It seems incredibly unfair that it's practically the end of October again. Wasn't it just blazing hot and sticky outside? Weren't we just cooking burgers and dogs on the grill for lunch every day as if it were a dietary requirement?
I just finished reading this really terrible novel, on the cover of which it was proclaimed to be a "killer beach read", and I distinctly remember buying it for exactly that reason and with that plan in mind. Turns out, I am slightly repelled by "beach reads" whether or not I am at the beach. It took me until the first day of fall to pick the thing up and read it. Finishing it made me feel sad for those who may have wasted their precious summer hours reading it, until I realized that I, too, had invested time in it and that while I was doing so - while I wasn't looking up- my daughters both got a little bit older. Eighth Grader and Sixth Grader. Curse you, badly written beach read. Curse you.
This has been the first October in probably a dozen years that I have skipped all of my normal fall activities. Carving a jack-o-lantern. Eating pumpkin seeds. Picking apples. Baking apple things. Dedicating thought and debate to Halloween costumes for myself and the Tornadoes. The outside of my house is lightly adorned with Halloween decorations, but I can't take credit for that. That is what happens when you get married and go away for five days with the Groom, leaving your mother in charge of your kids and your home. Your mother decorates things. She also manages to find where you store your worn clothes that need to be dry-cleaned, and since you were careful to make sure every single bit of the household's actual laundry was done before you left town, she washes and dries your dry-cleaning. Fortunately, I've had time to go shopping to replace my only two cream colored tops, since I wasn't going to the pumpkin patch and all anyway. But I digress.
I suppose if the apple orchard promised to be brimming with fourteen year old boys, I would have been able to get Eighth Grader interested in going. Fourteen year old boys are apparently where it's at for her now. Can you think of anything less enticing, seriously? I am trying to
remain open and welcoming, I really am. But sometimes, when I look at her face and see how completely checked out she is while doing
pretty much any activity not involving hanging out with a boy, I just want to shake her little head. And then hand her some warm apple crisp, remind her we can watch the Great Pumpkin after dinner if she finishes all her homework. But who am I kidding? The Great Pumpkin cannot hold a candle to a moody adolescent boy who says he loves you but also likes four of your best friends. Plus, remember? I didn't make any apple crisp this year.
Not to be outdone, Sixth Grader has also come down with a case of the Boys. Unlike her sister, she still possesses the wherewithal to put them in their place when they act like little pukes toward her or her friends. They are easily dispensed of and in good time replaced. In between , she has still managed to find time to start writing her wish list for Christmas. She has begun slipping her list to me, carefully buried
inside pocket-sized packets of poetry she has written for the occasion, as a way to both butter me up and prove that she is clever and mature enough for the high-priced electronics on her list. She is currently my favorite. That doesn't mean she's getting the electronics. But I do like the effort.
This passage of time thing really slugged me in the gut yesterday afternoon. I was able to convince the girls to go costume shopping with me by acting as if it was the absolute last thing on Earth that I wanted to do (often does the trick). I spent the outing teetering between making Eighth Grader go back for more and more clothing to cover herself with, for crying out loud (no self- respecting bunny would go out in public without leggings under that frilly pink tutu, you can just forget about those white stockings, young lady) and gently reminding Sixth Grader that while I understand she likes the IDEA of looking creepy, inevitably she ends up asking to tone it down because she is scaring herself , so let's not waste money on weird smelling makeup that will get thrown away unused. It was great fun.
I took advantage of the fact that I was spending money on them to mention, numerous times, that when we got home I thought I might make some pumpkin muffins. Subliminally, what I said was that they should hang about the kitchen and inhale the aromas of love, possibly arguing over who would get to sit next to me while we watched Halloween specials later on.
Did this come to pass? Well. There were pumpkin muffins. As for aromas of love...if a can of pumpkin is opened while your daughters are outside talking about boys, does the can opener make a sound?
Monday, October 24, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Oh Boy?...Oh Boy?
Oh, Blogosphere. Do you still exist?
Allow me to catch you up on a few outstanding matters. After .8 years of living in our "new" home together, two things have transpired. First, the last of the contractors has finally gone home. All of the home improvements that we have elected, and can currently afford, to do have been done. No more buzzing saws, drills, dust, making way for electricians and plumbers to cut holes in things, and parking in the street due to seventeen pickup trucks hogging all of our driveway space until their arbitrarily determined quitting time. It's just us. And the Tornadoes. And the Tornadoes' gazillion friends, eating all of our food and swimming in our pool. Serenity.
The second thing: Future Husband and I have finally decided when and where to get married.
We'd debated the available options on time and location until we could no longer kid ourselves about the fact that we were actually procrastinating about getting married at all. So we've decided on a date in the fall, and will hold the festivities right here at our house. Exciting, right? A wedding date! For me!
Except here's the thing. I'm thinking of not inviting Future Husband to the wedding. Not because I don't love him or don't want to actually be married to him. I'm thinking of not inviting him because, now that we have made these two decisions, there is a little bit of planning to do. In order for planning to commence, there must occasionally be a conversation about various items. And every time I initiate said conversation, Future Husband says, apparently reflexively, "Oh boy."
"Who do you think we should invite?"
"Oh boy."
"My photographer friend is available."
"Oh boy."
"We'll probably need a bartender, right?"
"Oh boy."
