is some clarity as to why I need to special order a butt-bra. Listen to this.
When I lived in Texas, I woke up every morning, ate breakfast, and met my friend Beth for a three-and-a-half mile walk. Most of the time, I was pushing two toddlers in a double jogger while Beth managed her pregnant belly or her newborn baby. After Jared got home from school, we would eat dinner together as a family, load James into the baby jogger and go for our regular two-mile loop. Oh, and one more thing--I was running anywhere between twenty and forty miles a week last year. And lifting weights at the Y. And riding my bike every Saturday.
I can't lie, seeing that in writing makes me a little bit angry that I didn't jump on the chance to dye my hair blond and wear leotards to the grocery store.
Now let's take a moment and compare that to my life today. I wake up every morning around 5:30 and I'm out the door by six. I come to work, where I sit on my can for eight hours with the exception of an occasional trip to the water cooler, or the meeting room, or the donut plate. I usually don't take a lunch break, because seriously, I've become a guilty working mom, and I'd rather leave the office an hour earlier to see my kid than eat lunch with Robert the sewer inspection guy.
During my drive home I begin to think about how little I've been exercising these days and make a deal with myself to do a quick three miler the moment I pull into my driveway. I feel pumped, I feel excited, and then it happens.
The side door swings open, and there he is--my two-year-old son, wearing nothing but a diaper, a superhero cape, and a humongous grin. He'll usually hurl himself right into my arms and say something completely endearing like, "I messed you so much today Big Mister! Yet's pway cars." Obviously, at that point, the idea of sparing even thirty minutes to go for a run has vaporized, and I'm lying on the floor pretending to make a miniature school bus fly.
I manage to squeeze a walk or a run in every now and again, but it's nothing like it used to be. Get this, Jared had to have the shafts on our stroller wheels rebuilt yesterday because I put almost 3,000 miles on it last year and wore them down to nothing. And do you know how I reacted when he told me this news? I sh** you not, I said, "Ugh, Jared. I hope you didn't use up all of our fun money for the week by doing that, because I was planning on signing up for the fish-fry at work tomorrow!"
What can I say? I'm a New Englander and it's completely sacrilegious to say no to a fish fry. So think of me at noon today, I'll be the one balancing two tall plates and a pint of ketchup.
Fortunately, that's all of the bad, whiny news. The good news is, I've taken the reigns and found a way to address this problem. Trust me, after having a dream that your husband was sending you to Mexico to undergo discount gastric-bypass surgery against your will, you would make a change too. And yes, I honestly had that dream this week.
Maybe you're wondering what my new plan is?
Well I thought about a treadmill, but frankly, I despise treadmills and I'd rather push a city bus through a mud pit for my daily dose of exercise.
I thought about a gym membership, but honestly, I have a severe case of guilty mom syndrome and I would shrivel up in guilt if I ever had the slightest inclination to use the gym on a weekday.
So, I've made a commitment to run on the weekends, I bought a stationary trainer for my road bike that I can use at home on weeknights, and we're doing weekly weigh-ins every Monday at work. As a side note, I will be wearing a hospital gown and flip-flops to work every Monday, just to give myself an edge. In an effort to maintain motivation I'm going to cap off this new regimen with a duathlon in the spring. And I almost forget, my husband is going to make a zillion dollars during his first year in practice so I can resume my former life as a stay-at-home-mom and exercise fiend extraordinaire.
There you have it, that's my plan. Hopefully, within a month or so, I won't be forced to tuck my flop-o-gut into my jeans anymore. We'll see.
And now I'll leave you with a question. Busy people everywhere.how do you fit exercise into your schedule? Honestly, I'm perplexed.
Lil' Miss Sunny Buns
February 25, 2008
I got my hair cut a few days ago...by a female impersonator...who specializes in Celine Dionne, Belle from Beauty and the Beast, and Barbie on roller skates.
He wasn't dressed like a woman while he cut my hair. After all, this is the off season and he prefers to save his shenanigans for the summer. In the wintertime he limits his fashion choices to insanely well fitting jeans, superbly fitted shirts, and a hair style that makes Justin Timberlake look frumpy and homeless.
