Sunday, January 30, 2011

Why Mommy Can't Go Out With the Girls . . .

Because it’s been a while (like at least a few weeks) since I’ve told a good ER story, here’s the latest. 

I rarely go out.  It’s kinda pathetic.  My girlfriend Laura was having a little birthday celebration at Da Club and Hubby earned extra bonus points for canceling his Friday evening plans so that I could go.  So when I came downstairs in my beer-drinkin’ outfit, (also known as not sweatpants,) Medium said, “Mommy!  Where are you going?  Goin’ to get your toes done?”  . . . because that’s the only place I ever go without them.  (Note to middle son: I usually wear flip-flops, not stockings and knee-high boots.) 

So I was at the bar when the staff starts calling for me.  Naturally I assumed my reputation had preceded me and that they wanted me to start singing Miss Dolly Parton’s 1980 country hit "9 to 5."  But alas, I had a phone call.  A phone call at the bar is never a good thing.  When Hubby started with “guess where we are?” my immediate response was “the Emergency Room.”

I’ll take “Places Where I Should Have My Own Parking Space” for $400 please, Alex.

I told him I’d be right there and set off for the ER.  The nurses in Admissions greeted me with “theeeere’s Mommy” and said they’d wondered where I was when Hubby rolled in with all three kids.  I explained that I HAD been enjoying a Mom’s Night Out, to which they replied that they’d figured as much and didn’t I know mommies aren’t allowed out of the house? 

Apparently, Medium and Large had been downstairs watching a movie and eating popcorn . . . except in a fit of cleanliness, nervous energy, and what Doug lovingly calls "a bug up my a$$," I organized the pantry and I had consolidated two bags of popcorn, one of which had tree nuts in it.  Hubby had no way of knowing this, because I, in all of my mothering wisdom, had failed to mark the bag.  Large came upstairs, swollen and having a hard time breathing, so Hubby gave him the Epi-pen, loaded all the kids in the car, and took off for the hospital. 

Poor Hubby was offended when the nurses in Admissions gave him the once-over and asked, “are you ALONE?”  Apparently a haggard daddy with puke-stained clothing, an infant in the carrier, a pajama-clad 5-year-old, and a swollen and panicky 7-year-old is cause for alarm.  Add to that the fact that Large had vomited in the car, and Hubby had changed him into the spare gym clothes he had in the back of the car.  The nurses proceeded to tell him that A) he couldn’t leave his car out front with the flashers on, and B) he couldn’t bring all the children back into the ER with him.  Since he is always rational and calm in the face of an emergency, he turned to Medium and said “here son, you stay out here and be responsible for your 10-month-old baby brother.”  And they let him bring everyone with him . . .

Later, when I was looking over the discharge sheet, I told him how impressed I was that he remembered the name and office location of our pediatrician and the names of all Large’s allergy medications.  But it turns out, all that info was already in the hospital’s computer system because we’re frequent flyers

We first realized that Large had an allergy about three years ago when we were at a Yankee game.  Nothing says I’m a Great Mother like having to drag your swelling four-year-old to the first aid station at Yankee Stadium.  You wanna talk about seeing a good cross-section of society!  I had to explain to Large that the woman who was sitting on the gurney, but who was still clutching her beverage for dear life and taking huge chugs of said beverage, was apparently having a "panic attack."  Luckily her tattooed, wife-beater wearing boyfriend, also still imbibing, was there to offer her the kind of comfort that is really inappropriate for a curious four-year-old to be seeing.  And, for what it’s worth, I’m not really sure what the issue was with the large, sweaty, disoriented gentleman in the corner.  We got some Benadryl, a referral to our pediatrician, and the hell outta Dodge.

Anyway, Large is fine, but I am copping to yet another epic mothering FAIL.  I feel like that mom who was facebooking while her daughter was drowning.  (Not now kids!  Mommy's got a Friend Request!)  My son has a severe tree nut allergy and experiences anaphylaxis if he ingests a nut.  This is a life-threatening condition.  So naturally I put the offending snack in a clear Ziploc bag at Large’s eye level. 