So last night, Future Husband and I were watching "Cake Boss" with the Tornadoes before bedtime. Cake Boss was making a wedding cake of epic proportions, as he tends to do, and this made me think that a traditional cake is not something I want at our party. So I ever so casually said to Future Husband, "Do you think we're going to need to have a cake?" And Future Husband said, "Oh boy." And this is when I got the idea that I might not invite him. I'll have to check with the photographer and see if that is workable. I'm sure it is. She's a very talented photographer.
Now listen here. I am no Bridezilla. Weddings, brides, ceremonies - these are nouns and that fall far out of my natural vocabulary. I was never one of those little girls who fantasized about her perfect wedding or perfect groom or perfectly blissful married future. The whole idea of marriage still makes me shiver slightly, mainly because I failed so spectacularly the first time I tried it. And? Didn't plan my first wedding, people. Other than my dress and the music selection, I left every stinking detail up to my mother and my bridal party. Didn't pick the venue, the photographer, the cake, the food - whatever other dozen decisions that had to be made to pull together someone else's vision of that day in my life, I let them go to it. It was the beginning of the end, and I acted like I knew it.
When I say, though, that Future Husband and I were procrastinating about getting married, what I mean is this: it feels like we already are married. Provided that marriage is supposed to feel like complete comfort and faith in being with this other person who is your partner, companion, and lover, and you can easily see yourself spending every day of the rest of your life with them. I don't know, maybe that's just me eating more vegetables. But I suspect it could resemble a good marriage. In my opinion, the point of following through with an actual wedding is to give our family and friends - and most significantly, our kids from other marriages - a means of officially acknowledging and celebrating our togetherness. And I was thinking that maybe it might be kind of a fun party to plan.
But the "Oh boy" reflex? Not fun to hear, lover boy. Not fun.
Allow me to catch you up on a few outstanding matters. After .8 years of living in our "new" home together, two things have transpired. First, the last of the contractors has finally gone home. All of the home improvements that we have elected, and can currently afford, to do have been done. No more buzzing saws, drills, dust, making way for electricians and plumbers to cut holes in things, and parking in the street due to seventeen pickup trucks hogging all of our driveway space until their arbitrarily determined quitting time. It's just us. And the Tornadoes. And the Tornadoes' gazillion friends, eating all of our food and swimming in our pool. Serenity.
The second thing: Future Husband and I have finally decided when and where to get married.
We'd debated the available options on time and location until we could no longer kid ourselves about the fact that we were actually procrastinating about getting married at all. So we've decided on a date in the fall, and will hold the festivities right here at our house. Exciting, right? A wedding date! For me!
Except here's the thing. I'm thinking of not inviting Future Husband to the wedding. Not because I don't love him or don't want to actually be married to him. I'm thinking of not inviting him because, now that we have made these two decisions, there is a little bit of planning to do. In order for planning to commence, there must occasionally be a conversation about various items. And every time I initiate said conversation, Future Husband says, apparently reflexively, "Oh boy."
"Who do you think we should invite?"
"Oh boy."
"My photographer friend is available."
"Oh boy."
"We'll probably need a bartender, right?"
"Oh boy."
So last night, Future Husband and I were watching "Cake Boss" with the Tornadoes before bedtime. Cake Boss was making a wedding cake of epic proportions, as he tends to do, and this made me think that a traditional cake is not something I want at our party. So I ever so casually said to Future Husband, "Do you think we're going to need to have a cake?" And Future Husband said, "Oh boy." And this is when I got the idea that I might not invite him. I'll have to check with the photographer and see if that is workable. I'm sure it is. She's a very talented photographer.
Now listen here. I am no Bridezilla. Weddings, brides, ceremonies - these are nouns and that fall far out of my natural vocabulary. I was never one of those little girls who fantasized about her perfect wedding or perfect groom or perfectly blissful married future. The whole idea of marriage still makes me shiver slightly, mainly because I failed so spectacularly the first time I tried it. And? Didn't plan my first wedding, people. Other than my dress and the music selection, I left every stinking detail up to my mother and my bridal party. Didn't pick the venue, the photographer, the cake, the food - whatever other dozen decisions that had to be made to pull together someone else's vision of that day in my life, I let them go to it. It was the beginning of the end, and I acted like I knew it.
When I say, though, that Future Husband and I were procrastinating about getting married, what I mean is this: it feels like we already are married. Provided that marriage is supposed to feel like complete comfort and faith in being with this other person who is your partner, companion, and lover, and you can easily see yourself spending every day of the rest of your life with them. I don't know, maybe that's just me eating more vegetables. But I suspect it could resemble a good marriage. In my opinion, the point of following through with an actual wedding is to give our family and friends - and most significantly, our kids from other marriages - a means of officially acknowledging and celebrating our togetherness. And I was thinking that maybe it might be kind of a fun party to plan.
But the "Oh boy" reflex? Not fun to hear, lover boy. Not fun.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Thoughts On How Not Hungry I Am
Fourteen days remaining until the big 4-0. I have managed to reduce myself by six of the eight pounds I am gunning for. Okay, five. It WAS six, but then there was the Chinese Food For Dinner Debacle last night...merely the logical follow-up to the buffalo chicken mac and cheese I had eaten for lunch. Which I then topped off with a cocktail, failing to use lower calorie juice as the mixer. The Chinese Food for Dinner was topped off, I mean. Not the spicy pasta lunch. Because that would have been wrong.
So three pounds to go, with two weeks to make it happen. The great news is that I have achieved the desperately sought after "breaking of the range" that has been the bane of my weight management existence for the last five years. The bad news is that, with the exception of yesterday, I mostly feel like killing everyone in sight just so I can take their food. I'm not too picky about what the food is, either. I may have been tempted to pluck the partially eaten apple out of a complete stranger's hand in the elevator a few days ago, for instance.
