I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm super excited about tomorrow's big sausage sale.
I happen to be lucky enough to live near one of the Midwest's finest sausage companies. And, I've been told that every so often, they hold a big sale in their outlet store. I've never been there, but I hear the deals are incredible on overstocked items and products that didn't quite clear the quality control team's exacting standards.
That's right, they're selling sausage rejects.
Now, having not been to one of these sales before, I'm unsure what I'm going to find. I imagine there'll be packages of lumpy bratwurst, spiral-cut hams that were accidentally cut criss cross and perhaps some summer sausage that's missing the protective, paper casing.
I'm just hoping that nothing's being sold off because the big walk-in cooler was down last week.
As eager as I am to pay as low as $.50/pound for kielbasa, I'm really looking forward to an entertaining adventure. My mom told me to go early, because "people go nuts in there."
So, I'm wondering if I'll see old ladies defensively throwing elbows. Or big-bellied guys in striped Zumba pants hoarding bags of misshapen sausage sticks.
I'm hoping I can convince Mark to channel his inner 17-year old and announce loudly, "Aw man, this is a total sausage fest!" but I doubt he'll do it.
Either way, it's going to be a grand day out for the crew.
Why blog?
A few weeks ago, on a phone call with my mom, I started to tell her some story about the kids that I'd previously written about on this blog.
"Stop me if you already read this on my blog," I said.
There was a slight pause.
"Yeah, I was wondering something," she said, as if she was going to take the next step onto a carton of uncracked eggs. "Why are you doing this?"
My mind raced. Had I written something that she could've construed as unflattering? I didn't think so.
"Why are you blogging?" she asked.
It was at that point that I realized something. Even though my mom is totally comfortable using a computer, she doesn't like to use it as a communication tool. In fact, she rarely emails. Oh sure, she forwards the cute jokes, but doesn't use email (or God forbid, a blog) to spread information, like I do.
So, why am I doing this?
I started blogging a few years ago, when I was going through my divorce. I set up a private family blog so I could share legal updates and stories about the kids. It was simply more time efficient to post an update that 15 people could read, rather to make a ton of phone calls. And, when the news is kind of depressing, it's painful to rehash the same tragic story over and over.
But, over time, I realized I really enjoyed writing for fun. Combining that with a lot of my friends telling me I just had to write about my adventures as a single mom and dealing with a divorce. I always put a funny spin on stuff, and they egged me on to do it in writing. So that's when I began The Cold Cereal Chronicles, a collection of essays about single-parenting. I used the blog as an archive tool, but didn't consider myself a blogger. That term sounds about as positive as "computer hacker."
But then, as CCC began to take off visitors-wise, and I started getting comments and reading those folks' blogs, I began to appreciate what blogging's all about.
I have always appreciated good, clever writing. And I've found there are a ton of amazingly talented writers who blog. I've got a blog list over on the lower, right side of the screen. I invite you to check them out. These people write funny, engaging blogs about topics they love (their families). I think they're really good and aspire to be as good a writer as them. If you want to find more blogs on a whole variety of topics, check out blogher.com. (I read Michelle Obama's blog on there the other day!)
Blogging is a great way to express ones creativity. Designing a blog, crafting a story, editing/posting photos -- I love it. Blogging now fulfills a creative need in me.
Another cool thing about blogging is that it's an open dialogue with a community of others. Rather than a one-way communication like an email, where one person can reply or not, blog posts can have whole open forums, discussing topics, sharing opinions, giving encouragement. A person writes a post, others read it, and people discuss it via the comments section.
I strongly encourage you to leave a comment too. I'd love to hear what you think. If you're shy about sharing your name, do it anonymously! There's a term out there in the blogging world - lurkers. Lurkers are people who read blogs, but don't necessarily contribute (comment) to the conversation. They hang back in a corner and watch. Lurking isn't bad - in fact, I lurk from time to time. But it does defeat the purpose of an open dialogue if noboby else is contributing to the conversation.
I know a lot of my readers are friends and family who are new to the whole blogging thing, but I encourage you to comment on stories. Reading a blog doesn't have to be like reading a magazine. It's an online conversation.
So, if you were ever waiting for an invitation from me to add a comment, here it is: Please leave a comment.
Oh, that and check out some of the blogs in my list. Suburban Kamikaze is my newest favorite. It's hilarious. And don't just read those blog's posts, read their comments too. There's some hilarious stuff in there!
It feels a little silly, like I'm begging for your comments. But I think that some of my dearest friends, don't comment out of fear to "wreck" my writing or because they're uncomfortable having other people read their comments. To that I say, comment anyway. And do it anonymously if you're shy.
Seriously.
"Stop me if you already read this on my blog," I said.
There was a slight pause.
"Yeah, I was wondering something," she said, as if she was going to take the next step onto a carton of uncracked eggs. "Why are you doing this?"
My mind raced. Had I written something that she could've construed as unflattering? I didn't think so.
"Why are you blogging?" she asked.
It was at that point that I realized something. Even though my mom is totally comfortable using a computer, she doesn't like to use it as a communication tool. In fact, she rarely emails. Oh sure, she forwards the cute jokes, but doesn't use email (or God forbid, a blog) to spread information, like I do.
So, why am I doing this?
I started blogging a few years ago, when I was going through my divorce. I set up a private family blog so I could share legal updates and stories about the kids. It was simply more time efficient to post an update that 15 people could read, rather to make a ton of phone calls. And, when the news is kind of depressing, it's painful to rehash the same tragic story over and over.
But, over time, I realized I really enjoyed writing for fun. Combining that with a lot of my friends telling me I just had to write about my adventures as a single mom and dealing with a divorce. I always put a funny spin on stuff, and they egged me on to do it in writing. So that's when I began The Cold Cereal Chronicles, a collection of essays about single-parenting. I used the blog as an archive tool, but didn't consider myself a blogger. That term sounds about as positive as "computer hacker."
But then, as CCC began to take off visitors-wise, and I started getting comments and reading those folks' blogs, I began to appreciate what blogging's all about.
I have always appreciated good, clever writing. And I've found there are a ton of amazingly talented writers who blog. I've got a blog list over on the lower, right side of the screen. I invite you to check them out. These people write funny, engaging blogs about topics they love (their families). I think they're really good and aspire to be as good a writer as them. If you want to find more blogs on a whole variety of topics, check out blogher.com. (I read Michelle Obama's blog on there the other day!)
Blogging is a great way to express ones creativity. Designing a blog, crafting a story, editing/posting photos -- I love it. Blogging now fulfills a creative need in me.
Another cool thing about blogging is that it's an open dialogue with a community of others. Rather than a one-way communication like an email, where one person can reply or not, blog posts can have whole open forums, discussing topics, sharing opinions, giving encouragement. A person writes a post, others read it, and people discuss it via the comments section.
I strongly encourage you to leave a comment too. I'd love to hear what you think. If you're shy about sharing your name, do it anonymously! There's a term out there in the blogging world - lurkers. Lurkers are people who read blogs, but don't necessarily contribute (comment) to the conversation. They hang back in a corner and watch. Lurking isn't bad - in fact, I lurk from time to time. But it does defeat the purpose of an open dialogue if noboby else is contributing to the conversation.
I know a lot of my readers are friends and family who are new to the whole blogging thing, but I encourage you to comment on stories. Reading a blog doesn't have to be like reading a magazine. It's an online conversation.
So, if you were ever waiting for an invitation from me to add a comment, here it is: Please leave a comment.
Oh, that and check out some of the blogs in my list. Suburban Kamikaze is my newest favorite. It's hilarious. And don't just read those blog's posts, read their comments too. There's some hilarious stuff in there!
It feels a little silly, like I'm begging for your comments. But I think that some of my dearest friends, don't comment out of fear to "wreck" my writing or because they're uncomfortable having other people read their comments. To that I say, comment anyway. And do it anonymously if you're shy.
Seriously.
Correction.
Let us not forget the smallest participants in the great move: The fish. I guess the move proved to be hardest on them. We've now had to amend our pet tally:
1 gerbil (Stella)
1 dog (Bandit)
8 3 fish (for now, unnamed)
10 5 pets
While I'm bummed out, I'm still happy that we didn't lose a kid or the dog along the way.
1 gerbil (Stella)
1 dog (Bandit)
While I'm bummed out, I'm still happy that we didn't lose a kid or the dog along the way.
Halloween '09: The Year of the Copy Cats
This year the kids ended up picking their costumes. I'd say they were spot-on imitations of their favorite TV characters:
Crowbar as Mr. Incredible
Mad Dog as Princess Leia
The Deuce as Mitchie from Camp Rock
Yeah, I know the gold trim on Mad Dog's costume is a little fancy and not true to the movie, but we were struggling in the Halloween aisle at Target. The Snow Princess costume was white and warm-ish, so we made it work. Mad Dog wasn't concerned about this lack of authenticity. She was lovin' her hairdo too much.
Crowbar as Mr. Incredible
Mad Dog as Princess Leia
The Deuce as Mitchie from Camp RockYeah, I know the gold trim on Mad Dog's costume is a little fancy and not true to the movie, but we were struggling in the Halloween aisle at Target. The Snow Princess costume was white and warm-ish, so we made it work. Mad Dog wasn't concerned about this lack of authenticity. She was lovin' her hairdo too much.
1 week down.
We've officially made it one, full week. Hallelujah!
Mark's mostly out of his old place, save for some light cleaning and the need to transport his fish tank over here.
His lease expires Oct. 31, so he still has a few days to reconsider this whole move. It's noisier and a little messier over here, but there's also delicious home-cooked meals, the sound of laughter (only briefly interrupted by the sounds of fighting and crying) and, well, me. Who could ask for more?
When the fish make the move, our pet quota will make a significant jump. The kids are super excited to report that we will be the proud owners of 10 pets now.
1 gerbil (Stella)
1 dog (Bandit)
8 fish (for now, unnamed)
10 pets
And it looks like they'll all be able to stay. I'm thrilled to report that Bandit has not bothered my allergies too badly. This is amazing, because anytime I come into contact with other dogs, I'm a mess.
A friend told me she thinks it's because of the type of hair. The other dogs have slick, smooth short-haired coats (a beagle and assorted labs). These dogs make me sneeze uncontrollably for a full day or more. Bandit (a Pomeranian-poodle mix) has light, fluffy long hair. This makes me mildly congested but no major sneezing.
I really hope this lasts. The dog is such a sweetie and we're all growing attached to her. The Deuce even wrote about her for a class assignment:
"Well, Mark's going to be my step dad, so I figured Bandit is my step dog."
Makes sense.
Mark's mostly out of his old place, save for some light cleaning and the need to transport his fish tank over here.