The truth is, we got complacent about his allergies.  We had never had to use the Epi-Pen before, (although I carry one with me at all times,) we see an allergist on a regular basis, and he wears a medical alert bracelet.  In fact, I can’t think of ANYthing else we have in our pantry that contains tree nuts.  But man, am I beating myself up about this one.  As I told Hubby, what kind of mother isn’t vigilant about her child’s allergies?  And top it off with the fact that I was at a bar.  

So let this be a cautionary tale. 

It is SO not worth it to clean out your pantry.

Friday, January 28, 2011

Thoughts on a Snow Day

My children went to school ONE day this week.  And it was Monday.  

1.  I’m on my third cup o’ coffee this morning.  I got the shakes, man.  I feel like Kramer.  And I’ve decided that I need to teach my children how to make coffee so I don’t have to get off the couch.

2.  I haven’t washed my hair since Monday morning, and I didn’t shower at all yesterday.  Yummy.

3.  I have consumed so many cookies and skipped the gym so many days now that I think I have regained any weight I may have lost on Weight Watchers.  I’m watching my weight all right . . . watching it increase.

4.  If I have to watch iCarly one more time, I may poke my eyes out with a Lincoln Log.  What I really want to watch is last night’s Jersey Shore, but I’m afraid Small’s first words will be “I’m going to Jersey Shore, B*tch!”  Then he’ll lift up his onesie, revealing his sweet little baby belly and yelling, “we got a Situ-ATION.”

5.  No one is buying my crap on ebay.  I have this lovely lighting set, complete with pendant, chandelier, and flush mount entry-way light.                                                                          

They retail for a good hunk o’ change, so I’ve tried Craigslist (where you can also purchase used auto parts and a murderer, if that’s your thing) and ebay, but nothin’.  I just want to make enough money to purchase what I really want without having Hubby utter the words, “you paid how much?”

You see, we have The Hundred Dollar Rule, as a result of what we lovingly refer to as the Coach Bag Incident.  Hubby bought a big screen tv which I didn’t think we needed.  But guess what?  He bought it anyway.  Coincidentally, a girlfriend had a Friends and Family discount at Coach, so I bought me a bag.  (Let it be known that that particular bag is STILL my favorite and I STILL carry it, so we shall consider it an investment.  Big Screen TV has been relegated to the basement.  So there.)  After the Coach Bag Incident and the yelling, knock-down-drag-out I’m goin’ to my mama’s fight conversation, we came to an agreement that if we were making a purchase over $100 we would consult the other.  So I would like to make enough money to cover my over-$100 purchase without having to consult Hubby.  I keep telling him I’m just trying to make a nice home for him . . . 

6.  We still have power.  My girlfriend, Mama Mia, is without power.  She keeps going to the gym to work out and take a hot shower.  Her husband, The Italian, does not.  Nor do her two sons.  So I’m a little concerned that Mama Mia smells nice and fresh while the Italian and the two little sausages smell like rotting Parmesan.  Just sayin'.

7.  Small has pink-eye, a runny nose, and is teething.  He constantly has Bonus Cheerios stuck to various body parts and/or inside his diaper.  He kinda reminds me of that dog, Snots,  in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.  Or one of Cousin Eddie’s kids.

8.  Medium got his cast off last week.  I told the doctor, “I like you and all, but I kinda hope I don’t see you again any time soon.”  He looked at Medium (broken arm) and Large (broken collarbone) and Small in his infant carrier, and said, “three boys?  I’ll see ya soon.”  This does not bode well for me. 