My stomach is in a constant state of babble. I believe it is saying, "Seriously, woman. Get me that apple." Or "Would it be so hard for you to throw a cracker in this chicken and vegetable soup?" Or "I've had it up to HERE (stomach indicates dotted line slightly above thin layer of greek yogurt with fruit) with this yogurt. Where's the bacon? Where's my cheesy english muffin? Dammit, woman, this is NOT WHAT I ORDERED!"
I exaggerate. Really, it hasn't been so bad. I'm being very healthy about the whole thing. And I have some experience with this process, having repeated it in about twelve thousand variations since I was a teenager. Proper nutrition is a priority. Okay, reaching this completely superfluous goal by my birthday is actually the priority. But nutrition is right after that.
Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about the completely ridiculous statement that people keep uttering to me about 40 being "just a number". It's just a number! Really? I didn't think of that. Why isn't that comforting? Can anyone tell me? It's not that I'm exactly devastated over this pending birthday. No, not devastated. Angst-y and somewhat disappointed that so much is still undone. Also, curious about what lies ahead. Possibilities and surprises, certainly those lie ahead. Opportunity. Special moments. Also, menopause. Menopause lies ahead. Failing health. Death. So, some not so surprising things. If it's all the same to you, I think I will continue to regard this milestone as slightly more than "just a number." You don't have to play along. But the first person to utter that nonsensical platitude on my actual birthday will wear their slice of cake. Or pie. I'm hoping for key lime pie instead of cake. Now that I think about it, why don't you just go ahead and let that platitude rip - because honestly, I am really freaking hungry, and I don't necessarily want to share my 40th birthday key lime pie with any of you to begin with. Get your own pie.
...Sorry. That outburst was unnecessary. I blame it on low blood sugar. Okay, thanks for stopping by today. Fourteen days and counting.
So three pounds to go, with two weeks to make it happen. The great news is that I have achieved the desperately sought after "breaking of the range" that has been the bane of my weight management existence for the last five years. The bad news is that, with the exception of yesterday, I mostly feel like killing everyone in sight just so I can take their food. I'm not too picky about what the food is, either. I may have been tempted to pluck the partially eaten apple out of a complete stranger's hand in the elevator a few days ago, for instance.
My stomach is in a constant state of babble. I believe it is saying, "Seriously, woman. Get me that apple." Or "Would it be so hard for you to throw a cracker in this chicken and vegetable soup?" Or "I've had it up to HERE (stomach indicates dotted line slightly above thin layer of greek yogurt with fruit) with this yogurt. Where's the bacon? Where's my cheesy english muffin? Dammit, woman, this is NOT WHAT I ORDERED!"
I exaggerate. Really, it hasn't been so bad. I'm being very healthy about the whole thing. And I have some experience with this process, having repeated it in about twelve thousand variations since I was a teenager. Proper nutrition is a priority. Okay, reaching this completely superfluous goal by my birthday is actually the priority. But nutrition is right after that.
Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about the completely ridiculous statement that people keep uttering to me about 40 being "just a number". It's just a number! Really? I didn't think of that. Why isn't that comforting? Can anyone tell me? It's not that I'm exactly devastated over this pending birthday. No, not devastated. Angst-y and somewhat disappointed that so much is still undone. Also, curious about what lies ahead. Possibilities and surprises, certainly those lie ahead. Opportunity. Special moments. Also, menopause. Menopause lies ahead. Failing health. Death. So, some not so surprising things. If it's all the same to you, I think I will continue to regard this milestone as slightly more than "just a number." You don't have to play along. But the first person to utter that nonsensical platitude on my actual birthday will wear their slice of cake. Or pie. I'm hoping for key lime pie instead of cake. Now that I think about it, why don't you just go ahead and let that platitude rip - because honestly, I am really freaking hungry, and I don't necessarily want to share my 40th birthday key lime pie with any of you to begin with. Get your own pie.
...Sorry. That outburst was unnecessary. I blame it on low blood sugar. Okay, thanks for stopping by today. Fourteen days and counting.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Winning, Duh.
What a fantastic week I have been having! Simply beyond my wildest dreams. Really, the wonderfulness of each day has just compounded the cumulative joy coursing through my veins. Clearly, I am winning.
On Sunday morning, Future Husband and I managed to carve out a full two hours together. Seeing as I have barely laid eyes on him since that miraculous accomplishment, I remember those hours with a kind of nostalgic fondness. Looking back, I'd say it was foolish of us to squander our time lingering over a leisurely breakfast and talking about the future. What we should have been doing is drafting and running through a family haz mat plan , or boning up on our animal emergency triage skills. (It will be clear momentarily that I've just made an unfortunate pun; let's not get ahead of ourselves.). But no, we chose to devote two costly hours to speaking in full sentences, completing thoughts, and daring to dream. What can you do? What's done is done.
The weekend had gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, so I suppose we thought we deserved the break. We've been having some trouble with our washing machine, you see. About a week earlier, it went crazy and flooded a third of our newly finished basement. It seemed odd, since the washing machine does not even reside on the side of the basement that we finished, that it should deposit so much water onto the floor that it reached across the stairwell to be absorbed by the new carpet. Also, no soap. The final drain cycle, we supposed.