His lease expires Oct. 31, so he still has a few days to reconsider this whole move. It's noisier and a little messier over here, but there's also delicious home-cooked meals, the sound of laughter (only briefly interrupted by the sounds of fighting and crying) and, well, me. Who could ask for more?
When the fish make the move, our pet quota will make a significant jump. The kids are super excited to report that we will be the proud owners of 10 pets now.
1 gerbil (Stella)
1 dog (Bandit)
8 fish (for now, unnamed)
10 pets
And it looks like they'll all be able to stay. I'm thrilled to report that Bandit has not bothered my allergies too badly. This is amazing, because anytime I come into contact with other dogs, I'm a mess.
A friend told me she thinks it's because of the type of hair. The other dogs have slick, smooth short-haired coats (a beagle and assorted labs). These dogs make me sneeze uncontrollably for a full day or more. Bandit (a Pomeranian-poodle mix) has light, fluffy long hair. This makes me mildly congested but no major sneezing.
I really hope this lasts. The dog is such a sweetie and we're all growing attached to her. The Deuce even wrote about her for a class assignment:
BandetI've called Bandit my step dog here, but never in front of the kids. So, when The Deuce called her that in the essay, I was a little surprised.
Bandet is my step dog. She's a ponerunian. (flufy dog.) the reason she's called bandet is because she has a black strip around her eyes.
"Well, Mark's going to be my step dad, so I figured Bandit is my step dog."
Makes sense.
Practical Parenting Tip #94
Don't let your three-year old drink a quart of cherry Kool-Aid an hour before bedtime. Despite his best efforts and your best potty training, he WILL wet the bed.
Was I pissed at myself? Oh, yeaaaahh!
~ ~ ~
I should've known better. I rarely make Kool-Aid for the kids - they generally drink milk or water. But last night as a treat with popcorn, I whipped up a pitcher of the sugar-free stuff. Crowbar inhaled his first glass. Smacking his lips, he immediately asked for more. And I obliged, not once, but twice.
Fast forward to 2 a.m. Crowbar's soaked and I'm hauling wet bedding downstairs to the laundry. I guess even the most seasoned parents have temporary lapses in judgement. In my case, it left us both pissed.
The Big Blow Off.
In my house, every other sentence from my kids either begins with:
A) "I want ____." or
B) "I don't want to ____."
It can get quite tiresome. Whether we're at home or out and about, they're constantly telling me they want/don't want something.
Now, I don't frequently give in to their requests, so I'm a little surprised that they keep asking me. It's not like I roll over and say, "Okay," each time they say they want McDonald's for dinner or a new toy or to go to grandma's.
And I don't bend when they tell me they don't want to go to school, eat their vegetables, or go to bed at 8:30. You'd think getting shot down so often, they'd just stop asking. But they don't. They're eternally hopeful, I guess.
Normally when I turn down the request, I give a reason.
"No, we can't eat at McDonald's tonight, I've got a healthy dinner planned at home." Or "I know you don't want to take a bath, but look at your feet. They're dirty."
I generally try to give them the WHY behind the no.
Well, Mark's got a different approach. I like to call it The Big Blow Off.
It goes like this:
No matter what the want is, his answer is the same. He wants his own talk show.
He also has a Big Blow Off response for the don't want to's.
The first time I heard it, I thought it was a little weird. And the first time the kids heard it, they were totally speechless. The Big Blow Off is a real conversation killer.
For a while I just shrugged my shoulders. It's not exactly how I choose to respond to their requests, but it's not like it's mean or hurtful. Like I said, it's just kind of weird.
But then, one day, as I was picking the girls up from school, I realized the effectiveness of The Big Blow Off. The Deuce hoped into the van and said, "I want to ride the bus home from school." Then, not a second later she added, "And Mark wants his own talk show."
Holy shit. She opened and closed the conversation herself, and I didn't even need to say a word.
A few days later, it happened again.
"I want to go to Wal-Mart. And Mark wants his own talk show."
The topic was opened, then shut. And I never said a peep. There was no reasoning, no bargaining - nothing.
While I think it can still be helpful to explain the WHY behind things, to Mark's credit, there are some times when it's just not necessary. And that's the beauty of The Big Blow Off.
We all want things. But we don't always get them. Hell, I want a free trip to Hawaii, but do I think that's gonna happen?
Sometimes it is, because it is.
Period.
A) "I want ____." or
B) "I don't want to ____."
It can get quite tiresome. Whether we're at home or out and about, they're constantly telling me they want/don't want something.
Now, I don't frequently give in to their requests, so I'm a little surprised that they keep asking me. It's not like I roll over and say, "Okay," each time they say they want McDonald's for dinner or a new toy or to go to grandma's.
And I don't bend when they tell me they don't want to go to school, eat their vegetables, or go to bed at 8:30. You'd think getting shot down so often, they'd just stop asking. But they don't. They're eternally hopeful, I guess.
Normally when I turn down the request, I give a reason.
"No, we can't eat at McDonald's tonight, I've got a healthy dinner planned at home." Or "I know you don't want to take a bath, but look at your feet. They're dirty."
I generally try to give them the WHY behind the no.
Well, Mark's got a different approach. I like to call it The Big Blow Off.
It goes like this:
Kid: I want a laptop computer.
Mark: I want my own talk show.
Kid: I want my own bedroom.
Mark: I want my own talk show.
Kid: I want a new backpack.
Mark: I want my own talk show.
No matter what the want is, his answer is the same. He wants his own talk show.
He also has a Big Blow Off response for the don't want to's.
Kid: I don't want to go to bed.
Mark: I don't want to pay taxes.
Kid: I don't want to go to the grocery store.
Mark: I don't want to pay taxes.
Kid: I don't want to do my homework.
Mark: I don't want to pay taxes.
The first time I heard it, I thought it was a little weird. And the first time the kids heard it, they were totally speechless. The Big Blow Off is a real conversation killer.
For a while I just shrugged my shoulders. It's not exactly how I choose to respond to their requests, but it's not like it's mean or hurtful. Like I said, it's just kind of weird.
But then, one day, as I was picking the girls up from school, I realized the effectiveness of The Big Blow Off. The Deuce hoped into the van and said, "I want to ride the bus home from school." Then, not a second later she added, "And Mark wants his own talk show."
Holy shit. She opened and closed the conversation herself, and I didn't even need to say a word.
A few days later, it happened again.
"I want to go to Wal-Mart. And Mark wants his own talk show."
The topic was opened, then shut. And I never said a peep. There was no reasoning, no bargaining - nothing.
While I think it can still be helpful to explain the WHY behind things, to Mark's credit, there are some times when it's just not necessary. And that's the beauty of The Big Blow Off.
We all want things. But we don't always get them. Hell, I want a free trip to Hawaii, but do I think that's gonna happen?
Sometimes it is, because it is.
Period.
The Great Halloween Candy Experiment.
Still reeling from the realization I'm behind the ball for Halloween costumes, I at least am prepared for trick-or-treaters. We loaded up on the candy supply - the perfect combination of chocolate goodness and hard, suckie candy.
I intend to bury my beloved peanut-butter cups deep in the bowl and hand out the Smarties and Sweet Tarts first.
I intend to bury my beloved peanut-butter cups deep in the bowl and hand out the Smarties and Sweet Tarts first.
Ahhh. Candy. Then, The Duece, true to her type-A nature, began to sort through the candy and separate it:
She left for a bathroom break, mid-sort.
Turning the whole thing into a scientific experiment, we counted each pile. Our hypothesis was that there'd be equal amounts of each kind of candy. However, we were wrong:
And to compare the varieties graphically:
Trick-or-treating is when?!?!
I'm kind of freaking out. I just found out I have three days until Halloween trick or treating. I know! Halloween's nine days away.
Not sure what brainiac decided we should hold trick or treating on Sunday, Oct. 26, but they did and I'm totally unprepared.
I always wait until the weekend before to get the kids' costumes. Not because of the sales or because I'm disorganized. It's because the kids flip flop on what they want to be more than a presidential candidate in October.
Just the other day, The Deuce changed her mind. The Hannah Montana costume is out and she wants to go as a hippie.
"What's a hippie?" I asked, playing dumb.
"A person who's all, like 'peace out' and protests the Vanim War."
"The Vietnam War?"
"Yeah. That one. But they protest all wars."
Ugh.
I'm a little concerned that the neighbors won't be prepared for trick-or-treating either. I mean it's a whole damn week earlier than one would expect. Who knows what people could hand out when taken by surprise. Heck, if a gaggle of trick-or-treaters showed up on my doorstep at this moment, I'd have only about five 100-calorie packs of cookies to give them, and then I'd be handing out cans of soup. (Need to go to the grocery store.)
True story:
Once we surprised one of our grandmas and trick-or-treated her house just as the official trick-or-treating time had ended. (She lives across town so she was surprised to see us.)
Well, she'd be overrun with kids that year, so when we got to her house, she had been cleaned out of all candy already. Well, she couldn't let her beloved grand babies leave empty handed, so she sliced up some coffee cake, wrapped it in foil, and dropped it in the kids' treat bags.
How awesome is that? It was the best goodie in the bag.
Well, I'll figure something out costumewise. I'm resourceful like that. I still am hoping to do something clever, but without the luxury of time, we may just do our old standbys.
I'll let you know.
Not sure what brainiac decided we should hold trick or treating on Sunday, Oct. 26, but they did and I'm totally unprepared.
I always wait until the weekend before to get the kids' costumes. Not because of the sales or because I'm disorganized. It's because the kids flip flop on what they want to be more than a presidential candidate in October.
Just the other day, The Deuce changed her mind. The Hannah Montana costume is out and she wants to go as a hippie.
"What's a hippie?" I asked, playing dumb.
"A person who's all, like 'peace out' and protests the Vanim War."
"The Vietnam War?"
"Yeah. That one. But they protest all wars."
Ugh.
I'm a little concerned that the neighbors won't be prepared for trick-or-treating either. I mean it's a whole damn week earlier than one would expect. Who knows what people could hand out when taken by surprise. Heck, if a gaggle of trick-or-treaters showed up on my doorstep at this moment, I'd have only about five 100-calorie packs of cookies to give them, and then I'd be handing out cans of soup. (Need to go to the grocery store.)
True story:
Once we surprised one of our grandmas and trick-or-treated her house just as the official trick-or-treating time had ended. (She lives across town so she was surprised to see us.)
Well, she'd be overrun with kids that year, so when we got to her house, she had been cleaned out of all candy already. Well, she couldn't let her beloved grand babies leave empty handed, so she sliced up some coffee cake, wrapped it in foil, and dropped it in the kids' treat bags.
How awesome is that? It was the best goodie in the bag.
Well, I'll figure something out costumewise. I'm resourceful like that. I still am hoping to do something clever, but without the luxury of time, we may just do our old standbys.