9.  Hubby and I actually had a date on Monday night.  Don’t get excited; it was a work function full of business people.  We argued all the way there about the logic of having the babysitter’s mother stay with her, since she isn’t used to babies.  I didn’t see what the big deal was, but Hubby suggested that maybe “we” wouldn’t be able to go out until Small gets a little older.  And by “we,” he of course meant ME.  So then we arrived at our destination and started drinking wine and listening to totally stimulating speeches (insert sarcastic eye roll here) and I started making a list.  A list of things I could be doing right now, all of which would be more fun than listening to boring people spout out of their pie holes.  It went something like this:

1.  Something inappropriate that Hubby wrote . . . something I think is really more of a Saturday night activity than a Monday night activity.  I mean, we’re not twenty.  It’s a school night, Dear.
2.  laundry
3.  Plot your slow and painful death
4.  Go grocery shopping
5.  Get the oil changed

It was perfectly fine when it was just me and Hubby wink-wink-nudge-nudging each other at the table.  Except I was so buzzed by the time we left that I accidentally left the list on the table.  And it was titled “Things I Could Be Doing Instead of Listening to Boring People Spout Out of Their Pie Holes.”  Oops.  This is why Hubby can’t take me places.  I have a tendency to embarrass him AND to tell people how much I paid for my clothes.  Like the Partner’s Wife who now knows that I got my Christmas party dress at the Gap for $50.  Apparently there are some things we’re supposed to keep to ourselves. 

10.  This is what my family room looks like.  

And it’s snowing again.  

Head.  In.  Oven.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

The Zen of the Nugget.

Here’s a little nugget (pun intended) about my recent experience at yoga class.

It seems I have made a new BFF at the gym, because I know A LOT more about one of my fellow yogis than I ever wanted to know.

It all started very innocently.  I was a tad late to yoga class; it happens.  So I had to grab an open spot towards the back, and that spot just happened to be situated behind a man.  I’m sure he is a lovely individual, although I might suggest he spend some time looking for appropriate yoga-wear.  

The class worked through various poses like downward-facing dog and warrior and cobra. 

But then came the bow pose.

Are you familiar with the bow pose? 

Bow pose involves lying on your stomach, bending your knees, and then gently grabbing both your ankles with your hands so that you look like a bow and arrow, hence the name.  See how that works? 

I look JUST like this when I do it . . . .

we were all very relaxed . . . sloooowly bend your knees . . . then geeeeently grasp your ankles with your hands . . . . feeeeeel the stretch . . . releeeeeease the tension in your body . . . .just leeeeeet it goooooo . . . now bring your gaze forward . . .

My eyes!  MY EYES!!!!!

You see, the lovely gentleman in front of me was wearing loose-fitting gym shorts, and there to the left (in case you were wondering “how’s it hangin’”) were his, um, nether-regions.  BOTH of his nether-regions.  Just layin’ there. 

HOW am I supposed to harness my chi when this guy’s hunk o’ junk is peeking at me out of his little red gym-shorts?  I could no longer hear the yoga instructor because in my head I was hearing that Mrs. Doubtfire "well, helloooooo!" voice.

It was like a train wreck . . . I REALLY wanted to look away, but my mind kept trying to tell me that surely that’s not what I’m seeing, right?  Is it?  No.  No!  Okay, maybe . . . Oh. My. Gah. 

Now I’m suffering some PTSD flashbacks, complete with squinty eyes, a mild headache, and the shakes.  It was my own personal VietNamaste.  

Friday, January 14, 2011

How NOT to Plan Your Spouse's Demise

Hubby and I only have a few shows we agree on, but periodically we find ourselves entrenched in mystery-type programs, like Dateline and 48 Hours.  The conversation inevitably turns all mushy and romantic as we start discussing how we would commit the perfect crime, hypothetically of course.  Everyone knows if I were to kill my hubby, I would smother him with a pillow.  (Lord help me if someone breaks into my home and smothers my husband while he sleeps, because I have put that out there in the universe so many times, I would definitely be the prime suspect.) 

The other night we were discussing life insurance and how I stand to gain significantly more than he does.  I pointed out that he would have to use his money to find someone to raise our children and suggested that perhaps he find a mail-order Russian bride. Then I advised him to “getcha one that doesn’t talk back this time.”  He said next time he’ll get one who cooks, cleans, and provides other services.  Ahem.

