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I have had such a solid grip on my weight since the June Bug broke through the surface that I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to want to throw the scale through a window.
I’m on vacation. I’m at my mother’s house. These two things do not make for good weight control (unless you’re looking to store up for the long, cold winter). And even though I know, I know, that her scale is four pounds heavier than mine (because no one can gain four solid pounds during a 14 hour car trip), I still feel violent and resentful every time I cross it’s threshold and offer up my self-esteem to the digital gods.
And so, I’m back to my good old, miserable old plan. The one that involves lots of Lean Cuisines and no eating after 6 pm. It also means spitting accidental bites of PB&J on homemade white bread into the trash and eating so many sugar-free Russell Stouver’s mint patties that I spend a significant amount of time in the bathroom. Cause I’m healthy like that.
But there is a new twist to this plan that I intend to implement tomorrow morning. I am going to start running. There, I said it. I hate running, it’s stupid and boring and not at all social. Running is for smart people who care about their hearts more than their knees (my knees are WAY more important to me). I should probably admit here that I’ve been trying to get started all week. It’s those stupid shoes. Who ties shoes anymore? Heels don’t have strings.
I do have to say that after three days on the system I’m already down a pound, and by the end of next week I’ll be back to my untoned self. When I get back next month, I am picking up my yoga classes with some seriously zen enthusiasm.
Hold on, do I smell brownies? Mmmm, chocolate.
The next time I decide to take a vacation, would someone just slap me?
Remember yesterday? My dreams of sweet, loving children, who worship the ground I walk on, making a joyful noise and welcoming me home with clean, open arms? Walking in yesterday, I met their sticky, shrieking counterparts, and they all called me “Mommy”.
They were so anxious to see me, that the June Bug was awake from 2-4:30 am this morning, staring at me. Motherhood is so delightful.
They apparently used up their Good Behavior tickets while I was gone, because if I had sat down to write this post fifteen minutes ago, you would have seen phrases like, “Those little *&%$#” and “Get me the *%&# out of here!”
If I can just get them safely to tomorrow, maybe they’ll have a chance…
We left the children.
I’m sitting in a hotel, completely free of anyone below drinking age (not that that matters in our case), wondering what to do with myself. Jason and I spent the weekend up on San Juan Island where we honeymooned, and he’s returning me to our children this afternoon. He’s got a conference in Lynwood this week that started today, so I’m currently alone. Waiting.
It’s been amazing. It’s been perfect. And I can’t wait to get back.
My mom called me yesterday to report on the kids (she’s raising them this weekend) and I was kind of shocked to find out that I’m noticably missed. Apparently, Rex keeps telling her, “Mommy will be back in fifteen minutes!” and “Mommy will be back in 45 minutes, Grandma!” And my smart little June Bug? She woke up from her nap yesterday, let herself out and headed downstairs calling, “Annie! Annie!” I guess she figured that if “Mommy” didn’t work, she’d try the other one.
As moms, it’s easy to get so caught up in finding a moment of personal peace and quiet, a second to regroup and shake them off your apron strings, that we forget: we’re their world. For a brief moment in time, you are the center of their life. You are the most important opinion. You are the face that matters, the words that sooth, the kiss that heals.
When my mom told me those things about my children yesterday, it took everything in me to keep from saying, “To heck with the ferry, I’m swimming.” Right now, as magical and wonderful as my weekend with sweet Jason has been, we both want nothing more than a few stale chicken nuggets and midnight sippy cup runs. Two more hours and I’m outta here.
Babies, Mama’s coming.
My girlfriend Tricia is kind of a stay-at-home feminist. I am not. Check out this week’s column for the whole story.
I think I’m a facebook floozy.
So the other night, I was sitting around with a few of my sisters and our laptops, looking up YouTube videos and Snuggies and trying to waste time with group internet surfing.
We made our way over to facebook and I noticed I had an invitation to join a facebook Harem. Anyone who knows me knows that I have never once accepted a facebook invitation for anything, including the saving of starving children. I haven’t acknowledged a single relative or classmate, and I refuse to accept any more nominations for Nicest Person (you know they pour in like crazy).
But a Harem? What the heck is a facebook Harem? Anything with the word Harem in it must be thoroughly investigated, to protect the young and innocent. For all I know I’m about to uncover a federal felony that I can sick Jason on and emerge a big, Harem-saving hero.
So, with my investigative goggles firmly in place and my sisters at my side, I plunged into the frightening world of Haremania. Allow me to divulge. You sign up and get some facebook Harem money for free (no good at Macey’s, I already checked), with which you purchase people. Random people, like me, who have posted their picture along with a teensy little blurb. Prices start somewhere around $300 and go up from there. You can be worth millions if you play your people right.