I'll let you know.
Explaining Elvis.
Okay, file this under Weirdest Conversations Ever...
The other night at dinner, I served banana slices with peanut butter. As the kids licked their chops about to devour the treat, I innocently told them that Elvis used to eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I honestly doubted they even knew who Elvis was.
Then The Deuce announces:
"Elvis Presley died of a heat attack while sitting on the toilet."
Huh?! Apparently a fifth grader told her so on the playground.
Seizing the opportunity for an educational lesson, I explained the Elvis once was a very popular singer. The kids loved him. Cute girls wanted to dance with him and boys dressed like him because they thought he was cool. To put Elvis into terms they could understand, I compared him to Zac Efron or one of the Jonas Brothers. Then I explained how Elvis got mixed up with drugs. He turned from a healthy, popular guy into a heavy, out of shape addict who had his heart give out.
It worked. The girls started talking about what they'd do if someone offered them drugs ("I'd say, 'NO WAY!'") and how they thought the people that gave Elvis drugs were probably just after Elvis's money. In the end, I was pleased with how the dinner-table talk concluded.
A few hours later, I took the girls to the library. Wanting to pick out a book of my own, I looked through the biography section. The Deuce found me, looking at the titles. I told her I was stumped by what to select.
She then saw a biography on Elvis.
"You could get this," she said, handing me the book. "Oh wait. No." she said taking the book out of my hand.
She put it back on the shelf. "We all know how it ends."
The other night at dinner, I served banana slices with peanut butter. As the kids licked their chops about to devour the treat, I innocently told them that Elvis used to eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I honestly doubted they even knew who Elvis was.
Then The Deuce announces:
"Elvis Presley died of a heat attack while sitting on the toilet."
Huh?! Apparently a fifth grader told her so on the playground.
Seizing the opportunity for an educational lesson, I explained the Elvis once was a very popular singer. The kids loved him. Cute girls wanted to dance with him and boys dressed like him because they thought he was cool. To put Elvis into terms they could understand, I compared him to Zac Efron or one of the Jonas Brothers. Then I explained how Elvis got mixed up with drugs. He turned from a healthy, popular guy into a heavy, out of shape addict who had his heart give out.
It worked. The girls started talking about what they'd do if someone offered them drugs ("I'd say, 'NO WAY!'") and how they thought the people that gave Elvis drugs were probably just after Elvis's money. In the end, I was pleased with how the dinner-table talk concluded.
A few hours later, I took the girls to the library. Wanting to pick out a book of my own, I looked through the biography section. The Deuce found me, looking at the titles. I told her I was stumped by what to select.
She then saw a biography on Elvis.
"You could get this," she said, handing me the book. "Oh wait. No." she said taking the book out of my hand.
She put it back on the shelf. "We all know how it ends."
Tool belt love.
I try hard to not draw comparisons between Mark and my ex, but in this case, I just can't help it.
My ex is not a handy guy. He had a toolbox and a drill, but they only saw the light of day when I used them. He had no knowledge of how to fix things and he had no ambition to learn. And if something broke, he suggested we call someone to fix it.
In his defense, the guy had no role model in this regard. His dad wasn't a handy guy, so it's no surprise than neither of his brothers are either. Instead, his dad was the ultimate televised sports guy. He passed on a passion for college football and PGA programming that is unparalleled. And sadly for me, this is not a skill/interest that I find all that useful.
I, on the other hand, grew up with a dad who is quite mechanically inclined. A carpenter by trade, my dad let me watch him work and he often let me help. Because of him, I gained the confidence to try my hand at a variety of home improvement projects. And I'm proud to say that I installed a flood light once without electrocuting myself. Never mind the fact that I have to say, righty-tighty, lefty-loosey while I work.
Like my dad, Mark has an interest in, and a knack for fixing things. He's got the perfect combination of skill, patience and ingenuity. There've been quite a few times when I've stood by in awe as he's gone from task to task, repairing a bathroom fan, fixing a leaky sink and just yesterday, snaking a drain. And I've got to confess...
It's pretty hot.
Seriously, I find a handy guy in a tool belt to be a bigger turn-on than all the wine and roses in the world.
And I think what seals it for me is how he works. Mark's calm and steady. I've never seen him get pissed or throw a fit if something didn't work right. When something doesn't go to plan, he gets more focused. He uses his brain and his brawn - a skill that many young tradesmen take years to master.
So, moving day when we opened his door garage to reveal loads and loads of tools, there were some groans. His garage was full of big-ass toolboxes, saw horses and power tools. There was a lot to move and it was awkward and heavy to maneuver.
Did I complain? Hell no. Seeing that garage full of tools was probably the biggest turn-on I've had in years.
My ex is not a handy guy. He had a toolbox and a drill, but they only saw the light of day when I used them. He had no knowledge of how to fix things and he had no ambition to learn. And if something broke, he suggested we call someone to fix it.
In his defense, the guy had no role model in this regard. His dad wasn't a handy guy, so it's no surprise than neither of his brothers are either. Instead, his dad was the ultimate televised sports guy. He passed on a passion for college football and PGA programming that is unparalleled. And sadly for me, this is not a skill/interest that I find all that useful.
I, on the other hand, grew up with a dad who is quite mechanically inclined. A carpenter by trade, my dad let me watch him work and he often let me help. Because of him, I gained the confidence to try my hand at a variety of home improvement projects. And I'm proud to say that I installed a flood light once without electrocuting myself. Never mind the fact that I have to say, righty-tighty, lefty-loosey while I work.
Like my dad, Mark has an interest in, and a knack for fixing things. He's got the perfect combination of skill, patience and ingenuity. There've been quite a few times when I've stood by in awe as he's gone from task to task, repairing a bathroom fan, fixing a leaky sink and just yesterday, snaking a drain. And I've got to confess...
It's pretty hot.
Seriously, I find a handy guy in a tool belt to be a bigger turn-on than all the wine and roses in the world.
And I think what seals it for me is how he works. Mark's calm and steady. I've never seen him get pissed or throw a fit if something didn't work right. When something doesn't go to plan, he gets more focused. He uses his brain and his brawn - a skill that many young tradesmen take years to master.
So, moving day when we opened his door garage to reveal loads and loads of tools, there were some groans. His garage was full of big-ass toolboxes, saw horses and power tools. There was a lot to move and it was awkward and heavy to maneuver.
Did I complain? Hell no. Seeing that garage full of tools was probably the biggest turn-on I've had in years.
Weekend in review.
My house is full. Full to the brim. I don't think we can squeeze another thing in here, not without a pry bar at least.
The move went swimmingly. Thanks to amazing help, we were done before 2 p.m. There were no injuries, losses or fatalities. And thanks to my brother-in-law's forearm forklifts, even the heavy stuff was a snap.
Unpacking isn't going too badly either. If you don't go into the garage or basement, it barely looks like anything significant changed.
Oh, wait. That's not true. I'm now the envy of my neighborhood with the biggest effing TV in the world parked right here in my living room. It should be measured in feet, not inches. When Mad Dog saw it, she immediately asked if we could hook up her Lego Star Wars game so she could play it in style.
Speaking of Mad Dog, she's doing great. Her recovery has been speedy quick. I believe she even ate a fistful of Pringles at Grandma's on Saturday.
The move went swimmingly. Thanks to amazing help, we were done before 2 p.m. There were no injuries, losses or fatalities. And thanks to my brother-in-law's forearm forklifts, even the heavy stuff was a snap.
Unpacking isn't going too badly either. If you don't go into the garage or basement, it barely looks like anything significant changed.
Oh, wait. That's not true. I'm now the envy of my neighborhood with the biggest effing TV in the world parked right here in my living room. It should be measured in feet, not inches. When Mad Dog saw it, she immediately asked if we could hook up her Lego Star Wars game so she could play it in style.
Speaking of Mad Dog, she's doing great. Her recovery has been speedy quick. I believe she even ate a fistful of Pringles at Grandma's on Saturday.
Man in the house.
This morning when I woke up, I stumbled downstairs, poured a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. It came on to the last channel that was on last night:
ESPN.
It's been a long time.
ESPN.
It's been a long time.
A three-tooth extraction = one, guilty Tooth Fairy.
The most painful thing Mad Dog has ever undergone is having her ears pierced. That is, until now.
Yesterday, Mad Dog had to have three teeth extracted. The poor kid. She's only 8 and had to undergo a procedure similar to having her wisdom teeth out. She had a mesioden, or an extra tooth above one of her two front teeth. We were told it's fairly common.
Well, the kid was a trooper. Marched into the office, plopped in the chair and announced to the staff,
"I hear you get more money from the Tooth Fairy for teeth that get pulled out."
Ten minutes later, she was stitched up and sent on her way with a little envelope full of her teeth.
Yes, it was me who told her those teeth would bring in more than the others. I said it out of guilt that somehow, through my genetics, I'm responsible for that weird extra tooth. Her dad has perfect teeth, but I did the whole retainer-braces thing. So, it was my fault.
So, what's a pulled tooth worth? $5? A new toy? A pony? The thought of my baby being subjected to such pain was unbearable.
The Deuce was the first kid in the house to lose a tooth. It was last year, when she was in 2nd grade. When she first reported her wiggly, loose tooth, I had a few days notice to survey my friends and co-workers to learn what's the going rate on baby teeth. Their answers varied, but in the end I settled on a dollar, delivered as four, shiny quarters.
In addition to the coins, I wrote a letter from the Tooth Fairy herself, using a purple pen and as fancy, flowery-looking lettering as possible.
Yesterday, Mad Dog had to have three teeth extracted. The poor kid. She's only 8 and had to undergo a procedure similar to having her wisdom teeth out. She had a mesioden, or an extra tooth above one of her two front teeth. We were told it's fairly common.
Well, the kid was a trooper. Marched into the office, plopped in the chair and announced to the staff,
"I hear you get more money from the Tooth Fairy for teeth that get pulled out."
Ten minutes later, she was stitched up and sent on her way with a little envelope full of her teeth.
Yes, it was me who told her those teeth would bring in more than the others. I said it out of guilt that somehow, through my genetics, I'm responsible for that weird extra tooth. Her dad has perfect teeth, but I did the whole retainer-braces thing. So, it was my fault.
So, what's a pulled tooth worth? $5? A new toy? A pony? The thought of my baby being subjected to such pain was unbearable.
The Deuce was the first kid in the house to lose a tooth. It was last year, when she was in 2nd grade. When she first reported her wiggly, loose tooth, I had a few days notice to survey my friends and co-workers to learn what's the going rate on baby teeth. Their answers varied, but in the end I settled on a dollar, delivered as four, shiny quarters.