[private message to The Cluer & BooBoo and my brother Slim . . . the fact that we have been working on our wills lately and contemplating guardianship of our children should we get hit by a Mack truck tomorrow is purely coincidental.] 

In all seriousness, if I die I want Hubby to pine away for me for the rest of his life.  You think I’m kidding.  I am not.  I will not be one of those Love Story Jenny Cavalerri type women . . . all find-someone-to-make-you-happy and please-find-the-strength-to-go-on-without-me.  No way.  I want him to live the rest of his days missing me and telling people that he’ll never love again.  In fact, I’m annoyed that all my old boyfriends got married.  To other people!  And there’s evidence of it on Facebook!  That ain’t right . . . they’re supposed to be wallowing away in their parents’ basements, thinking about the one that got away.  (That would be me.)

Hmmm.  I’ve lost focus here for a second.  Back to killing my husband . . .

I gotta say though, prison doesn’t always sound so bad.  Three squares a day that I don’t have to cook or clean up after, a bed whose covers I don’t have to share, and a place to pee.  I’m used to peeing with an audience, so there ya have it!

Anyway, this is what we have learned:
  1. Don’t choose a hit man who has a drinking problem and a tendency to utter the words “promise not to tell anyone?”
  2. Don’t go to your local CVS to stock up on duct tape, latex gloves, and rope.
  3. If you’re going to move a refrigerator-sized box from your front door to the flatbed of your truck, don’t let your neighbors see you doing it.
  4. Don’t take out a hefty life insurance policy (hefty - like $5,000!!!) on your spouse a week before you plan to off him/her.
  5. Don’t get your 1995 Ford Escort detailed immediately after you call 911 to report your spouse missing.
  6. The answer to “you’re not a cop, are you?” is never going to be “Why, yes.  Yes, I am!”
  7. “Burglars” do not storm into your house, steal your wife’s jewelry and wreak havoc on all of your possessions except for your big-screen TV and your beloved baseball card collection.
  8. Don’t pose for a family portrait in which your wife and kids look smiley and happy, and yet you look menacing and creepy.
  9. Don’t tell Border Patrol that “it musta been in here when I bought the car.”
  10. The underside of the passenger seat is not a safe storage location for your illegal firearm.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Facebook Posts That Sum Up My Life.

. . . is wondering why Medium isn’t wearing any pants.  Again.  (5.20.08)

. . . is wondering why nobody ever buys my crap on ebay.  (5.30.08)

. .  .is wondering if anyone else thinks the duck on Word World sounds dangerously like Dr. Phil.  Or am I just losin’ it?  (6.2.08)

. . . thinks the First  Aid station at Yankee Stadium is the size of a closet.  Don’t ask me how I know this.  (7.18.08)

. . . snuck a 6-pack into the Stepbrothers movie last night – it really does make it funnier!  (8.5.08)

. . . is trying to make it ‘til Tuesday without sticking my head in the oven.  (8.28.08)

. . . is cooking dinner.  And by cooking I mean heating fish sticks and waffle fries.  (9.8.08)

. . . went to Pilates yesterday.  Now it hurts when I sneeze.  (9.11.08)

. . . is continuing to hold.  My call is very important to them.  The next available representative will be with me shortly.  (9.22.08)

. . . is ready for Hubby to be home from Chicago.  And I’m off to PTA.  (next step?  . . . apparently, vice presidential running mate.)  (9.24.08)

. . . almost lost my side mirror to a NJ Transit bus in the Lincoln Tunnel.  (10.2.08)

. . . wishes the PTA would serve frosty beverages at tonight’s Halloween party.  Mommy needs a glass of wine.  (10.30.08)

Charlie Bit My Finger” makes me laugh every time I see it.  And it makes me want to speak with a British accent.  All the time.  (11.13.08)

I have made a decision: when the answer to “is it dirty?” is “I wiped a booger on it,” the answer is YES.  (12.2.08)

Sittin’ poolside in Orlando.  (. . . OK, it’s the baby pool, but still.)  (12.8.08)