So we had begun the clean up process, called the washing machine repair people, missed being home in time to meet them during the appointed four hour window in the middle of the day, watched the laundry pile achieve the mountainous stage, banned all Tornado friends from visiting our house, and relocated Fifth Grader's chinchilla to higher ground in the first floor bathroom. Chinchilla did not care for her relocation. On Friday night, she decided to climb the side of her cage, possibly looking for a way out. She has very small toes. She lodged one of her very small toes in the corner of her cage, and hung there until Saturday morning when Fifth Grader came to say good morning. She then freaked out while Fifth Grader and I worked to free her. Which we did - free her - but not her toe. It broke off.
Cut to Fifth Grader, chinchilla and I rushing off to the animal hospital, chinchilla's wounded foot wrapped in a washcloth. Slow motion through three hours while chinchilla undergoes surgery to reconstruct her toe with what bone and flesh remains; vet explains painkiller and antibiotic administration requirements to an 11 year old girl; and three hundred dollars is extracted from my checking account. Fifth Grader also briefly complained during this experience that her knee was hurting her. "Huh," I think I said. Then I took them home, collected Seventh Grader, and sped off to spend some more money on lacrosse equipment.
If we leap from Spendthrift Saturday to just after our leisurely breakfast on Sunday, we will see Fifth Grader lovingly doling out chinchilla meds while slightly whimpering, "My knee hurts more than yesterday." If we then skip ahead slightly more, to about an hour after I (again) discounted her complaints of pain, we will begin to notice a very unpleasant aroma wafting up from the just dried basement. If we investigate this horrid smell, we find that incredibly stinky water is gushing into the basement through a hole in the wall, once again flooding both sides and this time getting the job done with finality.
Turns out, the washing machine is fine.
The septic tank? Not so much.
It's all pretty much a blur since then. Moments of awesomeness have included an evening at the laundromat, more money spent on more lacrosse equipment, the appearance and advancement of fever and cough in Seventh Grader, spilling Rodent Motrin on the sleeve of my "dry clean only" blouse, and...I know I'm forgetting something...oh! I did finally get fed up with Fifth Grader walking like Frankenstein's monster and simpering about what was OBVIOUSLY growing pains. To prove my point, I took her to see her doctor on Tuesday after dinner. After examining the little hypochondriac, the doctor bandied about comforting words like "MRI" and "orthopedic doctor", something about "possibly going in with a scope and cleaning out" her knee.
"SEE?" Fifth Grader practically screamed at me.
So right now I have to go check Seventh Grader's temperature. It was down to 100 this morning. Then I guess I better schedule that orthopedic appointment.
On Sunday morning, Future Husband and I managed to carve out a full two hours together. Seeing as I have barely laid eyes on him since that miraculous accomplishment, I remember those hours with a kind of nostalgic fondness. Looking back, I'd say it was foolish of us to squander our time lingering over a leisurely breakfast and talking about the future. What we should have been doing is drafting and running through a family haz mat plan , or boning up on our animal emergency triage skills. (It will be clear momentarily that I've just made an unfortunate pun; let's not get ahead of ourselves.). But no, we chose to devote two costly hours to speaking in full sentences, completing thoughts, and daring to dream. What can you do? What's done is done.
The weekend had gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, so I suppose we thought we deserved the break. We've been having some trouble with our washing machine, you see. About a week earlier, it went crazy and flooded a third of our newly finished basement. It seemed odd, since the washing machine does not even reside on the side of the basement that we finished, that it should deposit so much water onto the floor that it reached across the stairwell to be absorbed by the new carpet. Also, no soap. The final drain cycle, we supposed.
So we had begun the clean up process, called the washing machine repair people, missed being home in time to meet them during the appointed four hour window in the middle of the day, watched the laundry pile achieve the mountainous stage, banned all Tornado friends from visiting our house, and relocated Fifth Grader's chinchilla to higher ground in the first floor bathroom. Chinchilla did not care for her relocation. On Friday night, she decided to climb the side of her cage, possibly looking for a way out. She has very small toes. She lodged one of her very small toes in the corner of her cage, and hung there until Saturday morning when Fifth Grader came to say good morning. She then freaked out while Fifth Grader and I worked to free her. Which we did - free her - but not her toe. It broke off.
Cut to Fifth Grader, chinchilla and I rushing off to the animal hospital, chinchilla's wounded foot wrapped in a washcloth. Slow motion through three hours while chinchilla undergoes surgery to reconstruct her toe with what bone and flesh remains; vet explains painkiller and antibiotic administration requirements to an 11 year old girl; and three hundred dollars is extracted from my checking account. Fifth Grader also briefly complained during this experience that her knee was hurting her. "Huh," I think I said. Then I took them home, collected Seventh Grader, and sped off to spend some more money on lacrosse equipment.
If we leap from Spendthrift Saturday to just after our leisurely breakfast on Sunday, we will see Fifth Grader lovingly doling out chinchilla meds while slightly whimpering, "My knee hurts more than yesterday." If we then skip ahead slightly more, to about an hour after I (again) discounted her complaints of pain, we will begin to notice a very unpleasant aroma wafting up from the just dried basement. If we investigate this horrid smell, we find that incredibly stinky water is gushing into the basement through a hole in the wall, once again flooding both sides and this time getting the job done with finality.
Turns out, the washing machine is fine.
The septic tank? Not so much.
It's all pretty much a blur since then. Moments of awesomeness have included an evening at the laundromat, more money spent on more lacrosse equipment, the appearance and advancement of fever and cough in Seventh Grader, spilling Rodent Motrin on the sleeve of my "dry clean only" blouse, and...I know I'm forgetting something...oh! I did finally get fed up with Fifth Grader walking like Frankenstein's monster and simpering about what was OBVIOUSLY growing pains. To prove my point, I took her to see her doctor on Tuesday after dinner. After examining the little hypochondriac, the doctor bandied about comforting words like "MRI" and "orthopedic doctor", something about "possibly going in with a scope and cleaning out" her knee.