I didn't know that Jonathan led a double life as a drag queen when I booked the appointment on my friend's recommendation, but if I had known, it certainly wouldn't have stopped me. If I can be totally honest, I kind of have a little bit of a "thing" for female impersonators. It's a learned appreciation that was gifted to me by my dear, sweet mother many years ago.
I have a vivid childhood memory of standing in line at the bank behind a very handsome couple dressed in floofy women's clothing. My mom gently tapped one of the gentlemen on the shoulder, and when he turned around she gingerly said, "I just have to tell you how much I love your stockings. They're really beautiful, and the details are just exquisite!" The shapely man thanked my mother, and in an instant he was strutting out of the store with a purse in one hand and a deposit slip in the other.
And thus it was born--my deep appreciation for the theatrical art of female impersonation. Strange, I know.
A few years ago, I had the fleeting idea that Jared might be entertained by drag queens, too. So in a momentary lapse of judgment I booked a babysitter, gathered a fun-loving group of friends, and attended what was in my opinion, a truly fantastic performance by three very lovely ladies. They sang Barbara Streisand songs, they danced to funky hip-hop beats, they jumped rope in platform heals, and unfortunately, one of the ladies grabbed my already shocked husband's head and forcefully nestled it into her faux, foam bosoms.
When she finally allowed Jared up for air, he looked at me with scathing eyes and sternly pronounced, "I am a Mormon boy from Pocatello, Idaho. If the shock of what just happened doesn't kill me dead, you better PROMISE to NEVER do ANYTHING like this EVER AGAIN!!!!" Then he clapped politely as Lil' Miss Sunny Buns showed the audience her frilly, purple bloomers.
As an offering of consolation, and in an effort to restore Jared's slightly damaged manhood, we watched nothing but Sylvester Stallone movies and ESPN for the next twelve weeks, and obviously we never spoke of the incident again.
The whole hairdresser being a drag queen thing just kind of came up in conversation. After all, this was my first appointment with Jonathan, and first appointment conversations tend to resemble first date conversations. Somewhere, in the middle of our idle chit chat it just came up, and in response I proceeded to ask the obvious questions:
Where do you buy high heel shoes in sizes so large? (From special mail order catalogs.)
Do you sew your own sparkles onto your dresses? (No, an elderly seamstress named Rose does that. She thinks she's making ice skating costumes.)
How do you achieve such strong, yet slender shoulders? (By using low weights and high repetitions.)
After Jonathan finished working with my hair (and I must say, he did an excellent job taming my furry madness), he politely asked if he could help me with anything else.
"Yes," I replied. "I'd like to schedule a haircut appointment for my husband."
I got my hair cut a few days ago...by a female impersonator...who specializes in Celine Dionne, Belle from Beauty and the Beast, and Barbie on roller skates.
He wasn't dressed like a woman while he cut my hair. After all, this is the off season and he prefers to save his shenanigans for the summer. In the wintertime he limits his fashion choices to insanely well fitting jeans, superbly fitted shirts, and a hair style that makes Justin Timberlake look frumpy and homeless.
I didn't know that Jonathan led a double life as a drag queen when I booked the appointment on my friend's recommendation, but if I had known, it certainly wouldn't have stopped me. If I can be totally honest, I kind of have a little bit of a "thing" for female impersonators. It's a learned appreciation that was gifted to me by my dear, sweet mother many years ago.
I have a vivid childhood memory of standing in line at the bank behind a very handsome couple dressed in floofy women's clothing. My mom gently tapped one of the gentlemen on the shoulder, and when he turned around she gingerly said, "I just have to tell you how much I love your stockings. They're really beautiful, and the details are just exquisite!" The shapely man thanked my mother, and in an instant he was strutting out of the store with a purse in one hand and a deposit slip in the other.
And thus it was born--my deep appreciation for the theatrical art of female impersonation. Strange, I know.
A few years ago, I had the fleeting idea that Jared might be entertained by drag queens, too. So in a momentary lapse of judgment I booked a babysitter, gathered a fun-loving group of friends, and attended what was in my opinion, a truly fantastic performance by three very lovely ladies. They sang Barbara Streisand songs, they danced to funky hip-hop beats, they jumped rope in platform heals, and unfortunately, one of the ladies grabbed my already shocked husband's head and forcefully nestled it into her faux, foam bosoms.