Just skidded and left my a$$ print on a snowy NYC sidewalk.  So graceful.  (12.19.08)

. . . is wondering of Stepbrothers will get an Oscar nod.  (1.2.09)

My 3-year-old just said, “Daddy’s a nice boy.  YOU’RE like a stepmom.”  NO more fairytales!  (1.8.09)

. . .watched Cops last night.  Watching shirtless men with mullets try to elude police always makes me feel better.  (3.2.09)

I am feeling better; thanks for asking.  Not 100% by any means, but I am no longer praying for the sweet release of death, so that’s a plus.  (3.18.09)

A Kindergartener complimented my mad art skillz.  It’s gonna be a good day!  (3.24.09)

Just kicked my husband out of the house for the ‘Heels game.  I can’t take the yelling and it scares the daylights out of the dog.  So, you see, he HAD to go.  (4.6.09)

Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs are a gift from God.  (4.7.09)

My goal in life is to squeeze Tim McGraw’s biceps before I die.  (5.13.09)

. . . is watching a woman try to pluck her stiletto out of the rubber flooring at the playground.  Perhaps heels aren’t the best option for the playground?  (5.20.09)

Medium just told me, “no shows, no snacks, no tattoos, no nuffin!  I am NOT happy!”  and stomped his foot.  Alrighty then.  (5.28.09)

. . . is hoping we don’t have a repeat of the “naked temper tantrum” in public again today.  I was worried there’d be footage on the 11 o’clock news of me, disheveled and frustrated, trying to hail a cab on York Ave. while holding a screaming, kicking, wet, naked child.  (6.16.09)

. . . is celebrating a decade of marriage.  I’d get married all over again!  (Maybe even to my husband.)  (6.26.09)

. . . was sitting poolside and wondering . . . why can’t I look cute, sexy, and sassy while eating potato chips straight out of the Utz Big Bag like the 2 bikini-clad twentysomethings across the patio?  Sigh.  (7.6.09)

My darling husband hacked my facebook account and went Farmville-crazy . . . apparently because he wanted a free cow.  (7.31.09)

Just kicked Large’s a$$ at Wii Frisbee Dog.  Take that, 6-year-old!!!  (8.5.09)

Medium:  “Mommy, can you fix this?”  Me:  “Sure; what’s wrong with it?”  Medium: “I accidentally peed on it.”  (8.9.09)

A conversation between the boys – Medium: “Large!  WHAT has gotten into you?”  Large: “YOU don’t talk to me that way!”  Hmmmmm . . . .   (8.13.09)

It’s sad when Medium starts the day by saying, “if we go to Target today . . . “  (9.11.09)

Hubby came home from work in the middle of the day and caught me doing . . . housework.  I hate that.  I like his expectations to be LOW.  (9.18.09)

According to Large, “coffee is for ten-year-olds.”  (9.22.09)

. . . only has one fully-functioning nostril and a killer sinus headache.  Feel sorry for me.  (10.1.09)

Had fun in Old Town for L’s bachelorette party. Nothing says “we’re here to party” like a pregnant bridesmaid!  (10.4.09)

I think God invented the drive-thru Starbucks because He really wants me to be happy.  (10.21.09)

According to my husband, watching a pregnant woman with hot rollers in her hair apply deodorant while hiking up her dress and revealing maternity pantyhose is NOT sexy.  Who knew?  (11.7.09)

First Time-Out of the day at 7:03 AM.  It’s gonna be a long one . . . (11.11.09)

Just shaved a few years off my life by accidentally seeing a photo in US Weekly of John Gosselin doing yoga.  My eyes!  My EYES!!!  (11.16.09)

Last night’s dream:  The Jonas Brothers were on trial for some sort of hunting infraction, and they were in the front row in court, dressed in full camouflage regalia.  Only two were on trial though – the third was just there for moral support.  (11.24.09)

Mommy:  “Whatcha doing?”  Medium: “Nuffin, Just makin’ a card for Jesus, since it’s almost his birfday.  I need to draw girl hair, cuz Jesus looks like he has girl hair.”  (11.30.09)

Medium just walked into the living room with a Power Rangers mask and a pool noodle.  Hmmmm . . .  (12.7.09)

. . . is a little concerned that my four-year-old is reciting, word for word, the Touch and Brush commercial.  (1.5.10)
You squeeze!  You roll!  You press!
Now your bathroom looks a mess!
There's GOT to be a better way . . . 