"SEE?" Fifth Grader practically screamed at me.
So right now I have to go check Seventh Grader's temperature. It was down to 100 this morning. Then I guess I better schedule that orthopedic appointment.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
How Many Calories in Tiger Blood?
This morning I made a regretful decision. For three months, I have adamantly refused to have anything at all to do with a scale; yet, at 6 a.m. today, for reasons unexplainable, I decided to prove how smart I am by finally stepping aboard.
Oh, man. I am a big dummy.
I think Charlie Sheen must be partially to blame for this misstep. Watching his flagrant dismissal of reality - and clear descent into Cuckoo Land - play out on every available media outlet, I guess I caught a germ of his bravado. Momentarily forgetting that his brand of bravado is largely chemically induced. At any rate, his blameability is highly accessible right now. So I will take my own flagrant dismissal of the reality that one cannot claim her means of estimating her current weight to be the way her jeans fit on any given day, then presume that the reason these jeans are no longer fitting so well is because they must have shrunk in the wash - when, in fact, she wore them multiple times before washing again and this did not make them fit any better - I will point it in the direction of Mr. Tiger Blood In His Veins. He won't even notice.
More likely responsible is the fact that I just finished reading Bridget Jones's Diary. Yes, about fifteen years behind schedule, and long after having seen the movie. Naturally the book is much better; additionally hilarious knowing how the movie version was ultimately cast. Clever, clever casting. Yes, everybody already knew that by now. Shut up. My point: it is written in diary form, with a daily header featuring Ms. Jones's weight and various caloric intakes over the course of an eventful year. I couldn't help but notice that her weight range is basically my own weight range. I also couldn't help but notice how very range-y she was across this range, which caused me to contemplate how narrow my own range has become. Specifically, I seem to have lingered at the higher end of said range for the better part of five years now; most steadily at the low point of the higher range, occasionally ticking up to the high point, and practically never breaking through the low point to visit the middle range. In other words, I have spent five years losing and gaining the exact same five pounds, when what I wanted was to lose that plus maybe another three to five. You know, reach the lower range and then stay there. Three months had passed since I last tortured myself by checking my "progress". Reading this fictitious diary was thoroughly entertaining. Charlie Sheen is crazy. Let's step on that scale.
High point. High range. Nice.
Marry this information to the inescapable facts that in 38 days I will turn 40, and have NOT yet written my own blockbuster debut novel, and have NOT yet married the love of my life, and have NOT yet travelled outside this continent...Ladies and Gentlemen, I now present Me Careening Off the Self Esteem Cliff. You may kiss my ass.
Cue the crazed woman mentally assembling plan to at least reach high end of middle weight range by 40th birthday (in 38 DAYS). See crazed woman veer into CVS on way to work to buy bright yellow notebook for food journal and newest Clean Eating magazine in hopes of finding clean eating versions of edible foods (read: things full of cheese and potatoes and cream sauces). Tread lightly near snarling crazed woman who forced herself to eat fiber rich bar and orange for breakfast and has already written "green salad with chicken breast" in pen under Lunch, therefore having absolutely nothing to look forward to for the rest of the day. She is not to be toyed with, kiddies.
I take consolation in the following:
1. This yellow notebook is very cute, and perhaps will inspire my food journal writing
2. The love of my life has, in fact, put a ring on it
3. Quite a few of my girlfriends have already turned 40 and it does not seem to be end of the world for them
4. There is some scrumptious-looking manicotti on the cover of Clean Eating
Maybe this won't completely suck. Maybe I will write all about it over the next 38 days. Maybe if I buy a lottery ticket I will win millions, which I can spend on an extended stay at a luxurious European health spa - in EUROPE - where I will write freely all day while purifying myself with cucumber and melon-infused delectables.
God, I'm hungry.
Oh, man. I am a big dummy.
I think Charlie Sheen must be partially to blame for this misstep. Watching his flagrant dismissal of reality - and clear descent into Cuckoo Land - play out on every available media outlet, I guess I caught a germ of his bravado. Momentarily forgetting that his brand of bravado is largely chemically induced. At any rate, his blameability is highly accessible right now. So I will take my own flagrant dismissal of the reality that one cannot claim her means of estimating her current weight to be the way her jeans fit on any given day, then presume that the reason these jeans are no longer fitting so well is because they must have shrunk in the wash - when, in fact, she wore them multiple times before washing again and this did not make them fit any better - I will point it in the direction of Mr. Tiger Blood In His Veins. He won't even notice.
More likely responsible is the fact that I just finished reading Bridget Jones's Diary. Yes, about fifteen years behind schedule, and long after having seen the movie. Naturally the book is much better; additionally hilarious knowing how the movie version was ultimately cast. Clever, clever casting. Yes, everybody already knew that by now. Shut up. My point: it is written in diary form, with a daily header featuring Ms. Jones's weight and various caloric intakes over the course of an eventful year. I couldn't help but notice that her weight range is basically my own weight range. I also couldn't help but notice how very range-y she was across this range, which caused me to contemplate how narrow my own range has become. Specifically, I seem to have lingered at the higher end of said range for the better part of five years now; most steadily at the low point of the higher range, occasionally ticking up to the high point, and practically never breaking through the low point to visit the middle range. In other words, I have spent five years losing and gaining the exact same five pounds, when what I wanted was to lose that plus maybe another three to five. You know, reach the lower range and then stay there. Three months had passed since I last tortured myself by checking my "progress". Reading this fictitious diary was thoroughly entertaining. Charlie Sheen is crazy. Let's step on that scale.