In addition to the coins, I wrote a letter from the Tooth Fairy herself, using a purple pen and as fancy, flowery-looking lettering as possible.
Dear Deuce,
Great job! Your tooth looks great. I can tell that you did a great job brushing your teeth because the tooth is so white and shiny. This tooth will make a great addition to my collection.
With love,
The Tooth Fairy
When The Deuce woke up, she reached under her pillow and found the letter with the quarters taped to the front.
"WOW!" she exclaimed. "Four quarters!"
Mad Dog looked over her shoulder at the letter and shrugged.
"My friend, Riley, said the Tooth Fairy brought her 5 bucks and a Barbie."
Not deterred, The Deuce responded,
"Yeah, but this is 4 quarters. That's 100 cents!"
I guess it's all a matter of perspective.
In the end, the Tooth Fairy brought Mad Dog a crisp $5 bill. I decided there was no need to overdo it after watching her beat the snot out of Crowbar in a wrestling match just before bed. She was hopped up on Motrin and was bouncing off the walls.
Kids are resilient. They're much tougher than we grown-ups are. It's like the old black and white TV show where the Ward Cleaver-looking dad takes his son over his knee to deliver a spanking. He says, "Son, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you."
So true.
The Clash of the Grandparents.
Before having kids, I knew my parents would make good grandparents, but I honestly had no idea how amazing they'd be. I mean, I knew they'd love my kids, but I simply wasn't prepared for just how much.
My kids are blessed to have a whole lotta grandparents. My family is big through multiple marriages and divorces, so my kids have 4 grandmas and 3 grandpas, not even counting Mark's parents, who will join the family next June.
Frankly, we've got more grandparents than you can shake a stick at. And the kids and I LOVE it.
One of the things I was the least prepared for as my parents evolved into grandparents, is how lenient they've become. They were, back in the day, extremely strict parents. We kids didn't get away with much. But now, they've turned into a bunch of cream puffs who like to play arm-chair quarterback to my parenting.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not mad or annoyed, I think this is all very amusing. I often hang up the phone and wonder where my real parents are and what these coddling grannies and poppies did with them.
I can still remember the first time my parents saw me give The Deuce, who was about three at the time, a timeout. We were at their house for dinner when she refused to eat. After failing to coax her into eating, I set her in a timeout until she could come back to the table and eat properly.
Her wails from the back corner in the next room were very upsetting to my parents. My dad got up and started pacing. My mom covered her ears in agony. The entire timeout was less than three minutes, but I know it felt like an eternity to them. When the timer went off, before I could make it into the other room, my dad, brushed past me and whisked The Deuce up and out of the corner.
"Okay, honey," he said. "Let's go back and eat before your Mom gets mad again."
Humph. Mad? I'd barely raised my voice.
Driving home, all I could think about was how, as a kid at the dinnertime, my dad would slam his hand down on the table and command us to obey.
"I SAID...EAT!" he'd yell and then... SLAM! The silverware would jump and we'd be scared out out of our skins. And if we didn't clear out plates right then and there, the next stop was to my parents room for a "whippun."
Funny how grandparents forget those things.
Even though my parents are softies and sometimes disagree with my "strict" parenting approach, they're careful to never undermine my authority in front of the kids, which I appreciate very much. They are quiet observers who take what they've seen at my house, home to analyze from their lazy-boys. Then, a few days later, I'll get a phone call, gently asking how so-and-so is, "you know after getting in trouble the other day."
It happened again just recently:
At my house, I have a box that's designated for library books. To keep books from getting lost, and fines from piling up, if a kid's not reading a book, it better be in the box. That way, come library day, we're not scrambling around, trying to locate all the books. It's a pretty good system.
Well, last winter, Mad Dog bucked the system. I found two library books wedged in the wrung of the top bunk. She'd put them there so she could pull out a book and read before bed. I'll admit, it was clever, but I was concerned the books would get lost. After considerable pleading and promising, I grudgingly allowed her to keep the books there. Mistake. We both forgot about them and the books got lost.
The whole summer went by before we found them again. The library fine was over $20. To teach a lesson, I had Mad Dog contribute $5 of her allowance to the fine. She handed over the cash without complaining. She didn't argue, cry or bargain. She simply apologized and promised to take better care of her books.
Proud of this successful parenting tale, I shared the story with my parents. They quietly listened, nodding their heads as I spoke. But, several weeks later, they called me up one night to admonish me for being too strict. They thought it was unfair to make Mad Dog pay and felt the need to point out that I'm "not the most organized person in the world either, you know."
Trying hard to not get defensive, I thanked them for sharing their concerns and reminded them of some of the finer points of the story: Mad Dog promising she wouldn't lose the book. The fact that she only paid a small fraction of the fine -- that I didn't have her on some work-release plan to pay off the whole $20. And that I've come a long way in my organizational skills. I gave them a refresher on the library book box system.
In the end, they recanted. They praised me for being a good mom and confessed to "turning into a bunch of softies." But I'm certain that after they hung up, they still shook their heads and pitied the kids for having such a mean mom.
Oh well, I guess it's their rite.
Looking back on my childhood and listening to my friends talk about theirs, my parents' generation was, collectively extremely strict. I know I wasn't the only one who feared my dad's belt or mom's yardstick. Getting smacked for misbehaving was the norm. It was no big deal to see a parent belt their kid in supermarket. But now, parents just don't do that as much. We discipline though a series of rewards and takeaways.
Funny how even though there's less corporal punishment in my house, my parents think I'm stricter than they were.
During their first visit after the great library-book debate, I saw my dad slip Mad Dog a dollar. Watching the sly exchange, I couldn't help but think how, as a kid, I would've gladly handed over my whole allowance to avoid one of those whippuns.
Oh well. Someday it'll be my turn to be the softie.
My kids are blessed to have a whole lotta grandparents. My family is big through multiple marriages and divorces, so my kids have 4 grandmas and 3 grandpas, not even counting Mark's parents, who will join the family next June.
Frankly, we've got more grandparents than you can shake a stick at. And the kids and I LOVE it.
One of the things I was the least prepared for as my parents evolved into grandparents, is how lenient they've become. They were, back in the day, extremely strict parents. We kids didn't get away with much. But now, they've turned into a bunch of cream puffs who like to play arm-chair quarterback to my parenting.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not mad or annoyed, I think this is all very amusing. I often hang up the phone and wonder where my real parents are and what these coddling grannies and poppies did with them.
I can still remember the first time my parents saw me give The Deuce, who was about three at the time, a timeout. We were at their house for dinner when she refused to eat. After failing to coax her into eating, I set her in a timeout until she could come back to the table and eat properly.
Her wails from the back corner in the next room were very upsetting to my parents. My dad got up and started pacing. My mom covered her ears in agony. The entire timeout was less than three minutes, but I know it felt like an eternity to them. When the timer went off, before I could make it into the other room, my dad, brushed past me and whisked The Deuce up and out of the corner.
"Okay, honey," he said. "Let's go back and eat before your Mom gets mad again."
Humph. Mad? I'd barely raised my voice.
Driving home, all I could think about was how, as a kid at the dinnertime, my dad would slam his hand down on the table and command us to obey.
"I SAID...EAT!" he'd yell and then... SLAM! The silverware would jump and we'd be scared out out of our skins. And if we didn't clear out plates right then and there, the next stop was to my parents room for a "whippun."
Funny how grandparents forget those things.
Even though my parents are softies and sometimes disagree with my "strict" parenting approach, they're careful to never undermine my authority in front of the kids, which I appreciate very much. They are quiet observers who take what they've seen at my house, home to analyze from their lazy-boys. Then, a few days later, I'll get a phone call, gently asking how so-and-so is, "you know after getting in trouble the other day."
It happened again just recently:
At my house, I have a box that's designated for library books. To keep books from getting lost, and fines from piling up, if a kid's not reading a book, it better be in the box. That way, come library day, we're not scrambling around, trying to locate all the books. It's a pretty good system.
Well, last winter, Mad Dog bucked the system. I found two library books wedged in the wrung of the top bunk. She'd put them there so she could pull out a book and read before bed. I'll admit, it was clever, but I was concerned the books would get lost. After considerable pleading and promising, I grudgingly allowed her to keep the books there. Mistake. We both forgot about them and the books got lost.
The whole summer went by before we found them again. The library fine was over $20. To teach a lesson, I had Mad Dog contribute $5 of her allowance to the fine. She handed over the cash without complaining. She didn't argue, cry or bargain. She simply apologized and promised to take better care of her books.
Proud of this successful parenting tale, I shared the story with my parents. They quietly listened, nodding their heads as I spoke. But, several weeks later, they called me up one night to admonish me for being too strict. They thought it was unfair to make Mad Dog pay and felt the need to point out that I'm "not the most organized person in the world either, you know."
Trying hard to not get defensive, I thanked them for sharing their concerns and reminded them of some of the finer points of the story: Mad Dog promising she wouldn't lose the book. The fact that she only paid a small fraction of the fine -- that I didn't have her on some work-release plan to pay off the whole $20. And that I've come a long way in my organizational skills. I gave them a refresher on the library book box system.
In the end, they recanted. They praised me for being a good mom and confessed to "turning into a bunch of softies." But I'm certain that after they hung up, they still shook their heads and pitied the kids for having such a mean mom.
Oh well, I guess it's their rite.
Looking back on my childhood and listening to my friends talk about theirs, my parents' generation was, collectively extremely strict. I know I wasn't the only one who feared my dad's belt or mom's yardstick. Getting smacked for misbehaving was the norm. It was no big deal to see a parent belt their kid in supermarket. But now, parents just don't do that as much. We discipline though a series of rewards and takeaways.
Funny how even though there's less corporal punishment in my house, my parents think I'm stricter than they were.
During their first visit after the great library-book debate, I saw my dad slip Mad Dog a dollar. Watching the sly exchange, I couldn't help but think how, as a kid, I would've gladly handed over my whole allowance to avoid one of those whippuns.
Oh well. Someday it'll be my turn to be the softie.
Single parenting: The greatest show on earth.
While I'm simply over the moon about Mark moving in, I have a little something to confess:
Part of me is going to miss being a single mom.
Okay, I know that sounds like an insane thing to say, and it is. I know it is. But I'm proud to say I'm raising my kids on my own.
I like hearing the surprise in peoples' voices when they learn I work full time and care for three kids by myself. That kind of praise and admiration really feels good. It's like life-saving oxygen when you're parenting alone, in a vacuum. And I'm going to miss that.
I'll admit I wasn't always proud of this status. In fact, I used to be quite embarrassed and sad about it. I used to stand in the back at school functions, the only single parent in the 2nd grade. I hated telling teachers I needed two district calendars, one for each household. And, after a tough day spent disciplining the kids on a naughty streak, I used to sneak into their rooms while they slept and apologize that they were stuck with only me to yell at them.