My four-year-old is wearing only a t-shirt, underwear, and socks, and is singing “Rockin’ the Beer Gut.”  I pray he’s not doing the same thing in 20 years.  (1.11.01)

Both my children vomited during dinner.  And you wonder why I don’t cook.  (1.25.10)

Medium:  “I can’t stop smilin’. My cheeks are freezed.”  (1.30.10)

Medium:  “Mommy, why is your belly round?”  Mommy:  “Because I have a baby in there.”  Medium:  “When the baby comes out it will be regular?”  Theoretically son . . . theoretically.  Sigh.  (2.1.10)

Medium just rode his laundry basket down the stairs.  Those of you who know Medium will not be surprised . . . (4.13.10)

Nothing good comes out of “Mommy, I had a booger but I didn’t use a tissue . . . “  (4.27.10)

. . . is a little disturbed that we live in a world where Ashton Kutcher is considered one of TIME Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in the World.  (5.17.10)

Medium has a playdate this morning, so I reminded him to mind his manners and be on his best behavior.  He responded, “Forget about it, Mom.  I’ve got it covered.”  Sigh . . . that child!  (6.2.10)

Just received notice that my Starbucks reward card has been promoted to Gold Level!  Somehow I think Hubby will not be quite as impressed as I am with my latest accomplishment.  (I also got a Thank You card from the Gap today.  They love me!)  (6.2.10)

It was seven years ago today that I told Hubby I thought I was in labor, to which he replied, “Do I have time to order Chinese?  I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch.”  (6.27.09)

Hey, Lady at Dutch Wonderland Amusement Park, I asked if you could move your chair, not donate a kidney.  Pipe down.  (7.9.10)

A rainy day at home, baby vomit on my arm, race track on my family room floor, iCarly on two different Tvs, whites done and darks in the dryer.  Just another ay in Paradise!  (8.18.10)

Only 7 shopping days until my birthday. Hubby’s going to buy me Starbucks so caffeinated it will disable my blinking reflex, everyone's potty-time aim will be perfect, & the dog will poop OUTside. Boogers will go in kleenexes - not on my couch and no bodily functions and/or secretions shall take place on/near me. Someone please notify my family that this is the plan!  8.27.10)

I’m getting flak from the 7-year-old because he needs the computer for homework, and “I REALLY need to learn, Mom!”  (9.20.10)

Hubby’s in a cab from LGA to Montvale, NJ with a cabbie who has no GPS and “thinks” he knows where he’s going.  He texted me (Hubby, not the cabbie,) that they’ve stopped for gas.  I’m thinking the cabbie’s inside asking where’s a good place to hide a body . . . (10.4.10)

Gonna get my GTL on, except without the G or the T.  (That’s Gym-Tan-Laundry, for those of you not versed in the Jersey Shore lingo.)  (10.8.10)

I might shower today.  Haven’t decided.  (11.10.10)

You know what happens when you send an unaccompanied 5-year-old with $10 to the Scholastic Book Fair?  You become the proud owners of a Justin Bieber book.  (12.8.10)

Doing Pilates today.  (But according to an automatically corrected text I sent yesterday, I’m doing pilots.)  (1.4.11)

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

BoyMommy Takes a Step Class at the Gym. Chaos Ensues.

My misadventures at the gym continue.

I’m trying.  I really am.  I’m pretty safe on the elliptical and I can even hold my own at yoga, although I can assure you that I do not look all graceful and poised like the gals in the Athleta catalog.  Yesterday I decided to try a class called Step Plus Abs. 

Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy.  I used to take Step classes all the time on the rare occasion I actually dragged my a$$ to the gym about 10 years ago.  Step, check!  AND I have Abs . . .  so, check!

There was a nice range of body-types and ages and the instructor didn’t look too Barbie, so I felt like I could handle it.  And I did all right, until about 20 minutes in when I felt all gotta.getta.sippa.water again, just like when I was enduring Wes’s torture chamber.  But the worst part of it wasn’t for me; it was for the poor woman standing behind me.

She may have been perfectly coordinated when she walked in, but after watching me flail about as if my appendages were independent of my body, I can pretty much guarantee that her brain was sending signals her arms and legs weren’t receiving.  It’s hard to watch someone do one thing and make your body register something else. 

You see, I am not known for my coordination.  At 37, I have come to accept this part of my personality.   I no longer get embarrassed when I trip UP the stairs or completely miss a curb – it’s simply part of my nature and I choose to embrace it.  I did not inherit ANY athletic ability, which is why I was in the band . . . you didn’t have to try out for that

I desperately wanted to be a cheerleader.  I wanted the little skirt and the pom pons, the ringlets and the hair ribbons.  But alas, I was not destined for sideline glory.  (When I became, by default because no one else would do it, a cheerleading coach my first few years of teaching, I am SURE my high school peers were thinking, “wait, wha?”)  I tried out for softball, but apparently one needs a modicum of athletic ability to play.  I tried out for volleyball.  Same story.  I was the manager for the gymnastics team.  Know what that means?  Not even remotely good enough to be considered for the team, but if you wanna drag mats out for us, that'd be super, thanks.

This little trip down memory lane should provide you with an image of what my step-class performance entailed.  I am not being modest.  (Because modest I am NOT.) 
"No, I'm not having a seizure.
I'm exercising!"

So to anyone who may be reading this and feeling shy about taking a class at the gym, please, I urge you to join me.  Chances are, you’re going to look like Britney Spears on the dance floor, and I’m gonna look like Elaine from Seinfeld. . . all thumbs and ankles, with little self-awareness.  And, in closing, to the woman who had the misfortune to be behind me in step class, please accept my sincerest apology for forcing you to witness my epic lack of coordination.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Dust Catchers! Yours for Only $1!

For Christmas this year, my brother-in-law, The Cluer, bought $5 gift certificates to the Dollar Tree for my boys.  He thinks he’s funny.  He is not.

You see, I’m not a Dollar Tree kind of gal.  There’s nothing wrong with the Dollar Tree or other establishments of that ilk, and I will concede that there are bargains to be found.  When the boys step foot in there, however, their eyes get all big and buggy and they start running in circles like they’re on Speed because Look! There’s a pack of spatulas for a dollar!  We don't know what spatulas are!  But they're a dollar!

Several months ago, The Cluer took my boys and his into a dollar store and let them each pick something out while BooBoo and I settled the tab at the restaurant next door.  The boys got into the car all excited about their finds and we waved good-bye to the cousins.  Everybody buckled in and I started the engine.  All was right with the world.

And then all hell broke loose.

Whoppers exploded out of the box Large was trying to open and they began rolling all over the floor of my Swagger Wagon, and Medium started screaming because his quality-inspected plastic toy broke.  The car was still in "park," folks. 

Ever reserved and mature, I called The Cluer immediately.  “I’m still in PARK, you dumb*ass!  There are Whoppers EVERYwhere and Medium is throwing a temper tantrum because his toy doesn’t even work!  I haven’t even put the car in reverse!  This is YOUR fault!”