High point. High range. Nice.
Marry this information to the inescapable facts that in 38 days I will turn 40, and have NOT yet written my own blockbuster debut novel, and have NOT yet married the love of my life, and have NOT yet travelled outside this continent...Ladies and Gentlemen, I now present Me Careening Off the Self Esteem Cliff. You may kiss my ass.
Cue the crazed woman mentally assembling plan to at least reach high end of middle weight range by 40th birthday (in 38 DAYS). See crazed woman veer into CVS on way to work to buy bright yellow notebook for food journal and newest Clean Eating magazine in hopes of finding clean eating versions of edible foods (read: things full of cheese and potatoes and cream sauces). Tread lightly near snarling crazed woman who forced herself to eat fiber rich bar and orange for breakfast and has already written "green salad with chicken breast" in pen under Lunch, therefore having absolutely nothing to look forward to for the rest of the day. She is not to be toyed with, kiddies.
I take consolation in the following:
1. This yellow notebook is very cute, and perhaps will inspire my food journal writing
2. The love of my life has, in fact, put a ring on it
3. Quite a few of my girlfriends have already turned 40 and it does not seem to be end of the world for them
4. There is some scrumptious-looking manicotti on the cover of Clean Eating
Maybe this won't completely suck. Maybe I will write all about it over the next 38 days. Maybe if I buy a lottery ticket I will win millions, which I can spend on an extended stay at a luxurious European health spa - in EUROPE - where I will write freely all day while purifying myself with cucumber and melon-infused delectables.
God, I'm hungry.
Monday, February 21, 2011
She Ain't Heavy. She's My Grandmouse
Fifth Grader has been pestering me for a dog since the dawn of time. I blame this on dogs, for acting all frolicky and cute when they belong to other people. Not to disparage dogs without cause, I'm just saying this has not been my experience when they reside with me.
I have precisely two personal dog experiences to draw upon. The first was a Shepherd Collie mix that "belonged" to my little sister. It began "belonging" to her when she was about eight years old and I was in high school, during a miserable trip to the boonies of Maine to see my father's relatives. A visit to an aunt's house brought us in contact with a basket of fluffy puppies. I paid zero attention to the basket of fluffy puppies. I didn't like puppies, and my aunt's house smelled like cooked onions and turnip. I desperately wanted to get back in the car and begin the six hour drive home. At this point in my life, I was in rabid pursuit of securing myself a musician boyfriend. This down home family visit? Nothing but a waste of valuable boy hunting time. Maddeningly, a fluffy puppy in a box made the six hour drive home with us. I was beyond disgusted.
The puppy grew up and lived for about sixteen years, ultimately becoming a beloved companion to my father. I am able to appreciate the poignancy of this relationship mostly because I only had to live with the furball for about eighteen months. Sorry, Sis. I just wasn't a fan.
Dog Experience Number Two came along courtesy of Former Husband, who loved all things as long as they were brand new. The Tornadoes were quite young and totally unable to help take care of a demanding pet. I was working long hours to compensate for Former Husband's lack of same. Let's get a German Shepherd!
How I loved standing in the snow at 5 a.m. waiting for the dog to pee! What joy overcame me when she scarfed down my entire dinner while I helped a potty training girl back into her Pull up in the bathroom upstairs! The good times only multiplied as she grew bigger and stronger. Former Husband simply couldn't find the time between EBay auctions to take her to obedience class. Thus, I made it clear when we divorced that I did not wish to retain custody of the giant wild animal. I'm told that Former Husband found her a good home with a retired couple on an apple farm. And I called a moratorium on dogs as pets.
So as I said, Fifth Grader, who recalls our time with the giant wild animal in a slightly more rose-colored hue, has campaigned relentlessly for another dog for quite some time. For a while I chose to deflect the issue by ignoring it. Then came a bout of definitive "No"s. Then we moved, and I tried saying nothing so that Future Husband could take the fall. That wasn't so good for the relationship with Future Husband. Plan D:
"What might you settle for instead of a dog?"
"A rabbit?" Too smelly. "Rat?" Too gross. "Hamster?" "Guinea pig?" Yuck and double yuck. Then I recalled a co-worker from long ago who brought her pet chinchilla into the office for a visit. Its personality reminded me of a squirrel. I have never seen anyone with a pet chinchilla since. A rare, fuzzy pet with a perky personality - a perfect match for my non-conformist tween! It was decided.
It was decided almost three months ago, actually. Many hours have been spent since then on researching chins, preparing for a chin, looking for a chin, having our Craigslist responses to "chin needs home" ads blown off, and finally having our application to a Chin Rescue League declined because we could not name the exact brand of timothy hay we would provide (we decided the nice people at the Chin Rescue League might make excellent subjects for an animal episode of Hoarders, so ridiculously arduous is their re-homing approval process). A fully outfitted multi-level cage sat, unused, on its well supplied table for a month. Finally, we broke down. And went to a pet store.