But, after time, as I got into the groove, my confidence grew and so did my pride.
Being a single mom means you don't have to make many apologies. Single-momdom gives you a special pass. It's okay to show up late to family functions. It's okay to pay the phone bill a week after it's due. The key to surviving (and thriving) as a single mom is to NOT beat yourself up for every little mistake.
It's okay to drop a ball every once in a while when you're the only clown in the ring -- and I'm going to miss that too.
Yep, this is going to be quite a change. Mark is leaving his single-guy apartment and joining the circus. For three years, I've been head ring master, which is tougher than any of the circus acts combined. But now, it's time to share the spotlight. To hand over the mic. To step aside and let someone else run the show for a bit.
Hell, we oughta sell tickets.
Part of me is going to miss being a single mom.
Okay, I know that sounds like an insane thing to say, and it is. I know it is. But I'm proud to say I'm raising my kids on my own.
I like hearing the surprise in peoples' voices when they learn I work full time and care for three kids by myself. That kind of praise and admiration really feels good. It's like life-saving oxygen when you're parenting alone, in a vacuum. And I'm going to miss that.
I'll admit I wasn't always proud of this status. In fact, I used to be quite embarrassed and sad about it. I used to stand in the back at school functions, the only single parent in the 2nd grade. I hated telling teachers I needed two district calendars, one for each household. And, after a tough day spent disciplining the kids on a naughty streak, I used to sneak into their rooms while they slept and apologize that they were stuck with only me to yell at them.
But, after time, as I got into the groove, my confidence grew and so did my pride.
Being a single mom means you don't have to make many apologies. Single-momdom gives you a special pass. It's okay to show up late to family functions. It's okay to pay the phone bill a week after it's due. The key to surviving (and thriving) as a single mom is to NOT beat yourself up for every little mistake.
It's okay to drop a ball every once in a while when you're the only clown in the ring -- and I'm going to miss that too.
Yep, this is going to be quite a change. Mark is leaving his single-guy apartment and joining the circus. For three years, I've been head ring master, which is tougher than any of the circus acts combined. But now, it's time to share the spotlight. To hand over the mic. To step aside and let someone else run the show for a bit.
Hell, we oughta sell tickets.
Meet Bandit.
Wouldn't this dog...
...eat out of proper dishes...
...and wear pretty dresses.
...look great in this purse?
I think so too.
The dog in the top picture is Bandit, my new soon-to-be step dog. She's Mark's cute-as-a-button Pomeranian-Poodle mix (oh yeah, a pomapoo!!) and the kids and I can't get enough of her.
Bandit, don't you worry. You're coming to live in a woman's home. You'll finally be able to live the life you've always wanted. You'll soon be able to nestle down in a proper bed...
...eat out of proper dishes...
...and wear pretty dresses.
Yeah, I'm pretty psyched too. Five more days to go!!
Cleaning out the past to make way for the future.
Three years ago, on a crisp fall day, my husband left me.
He abruptly left me to care for our kids (Mad Dog and The Deuce were 5 years and Crowbar was 5 months old), brand new house and the family dog. He didn't explain why, other than saying he just wasn't happy.
I thought my life had ended that day. It was Oct. 20, 2005.
The first year and a half that followed was full of ups and downs, with some of the downs being pretty low. Looking back, I see now that I was living in survival mode. But I drew strength from my dear friends and family and managed to survive. My sole goal during that time was to create a new, stable normal family arrangement for the kids.
My life took a complete 180. I moved. I changed jobs. And I put anger and pain aside, and reached out to my ex, all in the name of positive co-parenting.
While the first part was spent regrouping and rebuilding, the next year and a half was spent enjoying our new normal. I worked hard to create fun, new traditions that would be wonderful memories for the kids. And, I focused on making me a stronger, better, happier person. I worked off baby weight, started dating and began going to church.
It was during that time that I met Mark.
Now, on three-year anniversary of that awful weekend, my life is beginning a new, exciting chapter: Mark is moving in. I couldn't be more excited. There are a zillion reasons why I love Mark. He is caring and kind. Funny and wise. Capable, confident and true to his word. And when he proposed, he told me that he loved me and the kids with all of his heart.
Mark will move in on Oct. 18, 2008.
So, as I've been clearing the way for Mark to move in, I've come across lots of old, painful mementos of the fall of 2005. Most of it is paper. Documents from buying/selling houses, the divorce and notes too/from school guidance counselors, trying to help the kids through. I'd packed all this stuff into an old laundry basket and threw it in a closet because I couldn't bear to sort through it. But, in order to clear the way for Mark and his things, I pulled it out and began to sort through.
Buried within all of the painful memories, were a number of wonderful items: Crowbar's footprints from the hospital and his certificate of baptism. Pictures from the twins' first day of kindergarten. And quite a few cards of love and support from friends and family.
As I sorted through, I cried and cried. Some of my tears were sad, but most were emotional tears, impressed with how everyone rallied around me and the kids.
Jody - I found the card you sent me. You told me to put my trust in God, that He'd see me through. You were right. He did. I never brought myself to cash that check. It was just too much, especially as you were dealing with your own challenges. But I appreciate the gesture so very much.
Chris - I found several notes you sent, including the one for the spa treatment. I still can't believe you drove 150 miles, round trip, to put frozen, home-cooked meals on my doorstep. I don't know how I deserve such a dedicated friend.
Jeannine and EJ - You opened your home and watched Crowbar for me. Having an infant and rambunctious preschooler of your own, you're both saints for taking on another baby all day. Thank you.
Grandma Judy - I found pictures of Gus and remember how you made the 70-mile trip late one night to come and take the dog off my hands for me. You took him in and cared for him for about two years. I can't thank you enough.
Mom, Dad, Addie - Without your love and financial support, I'm afraid to think of where the kids and I could've wound up. You took us in, you opened your homes, you helped me parent. Someday I will pay you all back, I promise.
Brothers and Sisters - Countless phone calls. Countless moves. I wonder how people that are only children get through life's challenges. One of the most important things you did for me, was help me keep a sense of humor through the whole ordeal. Thank you.
It felt good to sort through the basket. Cathartic. I cleared the way for an exciting future and finally dealt with the past.
A lot of the paperwork is sensitive information, an identity thief's dream. Instead of sitting at my tiny office shredder, for the next 2 weeks, I've decided to ceremoniously burn it all.
I'm going to buy a package of marshmallows for the kids and a bottle of champagne for Mark and me and we're going to have a big bonfire. The kids will raise their gooey, toasty marshmallows and we'll raise our champagne flutes.
We'll toast to surviving the past and we'll toast to welcoming the future.
He abruptly left me to care for our kids (Mad Dog and The Deuce were 5 years and Crowbar was 5 months old), brand new house and the family dog. He didn't explain why, other than saying he just wasn't happy.
I thought my life had ended that day. It was Oct. 20, 2005.
The first year and a half that followed was full of ups and downs, with some of the downs being pretty low. Looking back, I see now that I was living in survival mode. But I drew strength from my dear friends and family and managed to survive. My sole goal during that time was to create a new, stable normal family arrangement for the kids.
My life took a complete 180. I moved. I changed jobs. And I put anger and pain aside, and reached out to my ex, all in the name of positive co-parenting.
While the first part was spent regrouping and rebuilding, the next year and a half was spent enjoying our new normal. I worked hard to create fun, new traditions that would be wonderful memories for the kids. And, I focused on making me a stronger, better, happier person. I worked off baby weight, started dating and began going to church.
It was during that time that I met Mark.
Now, on three-year anniversary of that awful weekend, my life is beginning a new, exciting chapter: Mark is moving in. I couldn't be more excited. There are a zillion reasons why I love Mark. He is caring and kind. Funny and wise. Capable, confident and true to his word. And when he proposed, he told me that he loved me and the kids with all of his heart.
Mark will move in on Oct. 18, 2008.
So, as I've been clearing the way for Mark to move in, I've come across lots of old, painful mementos of the fall of 2005. Most of it is paper. Documents from buying/selling houses, the divorce and notes too/from school guidance counselors, trying to help the kids through. I'd packed all this stuff into an old laundry basket and threw it in a closet because I couldn't bear to sort through it. But, in order to clear the way for Mark and his things, I pulled it out and began to sort through.
Buried within all of the painful memories, were a number of wonderful items: Crowbar's footprints from the hospital and his certificate of baptism. Pictures from the twins' first day of kindergarten. And quite a few cards of love and support from friends and family.
As I sorted through, I cried and cried. Some of my tears were sad, but most were emotional tears, impressed with how everyone rallied around me and the kids.
Jody - I found the card you sent me. You told me to put my trust in God, that He'd see me through. You were right. He did. I never brought myself to cash that check. It was just too much, especially as you were dealing with your own challenges. But I appreciate the gesture so very much.
Chris - I found several notes you sent, including the one for the spa treatment. I still can't believe you drove 150 miles, round trip, to put frozen, home-cooked meals on my doorstep. I don't know how I deserve such a dedicated friend.
Jeannine and EJ - You opened your home and watched Crowbar for me. Having an infant and rambunctious preschooler of your own, you're both saints for taking on another baby all day. Thank you.
Grandma Judy - I found pictures of Gus and remember how you made the 70-mile trip late one night to come and take the dog off my hands for me. You took him in and cared for him for about two years. I can't thank you enough.
Mom, Dad, Addie - Without your love and financial support, I'm afraid to think of where the kids and I could've wound up. You took us in, you opened your homes, you helped me parent. Someday I will pay you all back, I promise.
Brothers and Sisters - Countless phone calls. Countless moves. I wonder how people that are only children get through life's challenges. One of the most important things you did for me, was help me keep a sense of humor through the whole ordeal. Thank you.
It felt good to sort through the basket. Cathartic. I cleared the way for an exciting future and finally dealt with the past.
A lot of the paperwork is sensitive information, an identity thief's dream. Instead of sitting at my tiny office shredder, for the next 2 weeks, I've decided to ceremoniously burn it all.
I'm going to buy a package of marshmallows for the kids and a bottle of champagne for Mark and me and we're going to have a big bonfire. The kids will raise their gooey, toasty marshmallows and we'll raise our champagne flutes.
We'll toast to surviving the past and we'll toast to welcoming the future.
Campaign promises, third-grade style
The twins are each running for student council at school. They're in different classes, so they're not running against each other (phew!) and are running only against their classmates.
They each had to write a campaign speech and design a promotional poster. I didn't influence their speeches at all and let them say exactly what they felt a student council member should do/say.
I have no doubt that some of the political ads have influenced these speeches. So, for your entertainment, here are their speakers' notes. I've kept their original spelling, for your added enjoyment and to up the cute factor.