As I started looking around, I noticed there were a number of “less-desireable” photos for sale. There was even a clearance list, up to 90% off! We all know I can’t pass on a deal, and I’m all about making people feel good about themselves, so, with the counsel of my sisters, I began to collect a Harem. An ugly, unwanted group of misfits who needed a home and an owner.
After about half an hour (of my life), we noticed that I had a little update next to my photo. Someone had purchased me! He had not only purchased me, but he’d bought me virtual gifts like perfume and flowers (how did he know??).
Anyway, the short of it is that we laughed and had a delightful evening, then I completely forgot about the whole thing. Until today. Right now, to be exact.
While Harem people have no access to my facebook account, they can request me as a friend. My owner has not only requested my “friendship”, but he’s sent me a message. In Spanish. Or perhaps Portugese. Anyway, due to my uno lingo status, I cannot read it. But, I can detect the words “brilliant” and “sunrise” and “mucho” and “diamond”. Who knows? Maybe he’s going to buy me a big brilliant diamond and ride off with me into the mucho gusto sunrise?
Never fear, I shall never visit the Harem site again. My belly dancing days are numbered.
We got to my mom’s house late Monday night and are happily spending a month at the farm. There’s nothing like cow pies to really versify a child’s view of the world in general. It’s amazing how many farm things convert to good, down home advice. Like my grandpa’s old saying, in regards to rehashing upsetting events: “Every time you kick a turd over, it stinks.” Rural folk are brilliant.
My daughter is talking. She’s about 20 months and as of this week, is stringing all sorts of words into all sorts of sentences. Her first and favorite sentence? “Rexy did it!” followed closely by her second favorite sentence, “Harrison did it!” This phrase is usually accompanied by tears and frantic pointing.
Now that she’s old enough to tattle, she’s old enough to sit in time-out. Unfortunately she does not agree, so I have resorted to locking her in the laundry room for a minute at a time. She usually comes out quite penitent and cute, but the other day I forgot to close the adjoining bathroom door. The buzz of the timer did not produce a humble daughter, but a sopping wet toddler enjoying her punishment in the toilet.
And don’t ask me how or why, but our four-year-old, Rex, is now talking with a Chicago accent. I am dead serious. All his short A’s now sound like Ai’s. He no longer has animals, they’re “aynimals”. It’s like living with a misplaced Midwestern zoo keeper.
Jason woke me at 5:00 am the other morning to inform me that we had a raccoon in the house. Our downstairs renter left his front door open while he ran to his car for something and came back to find a raccoon perched on the edge of his couch.
Some of you might remember the last time I was attacked by a raccoon, so you will understand that this news made me pull my feet back in under the covers and whimper a little. Jason and our renter talked about what they should do (nothing) and called animal control.
Now, I’m sorry, but even in my traumatized state it seemed like anyone with half a brain would put a piece of food outside the front door and lure the beastly thing out. I know from experience how raccoons feel about food.
“Honey,” I say, “How about you put out a peanut butter sandwich and let him run outside?” I drag my terrorized-self out of bed and proceed to make a raccoon sandwich.
But do you think those men listened to one word I said? No. They sat up on the edge of the couch in the basement living room, as scared as a couple of girl scouts. I have no idea what my husband did with the sandwich, he probably ate it. By the time I took the animal control killer man downstairs, the raccoon was about to pounce on those big ninnies, it was so obvious who was winning this stand-off.
It took Animal Control Jim about four seconds to shoo the raccoon out of the apartment. During that time, three more of our renter’s buddies had turned up to watch the show. That’s right, five men, sitting around in the apartment, scared of a baby raccoon (it was an adolescent, I saw it).
I might add that every one of these men is either a soldier or an armed special agent. Isn’t it nice to know we’ve got so many brave men protecting our country?
Our six-year-old son wants to be a runner. Check out this week’s column for some serious marathon-worthy determination.
I’m sorry, but I have to take a moment to chew NASA out.
WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? How irresponsible can you get? We understand your affinity for taping over wedding videos and precious family footage in lieu of whatever golf tournament or curling match comes on ESPN, but 200 reels of Man on the Moon? Give me a break.
In case you missed this story, NASA, apparently, can’t read. In their attempt to save money (another of man’s more prominent attributes), they taped over all but four of the 15 minute reels. (Quick disclaimer: my facts might be a teensy bit off, I’m going from memory here and I read the story over five minutes ago. Can’t make any promises.)
This just goes to show that men in general have a horrible concept of long-term memory importance (with the exception of sports). As soon as something happens, men move on.