Cut to this morning: Day Four of Fifth Grader's love affair with her new baby. It is indeed very cute and squirrel like in personality. And as I mentioned, it lives in a cage. Big plus. I have been very careful not to handle the little critter too much, wanting Fifth Grader to firmly establish with it that she is the Mama. A little more challenging has been minimizing the torrent of newborn care advice I find myself wanting to spew at her. It's her baby, after all. She's read the books. She needs to find her way. It will all be fine! But a routine would help her a lot. And that seems like not enough food in her bowl. And there may be another way to arrange things in that cage.
Okay, I am too young to play this role. Waay too young. I'll be upstairs if you need me.
I have precisely two personal dog experiences to draw upon. The first was a Shepherd Collie mix that "belonged" to my little sister. It began "belonging" to her when she was about eight years old and I was in high school, during a miserable trip to the boonies of Maine to see my father's relatives. A visit to an aunt's house brought us in contact with a basket of fluffy puppies. I paid zero attention to the basket of fluffy puppies. I didn't like puppies, and my aunt's house smelled like cooked onions and turnip. I desperately wanted to get back in the car and begin the six hour drive home. At this point in my life, I was in rabid pursuit of securing myself a musician boyfriend. This down home family visit? Nothing but a waste of valuable boy hunting time. Maddeningly, a fluffy puppy in a box made the six hour drive home with us. I was beyond disgusted.
The puppy grew up and lived for about sixteen years, ultimately becoming a beloved companion to my father. I am able to appreciate the poignancy of this relationship mostly because I only had to live with the furball for about eighteen months. Sorry, Sis. I just wasn't a fan.
Dog Experience Number Two came along courtesy of Former Husband, who loved all things as long as they were brand new. The Tornadoes were quite young and totally unable to help take care of a demanding pet. I was working long hours to compensate for Former Husband's lack of same. Let's get a German Shepherd!
How I loved standing in the snow at 5 a.m. waiting for the dog to pee! What joy overcame me when she scarfed down my entire dinner while I helped a potty training girl back into her Pull up in the bathroom upstairs! The good times only multiplied as she grew bigger and stronger. Former Husband simply couldn't find the time between EBay auctions to take her to obedience class. Thus, I made it clear when we divorced that I did not wish to retain custody of the giant wild animal. I'm told that Former Husband found her a good home with a retired couple on an apple farm. And I called a moratorium on dogs as pets.
So as I said, Fifth Grader, who recalls our time with the giant wild animal in a slightly more rose-colored hue, has campaigned relentlessly for another dog for quite some time. For a while I chose to deflect the issue by ignoring it. Then came a bout of definitive "No"s. Then we moved, and I tried saying nothing so that Future Husband could take the fall. That wasn't so good for the relationship with Future Husband. Plan D:
"What might you settle for instead of a dog?"
"A rabbit?" Too smelly. "Rat?" Too gross. "Hamster?" "Guinea pig?" Yuck and double yuck. Then I recalled a co-worker from long ago who brought her pet chinchilla into the office for a visit. Its personality reminded me of a squirrel. I have never seen anyone with a pet chinchilla since. A rare, fuzzy pet with a perky personality - a perfect match for my non-conformist tween! It was decided.
It was decided almost three months ago, actually. Many hours have been spent since then on researching chins, preparing for a chin, looking for a chin, having our Craigslist responses to "chin needs home" ads blown off, and finally having our application to a Chin Rescue League declined because we could not name the exact brand of timothy hay we would provide (we decided the nice people at the Chin Rescue League might make excellent subjects for an animal episode of Hoarders, so ridiculously arduous is their re-homing approval process). A fully outfitted multi-level cage sat, unused, on its well supplied table for a month. Finally, we broke down. And went to a pet store.
Cut to this morning: Day Four of Fifth Grader's love affair with her new baby. It is indeed very cute and squirrel like in personality. And as I mentioned, it lives in a cage. Big plus. I have been very careful not to handle the little critter too much, wanting Fifth Grader to firmly establish with it that she is the Mama. A little more challenging has been minimizing the torrent of newborn care advice I find myself wanting to spew at her. It's her baby, after all. She's read the books. She needs to find her way. It will all be fine! But a routine would help her a lot. And that seems like not enough food in her bowl. And there may be another way to arrange things in that cage.
Okay, I am too young to play this role. Waay too young. I'll be upstairs if you need me.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
New York, New York. Except Not.
A week ago yesterday, I was in New York City with the Tornadoes. It was Day Two of a three day trip which I had arranged months earlier as their "big" Christmas gift, and which began a week ago Friday with an excruciatingly slow bus ride in the middle of a blizzard.
Aside from the prolonged commute, Day One played out pretty much exactly as I had been rehearsing it in my head for two months: Infected with the energy of the city at night, we ignored the bitter cold and set off for Rockefeller Center, where we ice skated and then rode to the Top of the Rock and gazed out at the city surrounding us. The Tornadoes honored my request for a texting moratorium with ease. It was so magical, I didn't even mind that we had dinner at Olive Garden.
Day Two? Still bitterly cold out. My planned itinerary of museums, local eateries and general assimilation? Not so much. How about hours upon hours in Times Square inside Toys R Us, Aeropostale, Forever 21 and American Eagle? They are too different, Mom. They are multiple floors. How about TGI Fridays for lunch and Sbarro for dinner? And about that art you want us to see and possibly find inspiring. How about an eighty dollar hansom cab tour of Central Park instead? It's culture, Mom. See? The Friends fountain! You love Friends! And that school over there? That's where Buddy the Elf picked up his little brother! And here's where they got into their epic snowball fight! Culture! So what if the charming West African hansom cab operator said that the author of Stuart Little also wrote Alice in Wonderland. We have blankets!