Mad Dog's speech:
But unlike the presidential contenders, there wasn't a speck of mud slinging, which pleases me to no end. I'm happy that my girls are at least running clean campaigns.
They each had to write a campaign speech and design a promotional poster. I didn't influence their speeches at all and let them say exactly what they felt a student council member should do/say.
I have no doubt that some of the political ads have influenced these speeches. So, for your entertainment, here are their speakers' notes. I've kept their original spelling, for your added enjoyment and to up the cute factor.
Mad Dog's speech:
If you vote for me, you'l be free. that mene's no more secrit's and no more notes from me. So vote for me! And you can trust me.Here's The Deuce's:
My Speach for Student CouncelLike the presidential candidates, they steered clear of controversial topics and skirted tough issues. There was the typical campaign rhetoric - promising freedom and all - which to third graders means something entirely different than to adults.
if you vote for me your free! no more secrets! I will also make shure I will give you all the announcemets I'm supost to give you.
But unlike the presidential contenders, there wasn't a speck of mud slinging, which pleases me to no end. I'm happy that my girls are at least running clean campaigns.
23 days until Halloween, but who's counting?
I'm a pretty creative person. I come from a creative family and am lucky to be surrounded by many very creative people. So why can't I come up with any kick-ass ideas for my kids' Halloween costumes?
Ever since the kids have been old enough to trick or treat, I've let them pick their costumes. The girls have been every single Disney Princess and a series of frilly butterflies and fairies. Gag!
Those cutesy costumes are real yawners, until you get to see your kid, after walking 12, grueling blocks, hit their sugar high and then crash - HARD.
I can still see The Deuce at 5 years old, dressed as a ballerina totally melt down. Flailing on the ground, she was screaming,
"I CAN'T WALK ANYMORE! THESE SLIPPERS ARE KILLING ME!"
She was a pathetic sight -- and it made me laughed my ass off. Sure, she walked out the door all pink and cute, but she came home a tear-stained mess in crumpled crinoline.
Thankfully, Crowbar has at least taken me out of the pink aisle and into the exciting world of superheroes. While he's only trick or treated a handful of times, his favorite costumes were Spider man and Buzz Lightyear. He wore that Buzz costume everyday for over a week.
But by contrast, when he was two, the boy was afraid of his own lion costume. Even though it was soft and friendly looking, every time I'd pull it out of the closet, he'd totally lose it.
I know having a set of twins to work with on Halloween should make it super easy to do something clever and cool. But sadly, I've never been able to parlay their twinsness into anything that creative.
Tonight I thought I had a good one. They're both into Hannah Montana (a TV character who lives a double life: a normal kid by day and rock star by night), so I suggested one dress as Miley Cyrus (they regular girl) and the other as Hannah Montana (the rock star). I was so excited, but my suggestion was met with a lukewarm response. They both want to be the rock star. Neither wanted to be the normal girl. Drat.
I recently heard about an Asian dad who's going to dress his 4 year-old girl as an underage Chinese Olympic gymnast. Now that's clever.
I suppose, I've got a few weeks left. I've got time for some intensive R&D. And I have time to convince the kids to step outside their comfort zone and branch out a little.
Who knows. Maybe I can convince Crowbar to dress as an evil scientist and the girls can be his two-headed monster creation. It's quite a leap from anything sold under the Disney/Pixar brand, but I think we're all ready for a change.
Ever since the kids have been old enough to trick or treat, I've let them pick their costumes. The girls have been every single Disney Princess and a series of frilly butterflies and fairies. Gag!
Those cutesy costumes are real yawners, until you get to see your kid, after walking 12, grueling blocks, hit their sugar high and then crash - HARD.
I can still see The Deuce at 5 years old, dressed as a ballerina totally melt down. Flailing on the ground, she was screaming,
"I CAN'T WALK ANYMORE! THESE SLIPPERS ARE KILLING ME!"
She was a pathetic sight -- and it made me laughed my ass off. Sure, she walked out the door all pink and cute, but she came home a tear-stained mess in crumpled crinoline.
Thankfully, Crowbar has at least taken me out of the pink aisle and into the exciting world of superheroes. While he's only trick or treated a handful of times, his favorite costumes were Spider man and Buzz Lightyear. He wore that Buzz costume everyday for over a week.
But by contrast, when he was two, the boy was afraid of his own lion costume. Even though it was soft and friendly looking, every time I'd pull it out of the closet, he'd totally lose it.
I know having a set of twins to work with on Halloween should make it super easy to do something clever and cool. But sadly, I've never been able to parlay their twinsness into anything that creative.
Tonight I thought I had a good one. They're both into Hannah Montana (a TV character who lives a double life: a normal kid by day and rock star by night), so I suggested one dress as Miley Cyrus (they regular girl) and the other as Hannah Montana (the rock star). I was so excited, but my suggestion was met with a lukewarm response. They both want to be the rock star. Neither wanted to be the normal girl. Drat.
I recently heard about an Asian dad who's going to dress his 4 year-old girl as an underage Chinese Olympic gymnast. Now that's clever.
I suppose, I've got a few weeks left. I've got time for some intensive R&D. And I have time to convince the kids to step outside their comfort zone and branch out a little.
Who knows. Maybe I can convince Crowbar to dress as an evil scientist and the girls can be his two-headed monster creation. It's quite a leap from anything sold under the Disney/Pixar brand, but I think we're all ready for a change.
No, not like Footloose.
Okay, so I told a few co-workers that Mark and I aren't having a traditional wedding reception. We're not going to do the big hall with 175 guests, grazing on a buffet of sliced beef. And we're not planning on having a DJ play all the same, predictable songs. (That was my first wedding, by the way.)
Instead, this'll be more of an intimate family celebration.
Well somehow, the innocent disclosure of having no DJ has created a rumor that dancing is not allowed at our wedding.
Folks, this ain't Footloose.
If our guests want to dance, by all means, they can dance. There will be music, great music, but not a DJ spinning Mony, Mony or songs from the movie Grease.
Nah, Mark and I aren't against dancing. We're just not dancers. Neither of us are. And, upon reviewing the guest list, most of our guests aren't either.
Well, wait. To be fair, my step dad is one helluva dancer, especially to a good polka. And, also notable are my brother and sister-in-law. They're exceptional dancers. Just play Meatloaf's Paradise by the Dashboard Light and they're both up, out of their seats, putting on an impressive show. Talk about stamina!
But aside from them, I think very few, if any, would even miss a DJ.
I supposed Mark and I could go take dance lessons, but I fear they'd be wasted on me. I've got no sense of timing. I'm so bad, I've ruined countless aerobics classes because I can never find the beat. When I was in the spring musical in high school, my dance partner had to put in extra hours, trying to teach me just the most basic of steps.
"Jess," he said. "I'm afraid you will never be a Solid Gold dancer."
To this day, it stings.
(Give it about 35 seconds.)
...but sadly, we're not.
Our dancing is best done alone in my kitchen, not on a dance floor with a crowd of onlookers.
No, this no-dancing thing isn't planned to make a statement. It's more to allow Mark and me to save face. It's our special day. We shouldn't have to be subjected to such torture - and frankly, neither should our guests.
Instead, this'll be more of an intimate family celebration.
Well somehow, the innocent disclosure of having no DJ has created a rumor that dancing is not allowed at our wedding.
Folks, this ain't Footloose.
If our guests want to dance, by all means, they can dance. There will be music, great music, but not a DJ spinning Mony, Mony or songs from the movie Grease.
Nah, Mark and I aren't against dancing. We're just not dancers. Neither of us are. And, upon reviewing the guest list, most of our guests aren't either.
Well, wait. To be fair, my step dad is one helluva dancer, especially to a good polka. And, also notable are my brother and sister-in-law. They're exceptional dancers. Just play Meatloaf's Paradise by the Dashboard Light and they're both up, out of their seats, putting on an impressive show. Talk about stamina!
But aside from them, I think very few, if any, would even miss a DJ.
I supposed Mark and I could go take dance lessons, but I fear they'd be wasted on me. I've got no sense of timing. I'm so bad, I've ruined countless aerobics classes because I can never find the beat. When I was in the spring musical in high school, my dance partner had to put in extra hours, trying to teach me just the most basic of steps.
"Jess," he said. "I'm afraid you will never be a Solid Gold dancer."
To this day, it stings.
If Mark and I were talented dancers, we'd do something spectacular, like this:
(Give it about 35 seconds.)
...but sadly, we're not.
Our dancing is best done alone in my kitchen, not on a dance floor with a crowd of onlookers.
No, this no-dancing thing isn't planned to make a statement. It's more to allow Mark and me to save face. It's our special day. We shouldn't have to be subjected to such torture - and frankly, neither should our guests.
Easily amused.
One of the things I love most about my kids is how easily amused they are. I can turn almost any mundane thing into an adventure. Our trip to Sam's Club is just one example, but here's another.
Last week I took the kids to Arby's. We don't typically go there, but we were out running errands at dinnertime and this is where we landed. They've had Arby's before, but very infrequently and only ever via drive-thru or in the food court at the mall.
To the kids, Arby's is exotic. The seasoned curly fries are strange and wonderful. The roast beef is new and interesting and the Ring-the-bell-if-we-made-your-day Bell*, is a mind blower.
But the highlight of the trip was when The Deuce found a question mark in her curly fries. She showed us, the table next to us, and the store manager. You'd have thought she found the likeness of the Virgin Mary emblazoned on her sesame seed bun, the way she carried on.
"I've got to save it!" she proclaimed.
She carefully wrapped it in a napkin and carried it home so she could photograph it and preserve it forever.
Last week I took the kids to Arby's. We don't typically go there, but we were out running errands at dinnertime and this is where we landed. They've had Arby's before, but very infrequently and only ever via drive-thru or in the food court at the mall.
To the kids, Arby's is exotic. The seasoned curly fries are strange and wonderful. The roast beef is new and interesting and the Ring-the-bell-if-we-made-your-day Bell*, is a mind blower.
But the highlight of the trip was when The Deuce found a question mark in her curly fries. She showed us, the table next to us, and the store manager. You'd have thought she found the likeness of the Virgin Mary emblazoned on her sesame seed bun, the way she carried on.
"I've got to save it!" she proclaimed.
She carefully wrapped it in a napkin and carried it home so she could photograph it and preserve it forever.
Never mind the fact that it's backward. I'll work that out with her third-grade teacher during parent-teacher conferences, I'm sure.
Yep, it was an exciting day at our house. It's not every day you get the thrill of witnessing one of nature's finest anomalies.
Truth be told, after the photo shoot, when nobody was looking, I unceremoniously scooped it up in a Kleenex and threw it away.