When she finally allowed Jared up for air, he looked at me with scathing eyes and sternly pronounced, "I am a Mormon boy from Pocatello, Idaho. If the shock of what just happened doesn't kill me dead, you better PROMISE to NEVER do ANYTHING like this EVER AGAIN!!!!" Then he clapped politely as Lil' Miss Sunny Buns showed the audience her frilly, purple bloomers.
As an offering of consolation, and in an effort to restore Jared's slightly damaged manhood, we watched nothing but Sylvester Stallone movies and ESPN for the next twelve weeks, and obviously we never spoke of the incident again.
The whole hairdresser being a drag queen thing just kind of came up in conversation. After all, this was my first appointment with Jonathan, and first appointment conversations tend to resemble first date conversations. Somewhere, in the middle of our idle chit chat it just came up, and in response I proceeded to ask the obvious questions:
Where do you buy high heel shoes in sizes so large? (From special mail order catalogs.)
Do you sew your own sparkles onto your dresses? (No, an elderly seamstress named Rose does that. She thinks she's making ice skating costumes.)
How do you achieve such strong, yet slender shoulders? (By using low weights and high repetitions.)
After Jonathan finished working with my hair (and I must say, he did an excellent job taming my furry madness), he politely asked if he could help me with anything else.
"Yes," I replied. "I'd like to schedule a haircut appointment for my husband."
Fifteen Minute Break Update
February 21, 2008
I have a sneaking suspicion that today is going to be one of those historically embarrassing days. After all, it's not even lunch time and I've already had a few shining moments.
I walked into work around seven o'clock to find that a lengthy article about my new job had been printed in the local newspaper. Not only did the paper misquote me by saying that I think all aspects of my job--including a catastrophic budget situation--are "fun," but it also printed a less-than-fabulous photo that left me looking like a watermelon wearing a wig. Oh yeah, they also printed my lame-o salary.
You're going to snarf when you read the second half of this sentence, but I tend to be a private person. Obviously I'm not private about all things--I'm happy to talk about farting on the treadmill, I won't hesitate to talk about parenting challenges, and I'm downright excited to talk about marital drama. But let's be clear, I'm not thrilled to spill every detail of my life to any darn person in the world, so the salary thing has left me feeling slightly violated.
I'm not sure why I'm so concerned about the release of this piece of information, perhaps I'm concerned that someone will come up behind me in the Grand Union and say, "You shouldn't buy those bananas, they're not on sale and I know you can't afford them." or "I like your new hooker boots. You must have charged those."
On the flip side, local philanthropists might start cutting me checks. We'll see.
Other than that, a selectman came up behind me while I was in the middle of licking donut jelly off of a paper plate, I did two laps around the office with my fly unzipped, and my boss told me that my hair is "really, really big today."
Thank goodness it's Thursday...I have Fridays off.
I have a sneaking suspicion that today is going to be one of those historically embarrassing days. After all, it's not even lunch time and I've already had a few shining moments.
I walked into work around seven o'clock to find that a lengthy article about my new job had been printed in the local newspaper. Not only did the paper misquote me by saying that I think all aspects of my job--including a catastrophic budget situation--are "fun," but it also printed a less-than-fabulous photo that left me looking like a watermelon wearing a wig. Oh yeah, they also printed my lame-o salary.
You're going to snarf when you read the second half of this sentence, but I tend to be a private person. Obviously I'm not private about all things--I'm happy to talk about farting on the treadmill, I won't hesitate to talk about parenting challenges, and I'm downright excited to talk about marital drama. But let's be clear, I'm not thrilled to spill every detail of my life to any darn person in the world, so the salary thing has left me feeling slightly violated.
I'm not sure why I'm so concerned about the release of this piece of information, perhaps I'm concerned that someone will come up behind me in the Grand Union and say, "You shouldn't buy those bananas, they're not on sale and I know you can't afford them." or "I like your new hooker boots. You must have charged those."
On the flip side, local philanthropists might start cutting me checks. We'll see.
Other than that, a selectman came up behind me while I was in the middle of licking donut jelly off of a paper plate, I did two laps around the office with my fly unzipped, and my boss told me that my hair is "really, really big today."