If it weren’t for women who scrapbook and make photo albums and hoard and protect family memorabilia, we’d all be tracing our genealogy back about as far as Uncle Frank. In fact, I’ll venture a guess that if those old monks had put women in charge of record keeping, we might still have an original copy of the Bible, complete with stamps and ribbons.
**Newsflash: I’ve been promoted from the Standard Examiner’s online paper edition to page 8A of the Friday paper!!! After three weeks, not too shabby…
I know, I wait way too long to catch up on my DVR. But can we talk about Jillian for a second here?
WHAT WAS SHE THINKING? I’m sorry, I’ve never been a huge Reid fan, but it was so obvious that she made a monumental mistake sending that boy home, I thought she might actually throw up all over the camera man when Reid got into his limo. She could hardly even spit out a toast to her leftover bachelors, she was so crushed.
YOU SHOULD NOT BE THAT CRUSHED WHEN YOU BREAK UP WITH SOMEONE.
So what if Reid wasn’t ready to drop the L-bomb and sock a ring on her finger? He’s delightfully neurotic, no way would he be ready to take that step this fast (neurotic and also smart). If you ask me, they were the most real together.
I’ve been all for Kypton and Ed, but even I have to admit that Reid was her best shot at happiness. Well, best shot now that Wes is gone. We all know Wes would have made her happiest of all. I still can’t believe she let such a sweet, southern lie-head slip through her fingers like that. Who doesn’t want a man who is willing to pepper you with half-truths about your beauty and his fidelity? (My brother-in-law says that Jillian is a Cepter-Face – She’s cute, cept her face.)
Of course, the most important thing we should be discussing is Ed’s teensy green swim trunks. Apparently the entire world thinks they’re skanky. I must be seriously low-class because I just spent 30 minutes trying to track a pair down for Jason online. If I can only convince him that they’re “hip”…
Dear Jason,
This week we’re celebrating our tenth engagement anniversary.
Of all my anniversaries, this one is my favorite. I can honestly say that I’ve never been happier than I was on that night. (As happy perhaps, but happier? No way.)
Considering the fact that you, my microphone-shy husband, who abhors public speaking and avoids stages and podiums in general, proposed to me in front of hundreds of kids and adults, during EFY, at the Wilkinson Center, in the room where we first met, there is no way I could have ever doubted your love and devotion to me.
I can still remember watching your beautiful cheek shake as you asked me to be your wife, you were so nervous (probably about marrying me).
You are the man I adore. Seeing you propose the way you knew I would love best (on stage in front of hundreds of people), even though it was your last choice personally, was the most awesome thing anyone has ever done for me in my life.
And I want to thank you, sweetheart, for encouraging me to take a shower and look nice that day, since I was planning on showing up with greasy hair and workout clothes. No really, I am eternally grateful for a husband who is conscientious of my hygiene.
You’re still the man who turns my head and holds my heart. My favorite sound is still the garage door at the end of the day, and I want nothing more than to put the kids to bed early so I can have you all to myself. Forgive me for following you around like a love sick seventh-grader, I can’t seem to help it.
I have loved nine of the last ten years with you (the first year of marriage doesn’t count, right?), and there is no one I would rather put down tile floor with, weed the yard with, or clean the kitchen with. To the man who makes his own Honey-do list every Saturday morning, and the father who lovingly plays with his kids first thing every evening, you rock my world.
Happy anniversary, sweetheart. Thanks for asking.
Anne
At first glance, a stranger might think that I have well-behaved children who do not spoil the carpet and swing from the rafters of our publicly tidy (privately trashed) home. This is a grave misconception. Allow me to take you on a virtual tour of the slight and oh-so subtle ways my children seek to destroy this house.
Look closely. This is what happens after your children have knocked the lamp off the end table 147 times.
Just another victim.
Wow, what a lovely shelf...
With such lovely artwork.
There was a time this tree was lush with leaves. Then Rex made it into his treehouse and gave his animals free reign to pillage it of all things green.
This is why I shop at Ikea. It's cheap enough that when they destroy it, I don't feel too horrible.
Apparently, the ottoman did it.
Just another reason why we don't have any ceiling fans. After the kids ripped this one from the ceiling while in motion, we've decided a gaping hole with exposed wires is way more safe.
We clean. We decorate. We seek to create a home. They mess. They break. They persist in destructing a home. All in a day’s work. I guess it all depends on which side of the counter you sit on.
Is there anything in the world more irritating than red Crystal Light on your carpet?
The scale was up on Monday. Blame it on our weekend family get together (complete with the best stinking bread pudding you’ve ever tasted IN YOUR LIFE), or my current evening ice cream indulgence, but I’ve settled into a nice three pound raise. By Tuesday, I realized enough was enough and started counting my calories.