*If you're not familiar, the next time you're at an Arby's look for a brass bell, mounted to the wall near the main door. There's a sign telling you to give it a ring if the staff/meal made your day. When you do (which we did), the staff all yell, "Thank you!" Give it a try. Even if the meal didn't exactly make your day, I guarantee ringing the bell will.
Seriously Skinny
Imagine my surprise when, after taping a video segment at work, I saw Jabba the Hutt on the screen instead of me. It was at that point I knew I needed to drop the ice cream bar and pick up an apple. The following documents my weight-loss journey.
I’m not making changes that are drastic or unsustainable. Instead, I’m making smaller lifestyle changes that I hope to be long lasting. So for that reason, I’m keeping my expectations realistic. My goal is 15 lbs. with a BMI of 22.
_______________________________
Monday, Nov. 17
152 pounds
+ 2 pounds.
To date, my weight loss venture has been disastrous. I just can’t get into the groove. First it was that my whole routine has been upset since the move and then it was a super busy work schedule, off site, meaning I ate out nearly every day, instead of taking my lunch.
Frankly, it’s a miracle I only gained the two pounds.
Despite good intentions, I didn’t use my new journaling process. I think it still has value – seeing every day of the week at once.
This week I commit to getting back with the program. I WILL journal and I WILL lose weight. I went to the grocery store yesterday and stocked up on healthy options so at least I’m armed with the right ammo.
~ ~ ~
Monday, Nov. 3
150 pounds
Back to starting weight.
Me, channeling Aerosmith: I’m baaaack. I’m baaack in the saddle again. I’m baaack.
Now that the dust has mostly settled since the move and all of us have settled into some semblance of normalcy (ha!), I’m ready to regroup and focus on my weight.
I have decided a new approach with my journaling. Instead of a little notebook that you see one day at a time, I’m using a spreadsheet that will allow me to see a whole week’s worth of entries at one time.
Reason is, I have a serious condition known as “diet amnesia.” If I eat something unhealthy early in the week, I’ve totally forgotten about it come Friday.
I was first alerted to my condition by a co-worker last week. I told him about a funny story at Qdoba at the mall across the street where when the clerk asked the couple in front of me if their orders were together or separate. The guy said, “together,” but the girl said, “separate,” and they got into a huge fight about who owed who money. It was pretty funny. But instead of laughing, he asked,
“Didn’t you have Qdoba on Monday?”
“Yeah. I like Qdoba.”
“That's why you’re not losing weight.”
Ouch. The truth hurts. I’d totally not even realized I’d made a huge diet faux pas by eating there twice in one week. I’d totally forgotten about the first trip.
Hopefully this new journal strategy will be my cure.
~ ~ ~
Monday, Oct. 27
151.5 pounds (+ 1.5)
Again, no change since last weigh-in.
I am the luckiest girl in the world. As you can tell, my whole new weight-loss program has been chucked to the wayside as things have been a wee bit hectic around here. I consider myself very fortunate to have not skyrocketed into the 160’s.
We’ve got only a week in since the move-in and are still all trying to find our new routines. I think once things settle down, I’ll be able to better focus.
~ ~ ~
Monday, Oct. 20
151.5 pounds (+ 1.5)
No change since last weigh-in.
It is by the grace of God that I didn’t gain any more this weekend. Moving day breakfast was 2 or 3 donuts (I dunno, I lost count), followed up by a general disregard for what entered my mouth next. I suppose successfully avoiding fast food all weekend probably helped though.
~ ~ ~
Friday, Oct. 17
151.5 pounds (+ 1.5)
I’m slowly whittling back down, but must confess, this week’s been so hectic with kids and move stuff that I haven’t even paid much attention to my weight. A few more changes I’ve made is to bring a lunch to work more, resisting the urge to escape over to the local mall too much for the food court. (It’s right across the street from my office.) I did go, but ordered a Subway sub without mayo, which was better than the gooey, cheesy alternatives over there.
~ ~ ~
Monday, Oct. 13
153.5 pounds (+ 3.5)
This is obviously not the direction I want to go. I blame this increase on an emotional weekend. The plan is to pick myself up, brush off, and work harder.
~ ~ ~
Saturday, Oct. 11
150.0 pounds (easy come, easy go)
I’m going to spare everyone this painful daily roller coaster and do my weigh ins twice a week: Mondays and Fridays. I figure I need the Monday reading to stay motivated through the week, and the Friday one as a boost through the weekend.
~ ~ ~
Friday, Oct. 10
148.0 pounds (-2)
After 5 days in, I'm down 2 pounds. Here's what I've been doing:
I’m not making changes that are drastic or unsustainable. Instead, I’m making smaller lifestyle changes that I hope to be long lasting. So for that reason, I’m keeping my expectations realistic. My goal is 15 lbs. with a BMI of 22.
_______________________________
Monday, Nov. 17
152 pounds
+ 2 pounds.
To date, my weight loss venture has been disastrous. I just can’t get into the groove. First it was that my whole routine has been upset since the move and then it was a super busy work schedule, off site, meaning I ate out nearly every day, instead of taking my lunch.
Frankly, it’s a miracle I only gained the two pounds.
Despite good intentions, I didn’t use my new journaling process. I think it still has value – seeing every day of the week at once.
This week I commit to getting back with the program. I WILL journal and I WILL lose weight. I went to the grocery store yesterday and stocked up on healthy options so at least I’m armed with the right ammo.
~ ~ ~
Monday, Nov. 3
150 pounds
Back to starting weight.
Me, channeling Aerosmith: I’m baaaack. I’m baaack in the saddle again. I’m baaack.
Now that the dust has mostly settled since the move and all of us have settled into some semblance of normalcy (ha!), I’m ready to regroup and focus on my weight.
I have decided a new approach with my journaling. Instead of a little notebook that you see one day at a time, I’m using a spreadsheet that will allow me to see a whole week’s worth of entries at one time.
Reason is, I have a serious condition known as “diet amnesia.” If I eat something unhealthy early in the week, I’ve totally forgotten about it come Friday.
I was first alerted to my condition by a co-worker last week. I told him about a funny story at Qdoba at the mall across the street where when the clerk asked the couple in front of me if their orders were together or separate. The guy said, “together,” but the girl said, “separate,” and they got into a huge fight about who owed who money. It was pretty funny. But instead of laughing, he asked,
“Didn’t you have Qdoba on Monday?”
“Yeah. I like Qdoba.”
“That's why you’re not losing weight.”
Ouch. The truth hurts. I’d totally not even realized I’d made a huge diet faux pas by eating there twice in one week. I’d totally forgotten about the first trip.
Hopefully this new journal strategy will be my cure.
~ ~ ~
Monday, Oct. 27
151.5 pounds (+ 1.5)
Again, no change since last weigh-in.
I am the luckiest girl in the world. As you can tell, my whole new weight-loss program has been chucked to the wayside as things have been a wee bit hectic around here. I consider myself very fortunate to have not skyrocketed into the 160’s.
We’ve got only a week in since the move-in and are still all trying to find our new routines. I think once things settle down, I’ll be able to better focus.
~ ~ ~
Monday, Oct. 20
151.5 pounds (+ 1.5)
No change since last weigh-in.
It is by the grace of God that I didn’t gain any more this weekend. Moving day breakfast was 2 or 3 donuts (I dunno, I lost count), followed up by a general disregard for what entered my mouth next. I suppose successfully avoiding fast food all weekend probably helped though.
~ ~ ~
Friday, Oct. 17
151.5 pounds (+ 1.5)
I’m slowly whittling back down, but must confess, this week’s been so hectic with kids and move stuff that I haven’t even paid much attention to my weight. A few more changes I’ve made is to bring a lunch to work more, resisting the urge to escape over to the local mall too much for the food court. (It’s right across the street from my office.) I did go, but ordered a Subway sub without mayo, which was better than the gooey, cheesy alternatives over there.
~ ~ ~
Monday, Oct. 13
153.5 pounds (+ 3.5)
This is obviously not the direction I want to go. I blame this increase on an emotional weekend. The plan is to pick myself up, brush off, and work harder.
~ ~ ~
Saturday, Oct. 11
150.0 pounds (easy come, easy go)
I’m going to spare everyone this painful daily roller coaster and do my weigh ins twice a week: Mondays and Fridays. I figure I need the Monday reading to stay motivated through the week, and the Friday one as a boost through the weekend.
~ ~ ~
Friday, Oct. 10
148.0 pounds (-2)
After 5 days in, I'm down 2 pounds. Here's what I've been doing:
- Slow down when eating dinner. This one's a little trickier. As the kids still poke their way through a meal, I find myself eating faster, trying to will them to eat faster. As a result, I usually eat more than I should. This week, I've worked hard to slow down and enjoy the meal.
- Cut down on sweets/baked goods. Think you could pass up on "Free Root Beer Float Day" at work? I did and I'm really proud. I like root beer floats and all, but I'm not ga-ga over them. Not like my true love, ice cream crunch bars. I held out all day and rewarded myself with that one treat.
- Significantly increase my water intake and have cut back on fatty/processed foods. I've even managed to cut down on my beloved coffee creamer.
- Better breakfasts. I’m also happy to report that I’ve alternated cold cereal and oatmeal for breakfast and haven’t had any of the delicious jumbo muffins from the cafeteria all week.
- Exercise. I’m still struggling with integrating exercise. I think I just need to make it a real priority and walk during the day at work. There’s just no way I can fit it in at home during the week.
One of the nuggets I'm taking away from the French Women Don't Get Fat book, is that if you feel deprived, you won't be able to sustain any sort of weight loss. So, I'm trying to make my changes gradual, so I still feel satisfied.
~ ~ ~
Thursday, Oct. 9
149.5 pounds (-.5)
Told ya I wasn't worried.
~ ~ ~
Wednesday, Oct. 8
151.5 pounds (+1.5)
Okay, you're probably freaking out, but I'm not. Honest.
We went out to dinner last night (Kids Eat Free Tuesday, Yo!) and I indulged in a steak sandwich and dessert. So, I know this extra 1.5 is from that. Also, all my other choices yesterday were good, scratch that - GREAT, so I'm really not feeling too guilty. I'll continue to make good choices today and we'll be all good.
I'm proud to report that I got in 20 minutes of brisk walking yesterday. I went to meet a friend for lunch and walked to meet her instead of driving. (Yay, me!) And, at lunch, I ordered wisely - lentil soup and a salad. Also, I've cut down on my beloved creamer and Diet Coke and am drinking more water.
I'm also keeping a food/exercise journal, but I'm approaching it differently than before. I've never journaled while making subtle, sustainable changes. I've only ever journaled at the onset of a somewhat drastic diet. For that reason, my past journals have felt burdensome.