We did follow the planned evening agenda of attending a show with the rest of our bus trip group. Putting aside the fact that our designated show, Billy Elliott, was positively riddled with foul language and inappropriate sexual references (which would lead, several days later, to Fifth Grader being taken into the hallway at school to "have a talk" with the Vice Principal, who is Australian and who happens to know the meaning behind those derogatory terms that Fifth Grader was "sharing" with her curious classmates), I'd say it was a delightful night of family fun. And I only had to tell Seventh Grader once to stop texting in the middle of the show.
A perfect ending to the evening, as I had envisioned (for two months), would have been to share animated discussion of the performance we had witnessed while also sharing a little after-show dessert. Almost as much fun was what we actually did: tromp on back to Times Square in skirts and nylons and heeled boots (still bitterly cold out, mind you) in order to retrieve Fifth Grader's cell phone, which she had accidentally left in a third floor dressing room of American Eagle earlier in the day. We then chose to retire for the night to our hot, dry-as-a-bone hotel room. This was a great idea, most notably because it provided just the missing environmental ingredient needed to push my burgeoning cold into full bloom.
A week ago today, I surrendered my plans to introduce the Tornadoes to Greenwich Village and SoHo. Instead, I sniffled and sneezed my way through Times Square - AGAIN - to help them frantically throw away their spending money on cheap t shirts and candy. Once that fun was had, I blew their minds. "Yes," I said, "I am perfectly okay with sitting in the hotel lobby for hours until the bus comes so you can text and play on your iPods." I settled them into the lobby, excused myself for fifteen minutes to clear out the nearest Duane Reade of all of its tissues and cold medicine, plus a quick stop at the only Dunkin' Donuts I had seen in three days, settled into a hotel lobby chair and died. When the bus arrived, I boarded and died again. I was resurrected about midday on Wednesday.
I'm so glad to have been able to take them to New York for an entire weekend. It is one of my favorite places on the planet. I'm equally glad to have transformed into writing the details of our special weekend. Sitting here in my toasty but well ventilated living room, with my sinuses clear and my day free of plans, I look back on the story that has just unfolded on my computer screen. And I wish to take back the fourteen times this weekend I have whined, "I am so bored."
I'm going to take a nap now.
Aside from the prolonged commute, Day One played out pretty much exactly as I had been rehearsing it in my head for two months: Infected with the energy of the city at night, we ignored the bitter cold and set off for Rockefeller Center, where we ice skated and then rode to the Top of the Rock and gazed out at the city surrounding us. The Tornadoes honored my request for a texting moratorium with ease. It was so magical, I didn't even mind that we had dinner at Olive Garden.
Day Two? Still bitterly cold out. My planned itinerary of museums, local eateries and general assimilation? Not so much. How about hours upon hours in Times Square inside Toys R Us, Aeropostale, Forever 21 and American Eagle? They are too different, Mom. They are multiple floors. How about TGI Fridays for lunch and Sbarro for dinner? And about that art you want us to see and possibly find inspiring. How about an eighty dollar hansom cab tour of Central Park instead? It's culture, Mom. See? The Friends fountain! You love Friends! And that school over there? That's where Buddy the Elf picked up his little brother! And here's where they got into their epic snowball fight! Culture! So what if the charming West African hansom cab operator said that the author of Stuart Little also wrote Alice in Wonderland. We have blankets!
We did follow the planned evening agenda of attending a show with the rest of our bus trip group. Putting aside the fact that our designated show, Billy Elliott, was positively riddled with foul language and inappropriate sexual references (which would lead, several days later, to Fifth Grader being taken into the hallway at school to "have a talk" with the Vice Principal, who is Australian and who happens to know the meaning behind those derogatory terms that Fifth Grader was "sharing" with her curious classmates), I'd say it was a delightful night of family fun. And I only had to tell Seventh Grader once to stop texting in the middle of the show.
A perfect ending to the evening, as I had envisioned (for two months), would have been to share animated discussion of the performance we had witnessed while also sharing a little after-show dessert. Almost as much fun was what we actually did: tromp on back to Times Square in skirts and nylons and heeled boots (still bitterly cold out, mind you) in order to retrieve Fifth Grader's cell phone, which she had accidentally left in a third floor dressing room of American Eagle earlier in the day. We then chose to retire for the night to our hot, dry-as-a-bone hotel room. This was a great idea, most notably because it provided just the missing environmental ingredient needed to push my burgeoning cold into full bloom.
A week ago today, I surrendered my plans to introduce the Tornadoes to Greenwich Village and SoHo. Instead, I sniffled and sneezed my way through Times Square - AGAIN - to help them frantically throw away their spending money on cheap t shirts and candy. Once that fun was had, I blew their minds. "Yes," I said, "I am perfectly okay with sitting in the hotel lobby for hours until the bus comes so you can text and play on your iPods." I settled them into the lobby, excused myself for fifteen minutes to clear out the nearest Duane Reade of all of its tissues and cold medicine, plus a quick stop at the only Dunkin' Donuts I had seen in three days, settled into a hotel lobby chair and died. When the bus arrived, I boarded and died again. I was resurrected about midday on Wednesday.
I'm so glad to have been able to take them to New York for an entire weekend. It is one of my favorite places on the planet. I'm equally glad to have transformed into writing the details of our special weekend. Sitting here in my toasty but well ventilated living room, with my sinuses clear and my day free of plans, I look back on the story that has just unfolded on my computer screen. And I wish to take back the fourteen times this weekend I have whined, "I am so bored."
I'm going to take a nap now.
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