This means that for the past three days my lunch has consisted of one green pepper, sliced in quarters and stuffed with tunafish. Do not get me wrong, it’s rather delicious and completely guilt-free (minus the hefty tablespoon of mayo I mix in to make the stuff palpable). But by day three, this kind of treat becomes kind of torturous. Yes, eating thusly equals results, but by noon today my sweet cravings were screaming for Paula Dean.
Enter the Crystal Light.
Crystal Light is the perfect thing for my sweet tooth. Not only does it stain it red, it settles most sugar cravings. My kids think Red Crystal Light is the greatest beverage known to underage drinkers.
I quietly made my selfish self a big 32 ounce jug of the stuff and tried to smuggle it out of the kitchen. They followed me like it was like a beacon of light attracting thirsty lost souls. Rex was the worst. When he wants a drink of something, telling him no is nearly impossible.
So I shared. Soon the tank was down to 16 ounces and had hardly taken a sip for myself.
“Okay guys, you’re done. The rest is Mommy’s.” I settled back on the couch.
“No!!” Rex yells, just as I tip the heavy ruby jug and take a big, sweet swallow–
SMACK! Rex hits the bottom and the lid smashes into my top lip, red juice flying all over my beautiful carpet and couch and (not so beautiful and previously stained) shirt.
It was one of those moments that will haunt me for Mommy-ever. I saw red. Everywhere. My lip was bleeding, my house was ruined (RUINED!), and without even stopping to question myself I reacted.
I popped Rex on the side of the head.
I can’t decide who was more horrified and upset by this move, he or I. It hurt his feelings more than anything, and I felt like the biggest, meanest mommy in the universe. Not only was I stained, I was suddenly tainted. Here he was, just being excited about the taboo fruit punch, and what does Mommy do? She smacks him. In anger.
I feel like I deserve lashes for this one, my conscience is eating away at my brain, all the while wondering if he’ll remember it and someday report me. “I swear officer, it was the blasted red food coloring I was mad about, I just reacted! Haven’t you ever spilled fruit punch on your carpet? There’s a reason it’s called fruit punch, it makes cleaning ladies want to hit something!”
Not that getting reported is my biggest concern (I am publicly declaring this right here and now), but I don’t want him to remember the time when Mommy hauled off and popped him one.
Today, I hate myself.
Tell me there are other people in cyberspace who just got around to watching this week’s Bachelorette episode, because I think I need a support group.
When Wes duped then dumped Jillian, I kind of wanted to cheer (even though she didn’t seem to get the fact that he was ditching her hard core for his “girlfriend…uh, ex-girlfriend”). Wes is good TV. He’s a perfect example of why you should never mix alcohol and lies. When drunk people try to lie, they end up telling you all about how smart they were for fooling you. Unfortunately for him, the cameras caught everything.
And no offense to famous bad people, but the country western community isn’t usually very susceptible to slimeballs who go on national record as first-class butt heads. His band? Lame. His voice? Pitchy, twangy, and overdone to the point that I can believe that all his fans reside in another country and probably don’t get very good reception (which is why they’re his fans).
To heck with the finale, I can’t wait to watch the Tell All in two weeks. Now that’s a show I don’t want to miss. Do you think Wes’s manager will instruct him to attend? Or maybe his manager has already given him the cowboy boot and sent him and his so-called album pitch-hiking.
I kind of hope he never gets more famous than he is at this moment.
To the four people who read yesterday’s post and didn’t comment, here’s the follow-up. Sometimes you can do everything right to have a nice day and a nice house and a nice calm demeanor, then break into a rage because your picky little children won’t even try the taco soup you made for dinner. With Doritos crushed into it, I might add. Do you have any idea how often my kids have seen Doritos in this house? Try never.
But would they eat it? My six year old had the gall to make rude faces for five minutes, whining about how he hates soup. He wouldn’t even try it. When the June Bug (who initially loved it) pushed hers away and started copying her brothers, something inside me snapped.
I grabbed those boys, dragged them to their room (at 5:30) and sent them to bed. And since no one is reading this, I’ll even confess to yelling very scary and loud like about hungry children in Africa, and how I kind of want to ship my kids there so they’ll learn to eat beans. It was loud enough that all of our surrounding neighbors, including the bishop, probably heard me.
Don’t worry, I apologized. I even gave them a chance to come out and try again. Rex decided he’d rather stay in bed (food anxiety) and Harrison came out once to see if he could barter his way down to four bites instead of six. When I flared my nostrils he stomped back to his room and locked me out. Because we all know I was just dying to go hang out in there with him and his new Super Mario wallpaper. (He’s been making me print off coloring pages all day and has managed to plaster them all around his bed.)
I’ve decided Hell will consist of slaving away all day long in a house that never gets clean, making food that nobody eats.