I hope to also use this journal to identify trends in my eating/exercise. For example, I know last night's indulgence was a "reward" to me for a challenging day's work. We got in the car and I announced to Mark,
"I had a good day. I worked really hard and I do not feel like working hard in the kitchen tonight. Let's go out."
To that, Mark responded, "Woo hoo! Baker's Square! The kids can eat free and I can get pie!"
And I agreed. Some day, I hope to bypass my own big slice of carmel apple. Or at least not lick the plate when I'm through.
~ ~ ~
Okay, Blogger, what the heck? The original page disappeared when I went to udpate it! Ugh!
Tuesday, Oct. 7
150.0 pounds (no change)
~ ~ ~
Monday, Oct. 6
150.0 pounds (no change)
Started recording what I eat and how much water I drink. I also went to the library to get some new ideas and motivation. As a result, I started reading French Women Don't Get Fat by Mireille Guiliano. I picked it up mostly for fun. I remember seeing a segment on the Today Show about it when it first came out.
The book says that in general, French women do not like extremes. They don't eat to excess and they don't work out to excessively either. Their approach to life is all about balance and moderation, which isn't exactly typical of the average American.We Americans do things with gusto, including eating and extreme dieting.
French women don't diet. Instead they live lifestyles of balance, never depriving themselves of good wine or chocolate. And, the French slow down and savor what they're eating. They cook with bold flavors and reserve their calories for the very best culinary delights. Americans are about filling the tank as quickly and inexpensively as possible.
Here's an example: An American woman may eat a big, old Snickers candy bar (or two), but a French woman wouldn't waste her time/calories on it. She'd hold out for a sliver of the best, dark chocolate instead.At any rate, it's cleverly written and I'm finding tips I can use.
~ ~ ~
Sunday, Oct. 5
150.0 pounds
Okay, I'm officially doing this. I'm taking you along on my journey to a healthier life.
I promise I won't get obnoxious. Personally, I hate it when people obsess over each and every little calorie and gram. And I vow to not do anything stupid, drastic or that can't be easily maintained. No crazy detox potions, no cabbage soup, no powdered drinks.
I'm simply going to make better food choices and integrate exercise into my day. That's all.
I did a little research to find my ideal weight range. I've 35 years old and 5 1/2 feet tall. These people told me I should weigh 132 lbs., these guys tell me I should weigh about 125 and according to here, I should be between 114-144.
Hmm. A lot of different answers.
So, I decided to check on body mass index and back into a healthy weight that way. My weight/height gave consistent BMI results: 25. Healthy BMI for my age is between 18.5 and 25. This tells me I'm still within a healthy range, but I'm at the tippy top of it. I'd rather be somewhere in the middle.A 15 lb. weight loss will give me a BMI of 22. So that's what I'm shooting for.
You can chart my progress with me via the Seriously Skinny link on the right-hand side of the screen. Encouragement and useful tips will be much appreciated.
Week in review
Click to enlarge.This week completely flew by. And it did so swimmingly, I might add. There were really no major hiccups, so it ranked well on Mom's Tolerability Index.
Operation Mommie Dearest is yielding favorable results and the stress level at work has gone from DEFCON 1 back down to level 5. We've settled into a comfortable back-to-school routine and nightly homework is completed before dinner and largely without complaining.
The planets are aligned and all is right with the world.
But, if I had to put a finger on one thing that's been a bit of a pain in my ass (quite literally), it's my weight. Yes, I lost some weight this past year, but sadly, through one too many ice cream bars (among other things), I've gained much of it back. I know I still look okay, proportioned and all, but it's not really how I want to look.
My wake-up call came this week, when I was asked to shoot a video to promote WebEx, a web conferencing tool, at work. Now, I know we had less-than-ideal lighting and I know that the camera will add on a few extra pounds, but HOLY FUCK. (Sorry Mom, but you should've seen it.)
Seriously. Where were my cheekbones? My jawline? I looked like this guy:
"Hi. Use WebEx. It's great!"
Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad. Everyone said I looked good, but seriously, that clip will either launch me into an eating disorder or be the proper wake-up call I to make some better choices and to find ways to squeeze in some exercise.
I'm through with you, Mr. Crunch Bar.Maybe I'll start tracking my progress on this blog. (But not in an obnoxious way, I promise.) Talk about accountability! Telling everyone my weight and what I'm doing to whittle it down may be a pretty good motivation.
But I think I need to psych myself up for it a bit. Get a game plan. I'll get back to y'all on this one.
Sam's Club, that amazing, wonderful place.
This past summer, Mark and I took a week of vacation together. We didn't go anyplace exotic, instead staying close to home, having fun and tending to important chores.
The first Monday we were off, Mark told me he needed to run to Sam's Club for coffee supplies. Now my baby's a smart guy. He loves coffee, but he hates dirty coffee mugs, so he buys bulk quantities of travel cups and lids so he can take coffee to work and not have to clean the thermal mug.
The kids had never seen or heard of Sam's Club and when I told them we were going, they shrugged their shoulders with boredom.
"No, you guys don't understand. We're going to Sam's Club," I explained. "Sam's Club is a very exclusive store. You have to be a special member to even get in the door."
They perked up.
"You and I can't go there by ourselves," I continued. "We need someone who's a member of the store to let us in."
Their interest was officially piqued.
"Really? Wow! What do they sell at Sam's Club?" they asked, almost in unison.
In a hushed voice, like I was letting them in on a HUGE secret, I told them they had everything you could think of at Sam's Club -- and they had A LOT of it. I went on to explain about jumbo boxes of crackers and enormous jugs of juice. They were riveted to my every word.
"Why haven't you taken us there before?"
"Because I'm not a member. You have to have a special card with your picture on it to get in."
Then, on cue, Mark flashed his Sam's Club membership card. The kids stood in silent amazement. They looked upon the card with the same reverence as a mint-condition, 1933 Babe Ruth baseball card.
"Mark, will you take us to Sam's Club? Pleeeeeezzzzzze?"
Soaking up the glory of his new-found prestige, Mark agreed to take us with him.
When we walked in the door, sure enough, the greeter asked for Mark's card. The kids stood close to him, hanging on Mark's arms with the same grateful desperation as a groupies trying to get backstage at a Stones concert.
When we got in, the kids soaked in the amazing wonderment of The Club.
From ginormous flat-screen TVs to full-scale camping tents fully assembled, they were in awe. We breezed through to the back of the store to the food and food storage section.
Each aisle was more amazing than the last. From the industrial-sized canisters of Nesquik, to the gross boxes of Keebler sandwich cookies, the kids were completely floored. And, to top it off, at the end of every other aisle, was a person handing out free samples of various foods. We tried mini squares of frozen pizza, baby-sized cups of frozen yogurt and sips of exotic, flavored waters.
After finding Mark's supplies, I headed over to the frozen food section and picked out the biggest box of ice cream treats I could find. It was a hearty selection of Good Humor bars and cones, the exact same stuff our neighborhood ice cream truck guy sells. When I put the huge box in the cart, a purchase only made possible by a recent acquisition of an upright freezer, the kids were totally blown away.
Mark went up in the kids' estimation that day. Before the Sam's Club trip, he was a nice guy who helped them with math and liked to play Uno. But after our trip to The Club, he was their key to the magical, mystical world of warehouse retail stores.
The first Monday we were off, Mark told me he needed to run to Sam's Club for coffee supplies. Now my baby's a smart guy. He loves coffee, but he hates dirty coffee mugs, so he buys bulk quantities of travel cups and lids so he can take coffee to work and not have to clean the thermal mug.
The kids had never seen or heard of Sam's Club and when I told them we were going, they shrugged their shoulders with boredom.
"No, you guys don't understand. We're going to Sam's Club," I explained. "Sam's Club is a very exclusive store. You have to be a special member to even get in the door."
They perked up.
"You and I can't go there by ourselves," I continued. "We need someone who's a member of the store to let us in."
Their interest was officially piqued.
"Really? Wow! What do they sell at Sam's Club?" they asked, almost in unison.
In a hushed voice, like I was letting them in on a HUGE secret, I told them they had everything you could think of at Sam's Club -- and they had A LOT of it. I went on to explain about jumbo boxes of crackers and enormous jugs of juice. They were riveted to my every word.
"Why haven't you taken us there before?"
"Because I'm not a member. You have to have a special card with your picture on it to get in."
Then, on cue, Mark flashed his Sam's Club membership card. The kids stood in silent amazement. They looked upon the card with the same reverence as a mint-condition, 1933 Babe Ruth baseball card.
"Mark, will you take us to Sam's Club? Pleeeeeezzzzzze?"
Soaking up the glory of his new-found prestige, Mark agreed to take us with him.
When we walked in the door, sure enough, the greeter asked for Mark's card. The kids stood close to him, hanging on Mark's arms with the same grateful desperation as a groupies trying to get backstage at a Stones concert.
When we got in, the kids soaked in the amazing wonderment of The Club.
From ginormous flat-screen TVs to full-scale camping tents fully assembled, they were in awe. We breezed through to the back of the store to the food and food storage section.
Each aisle was more amazing than the last. From the industrial-sized canisters of Nesquik, to the gross boxes of Keebler sandwich cookies, the kids were completely floored. And, to top it off, at the end of every other aisle, was a person handing out free samples of various foods. We tried mini squares of frozen pizza, baby-sized cups of frozen yogurt and sips of exotic, flavored waters.
After finding Mark's supplies, I headed over to the frozen food section and picked out the biggest box of ice cream treats I could find. It was a hearty selection of Good Humor bars and cones, the exact same stuff our neighborhood ice cream truck guy sells. When I put the huge box in the cart, a purchase only made possible by a recent acquisition of an upright freezer, the kids were totally blown away.
Mark went up in the kids' estimation that day. Before the Sam's Club trip, he was a nice guy who helped them with math and liked to play Uno. But after our trip to The Club, he was their key to the magical, mystical world of warehouse retail stores.
I wish
Yesterday I stayed home from work because I wasn't feeling well. But, I still had to get the kids off to school and daycare.
So when I went in to wake up the girls, instead of being showered and having my make up on, I was still in my PJs, looking like Death.
Groggily, Mad Dog rubbed her eyes and took me in.
"I'm sick," I said.
Seeing my pimple-filled, make-upless face, she asked,
"Do you have chicken pox?"
I wish.
So when I went in to wake up the girls, instead of being showered and having my make up on, I was still in my PJs, looking like Death.
Groggily, Mad Dog rubbed her eyes and took me in.
"I'm sick," I said.
Seeing my pimple-filled, make-upless face, she asked,
"Do you have chicken pox?"
I wish.
Grrr.
What's worse than a couple hundred fuse beads in the dryer?
Nothing.
But several pockets full of sand in the wash is a close second.
Nothing.
But several pockets full of sand in the wash is a close second.
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