Thank goodness it's Thursday...I have Fridays off.
For the Love of a Kibble
February 20, 2008
No, no.we definitely didn't get another dog. Don't get me wrong, I love my greyhound slightly more than I love my husband, and I fully intend to add to the collection someday, but right now she's more than enough to keep me joyful, busy, and satisfied. Gracie would happily hurl herself from a fifty foot cliff for the sake of a single kibble, and believe you me, it takes quite a bit of effort on my part to curb that type of enthusiasm.
In the last seven days, Gracie has not let us down. She's performed at least three exotic stunts--just like she always does. On Wednesday morning she used her thirteen-inch nose to pry open a childproofed cabinet door and eat half a ton of chicken bones out of the kitchen garbage can. On Sunday, around three o'clock in the morning, Gracie slipped and fell down an entire flight of hardwood stairs, leaving a trail of blood that was reminiscent of a murder scene (on my in-law's carpet, of course). And last night she ate an entire loaf of Italian bread--paper wrapper and all--off the top of the refrigerator.
The chicken bone thing was annoying, the stair thing was completely sad, and I can't lie, I'm about to sew a superman cape to the back of her fleece jacket, because the bread thing was totally awesome. Think about it--we usually can't move this dog off the couch with dynamite, but for the lure of refined carbohydrates and simple sugars, Gracie got off the couch, jumped six feet in the air, and snagged a loaf of bread with nothing but her teeth. I've seen her go to the same lengths for Oreo cookies, birthday cake, and a five-pound bag of Idaho potatoes.
I aspire to do similar things.
I'll be honest--I could do without the long, constant flow of gas that she's been squeaking out since 2004, but other than that, this dog is awesome and I find myself giving her high-fives every single day.
Other fabulous animals of my past have included: Skippy, the painted turtle who scaled the wall of a baby pool and ran away (devastating, yet remarkable); Holiday, the three-foot long iguana who relocated to Florida in a Rubbermaid container and now resides with my cousin (an all around good move); and Rocky, the fifteen-year-old terrier who continues to bite ankles with the best of 'em.
So tell me.do you have a pet? What's his name? And obviously, what are your pet's primary points of awesomeness?
Have a great day everyone!
No, no.we definitely didn't get another dog. Don't get me wrong, I love my greyhound slightly more than I love my husband, and I fully intend to add to the collection someday, but right now she's more than enough to keep me joyful, busy, and satisfied. Gracie would happily hurl herself from a fifty foot cliff for the sake of a single kibble, and believe you me, it takes quite a bit of effort on my part to curb that type of enthusiasm.
In the last seven days, Gracie has not let us down. She's performed at least three exotic stunts--just like she always does. On Wednesday morning she used her thirteen-inch nose to pry open a childproofed cabinet door and eat half a ton of chicken bones out of the kitchen garbage can. On Sunday, around three o'clock in the morning, Gracie slipped and fell down an entire flight of hardwood stairs, leaving a trail of blood that was reminiscent of a murder scene (on my in-law's carpet, of course). And last night she ate an entire loaf of Italian bread--paper wrapper and all--off the top of the refrigerator.
The chicken bone thing was annoying, the stair thing was completely sad, and I can't lie, I'm about to sew a superman cape to the back of her fleece jacket, because the bread thing was totally awesome. Think about it--we usually can't move this dog off the couch with dynamite, but for the lure of refined carbohydrates and simple sugars, Gracie got off the couch, jumped six feet in the air, and snagged a loaf of bread with nothing but her teeth. I've seen her go to the same lengths for Oreo cookies, birthday cake, and a five-pound bag of Idaho potatoes.
I aspire to do similar things.
I'll be honest--I could do without the long, constant flow of gas that she's been squeaking out since 2004, but other than that, this dog is awesome and I find myself giving her high-fives every single day.
Other fabulous animals of my past have included: Skippy, the painted turtle who scaled the wall of a baby pool and ran away (devastating, yet remarkable); Holiday, the three-foot long iguana who relocated to Florida in a Rubbermaid container and now resides with my cousin (an all around good move); and Rocky, the fifteen-year-old terrier who continues to bite ankles with the best of 'em.
So tell me.do you have a pet? What's his name? And obviously, what are your pet's primary points of awesomeness?