So I KNEW The Cluer would be purchasing gift certificates for the boys because he and I pick at each other like 10-year-old siblings.  Yesterday, Hubby took the boys out to run some errands and then promised them they could go spend their gift certificates afterwards.  Now we are the proud owners of these little gems:

God Bless America
  1. a pack of Justin Bieber cards.  Medium’s comment was “the girls in my class are gonna LOVE this!”  I'm starting to get a little concerned with this new obsession with the Biebster.
  2. a football sticker book and 3 packs of cards.  We would have had 4 packs of cards, but then Large spotted the following . .  . 
  3. Eagle Dust Catchers.  Medium found them first, and Large’s response was, “Awwww, where’d you get THAT?  I want THAT!”  And thus, one pack of cards went back on the shelf.
  4. Four giant army men, one of whom has apparently already been harmed in battle.  I would attempt to operate on his leg, but we all know what happened during the Great Superhero Convalescent Home Superglue Disaster of 2007. 

I despise Dust-Catchers.  I know many people collect Precious Moments and the like, but I am NOT one of those people.  If it doesn’t have some sort of sentimental meaning to me, I don’t want it.  I don’t even like trophies.  Why?  Because they serve no lasting purpose except to collect dust.  My only exception to this rule is a Willow Tree figurine my Mother-in-Law gave me when Medium was born – it’s a mother with two boys and I think it’s the sweetest thing ever. 

How long before those eagles “mysteriously” disappear?

Thursday, January 6, 2011

My New Year's Resolutions

My New Years Resolutions:

  1. Stop flirting with Gay Salespeople.  I love Patrick at the furniture store because he has fabulous shoes and he looks like he should have his own show on HGTV.  And I love the salesman at the Gymboree Outlet because he called me Sweetheart, and I’m pretty sure he’d give me extra GymBucks if we were BFFs.  The problem is that I want to be friends with these people so much that I often want to reach across the counter and embrace them in a giant bear hug, but I’m worried that they might find this a tad stalkerish.  Also, I need to stop assuming that every gay man I meet would be a good match for my friend Mike.  Because assuming he and Mike would be a good match is like saying, “you’re from California?  Hey do you know _____?  He’s from California too!”

  1. Stop considering Us Weekly and People Magazine my primary news sources.  I have no idea what’s going on in Congress and I’m only vaguely aware of some controversy with one of the Koreas, but I do know that Jake and Taylor broke up and that Sandra has been linked to Ryan Reynolds, recently split from ScarJo.

  1. Refrain from thinking hateful thoughts about the trainers at the gym.  They are doing their jobs and it is through no fault of theirs that every mirror in the joint reflects my wobbly bits in all their jiggly glory.  Furthermore, it is doubtful that they are a part of a giant conspiracy to hurt me.

  1. Accept the fact that Old Navy jeans do not flatter me.  Just because I can button them doesn’t mean they fit. 

  1. Break the Cardigan Habit.  Dude.  I’m strung out on the Cardigans, man . . .
pregnant bridesmaid cardigan
Thanksgiving carve-the-roast-beast cardigan

the Most Magical Place on Earth cardigan 
Central Park cardigan
Canadian tea cardigan
Book Club at the Melting Pot cardigan

6.  Go to Target and/or Starbucks at least once a week.  Preferably both.  (It’s important to set realistic, attainable goals.

7.  Expand my cooking repertoire beyond Grilled Cheese, Nuggets, and Fish Sticks.  I declare 2011 the year my children will eat vegetables.  The real ones; not the baby food kind I sneak into their pasta sauce.

8.  Try not to cringe every time Hubby says “coulda went,” because it’s time to recognize that, after 17 years together, he’s doing it just to irritate me.  Who says CPAs don’t have a sense of humor?

9.  Stop referring to my boobs as “the Baby Feeders” at parties, as it makes people feel uncomfortable.  For example, (hypothetically of course,) when we’re at a New Year’s Eve party and I say, “Hey, easy with the dice there, chief!  You just hit me in the right Baby Feeder,” the pastor sitting at the other end of the table will be rendered speechless while the rest of the room erupts in nervous laughter.  Hypothetically.  Also, in the future, it might be helpful to determine the other party-goers’ line of work before making reference to said body parts.

10.  Get on the scale at Weight Watchers without preempting it with “Um, I’ve made some bad decisions this week.”  The WW lady will know this once she reads the scale; no need to announce it ahead of time.    

There ya have it, folks.  Happy 2011 to you!