Have a great day everyone!
Puppy Hunting
February 19, 2008
There's no doubt that I'm an optimist. Speaking in general terms, I've always seen the glass as half full. But in the midst of my hopeful thinking, I'm also a firm believer that nothing is perfect. If something appears to be flawless, just look a little closer.
Think about it.Barbie seems perfect on the outside, but in reality the poor thing has to manage forty different jobs, a few sets of twins, her image as a trophy wife, and do it all on an empty stomach. That seems hard.
Now think about my husband Jared in his new role as a stay-at-home-dad--he scrubs the floors, he folds the laundry, he bathes our unruly toddler, and he does it all with a smile. He's a fantastic father and kicks the garbage out of me in the house-spouse department, but really guys, he's no exception to my rule.
Last week, Jared and James went out of town to visit my in-laws and tie up a few loose ends with the practice. After I finished with work on Thursday, I drove up to join them. When I knocked on their door around nine o'clock at night, I was greeted by my two-year-old son, wearing mismatched pajamas, with a barely visible popsicle mustache, carrying an extra-large-sized rocket launcher gun toy.
'Oooh boy,' I thought. 'I've been trying to keep toys guns out of the house. But I guess that's what I get for buying the kid a sparkly pink bear.'
"Wow buddy. What's that?" I asked, as I shot my husband a super sharp glare.
"Es a gun. Fer hunten," he replied. (translation: It's a gun. For hunting.)
"What do you hunt?" I asked with an obvious element of concern in my voice.
"Him," he replied. And my jaw hung wide as I watched James launch a ten-inch styrofoam rocket right into the side of my in-law's dog's head. Then my toddler proceeded to take four more unsuccessful shots as Patsy, the nine pound Maltese, scampered away and hid beneath the couch.
It's true, my husband taught my two-year-old son to hunt a fluffy, white pocket-dog with a shoulder-mounted assault weapon. How sweet.
If you want me to be honest with you, I thought it was pretty hilarious. I was just relieved to have a reason to maintain the validity of my theory--Jared can be a slightly inappropriate parent as well.
Then we spent the rest of the weekend working on our Nerf gun technique.
There's no doubt that I'm an optimist. Speaking in general terms, I've always seen the glass as half full. But in the midst of my hopeful thinking, I'm also a firm believer that nothing is perfect. If something appears to be flawless, just look a little closer.
Think about it.Barbie seems perfect on the outside, but in reality the poor thing has to manage forty different jobs, a few sets of twins, her image as a trophy wife, and do it all on an empty stomach. That seems hard.
Now think about my husband Jared in his new role as a stay-at-home-dad--he scrubs the floors, he folds the laundry, he bathes our unruly toddler, and he does it all with a smile. He's a fantastic father and kicks the garbage out of me in the house-spouse department, but really guys, he's no exception to my rule.
Last week, Jared and James went out of town to visit my in-laws and tie up a few loose ends with the practice. After I finished with work on Thursday, I drove up to join them. When I knocked on their door around nine o'clock at night, I was greeted by my two-year-old son, wearing mismatched pajamas, with a barely visible popsicle mustache, carrying an extra-large-sized rocket launcher gun toy.
'Oooh boy,' I thought. 'I've been trying to keep toys guns out of the house. But I guess that's what I get for buying the kid a sparkly pink bear.'
"Wow buddy. What's that?" I asked, as I shot my husband a super sharp glare.
"Es a gun. Fer hunten," he replied. (translation: It's a gun. For hunting.)
"What do you hunt?" I asked with an obvious element of concern in my voice.
"Him," he replied. And my jaw hung wide as I watched James launch a ten-inch styrofoam rocket right into the side of my in-law's dog's head. Then my toddler proceeded to take four more unsuccessful shots as Patsy, the nine pound Maltese, scampered away and hid beneath the couch.
It's true, my husband taught my two-year-old son to hunt a fluffy, white pocket-dog with a shoulder-mounted assault weapon. How sweet.
If you want me to be honest with you, I thought it was pretty hilarious. I was just relieved to have a reason to maintain the validity of my theory--Jared can be a slightly inappropriate parent as well.
Then we spent the rest of the weekend working on our Nerf gun technique.
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