Among the Rich

On Saturday, The Band played at a venue called "Lansdowne on the Potomac." This was in the middle of a very wealthy neighborhood. You could probably fit two of my houses into any one of theirs. It was quite specatcular to see how these people lived.

Depending on who you ask, we're not destitute. We're not in debt (unless you count stuff like the mortgage and car payments, which I don't really) and we're able to pay all of our bills on time while ensuring adequate nutrition and even an occasional outing. But we're certainly not rich, and live nothing like these people. For some reason I was quite intimidated and felt very out of place.

A little girl of about 6 or 7 came up to where SB and I were sitting and asked if we wanted a glow necklace. I thought that was really nice of her and asked SB if she wanted one. Then the girl told me it was $2. I didn't have any cash on me, but even if I did, there was no way I was supporting this girl, who would probably make a profit of at least $1 per necklace, and whose parents could probably affortd to send SB to the college of her choice along with their own children. I didn't feel too guilty declining.

I've been to enough gigs over the almost a decade that my husband and I have been together to get a good idea of what to expect. At gigs like wine festivals, the people usually bring coolers and chairs. The ones who are really serious will bring those sets from Pier One Imports or some such store that are like these wicker picnic baskets with silverware strapped to the lid and plates and wine coolers and all that good stuff that we don't really think to spend money on. These people had those and then some. The couple next to me actually brought their own mixed drinks in little glass glasses (as in actual glass' not plastic or styrofoam or anything practical like that to bring to an outside venue) with little red glass balls on the bottom. So they couldn't even put these glass glasses down.

There were a lot of kids running around and I was very busy being completely judgmental. I wondered how many of their outfits were from Target and how many were from Jack and Jill. I looked at all the women and wondered where they got their shoes from. Interestingly enough, I hated most of the shoes I saw. The trend was these little plastic looking sandals that looked like something our laundromat's wife wears. They could have been bought from Rite Aid yet these ladies probably paid about $75 for them.

The atmosphere was actually pretty nice. These people were all neighbors so a lot of them knew each other and all the kids were playing together. No one was really rude or pushy or negative (except for the one little boy who ran by and stepped on all 10 of my fingers without apologizing).

The Band sounded good. The high point was when a game of football just in front of the stage got a little out of hand and a Nerf-type football made its way onto the stage as my husband was playing a solo. I was very impressed that he caught it in his left hand without missing a beat (while playing and holding the trumpet in his right) and threw it back out. It was a proud moment for me as a Band Wife. I know, it's the little things.

Sooooooo Unappreciated

I've been told on at least two separate occasions now that I have a dry sense of humor. I'm not sure exactly what this means, or if it's even true. I never considered myself a "dry" person. I actually consider myself kind of vibrant and colorful, which, to me, does not scream "dry". I know that on the second of these occasions, it was meant as a compliment because he said that he did too and that's why we get along. Actually, the first time, the guy also said that he "got me" but not everyone else did. Now that I think about it, both of these guys were probably trying to get into my pants. Which is kind of disturbing because the first guy was my boss who has at least 40 years on me and was a married alcoholic who chugged Listerine at his desk. Wow, and now I see that he totally wanted me.

Anyway, whatever consistency my sense of humor is, I always figured my husband gets me, and that's all that really matters in the long run.

For example, the following is a direct transcript of a text conversation we had this evening. He was playing at some private gig, and, alone with SB and little to do, I was on my way to Giant (which, by the way, was the first time I went there since my comment earlier in the week about not going back for the rest of the week. I don't work on Fridays; therefore Fridays are considered the weekend; therefore I kept my word).

It started with this photo, which I snapped in the car just before we pulled out of the driveway:

The caption read: Ernie and George are dating.

I thought it was funny and not at all disturbing that my daughter was making a monkey and a notoriously "gay" character kiss.

His response: I knew it!

So I responded: Ernie puts out on the first date and George doesn't respect him for that but he does it anyway because he really wants some.

I thought that was funny and very creative, while making a serious political statement about double standards in today's society. Quite brilliant, actually, if you ask me.

His response? Oooooooooooookaaaaaaay. One step too far.

Ok maybe he doesn't get me; maybe it's more like he tolerates me. I'll take what I can get.

Shout Out to my Girls

This post is for the ladies. Guys, you might want to leave the room for a little while. No, it's not that we don't love you. And I promise, this is not a man-bashing session. But you might be more comfortable hanging out here for a bit so I can get something that you might not be completely interested in hearing about...ahem...off my chest. Now if you want to stay then that's cool too. And no, I'm not judging....

So tonight I went shopping, and among other things, I bought myself a push-up bra. I confess, I'm almost 30 years old and I have never owned a true honest-to-goodness push-up bra. I just never really cared enough to.

I'm a girl, I have boobs. But I spend most of my work day trying to squish them down to minimize bouncing and chafing while teaching aerobics classes and doing my own workouts, like running. I have been doing this so long, and have gotten so used to this lifestyle that it has completely spilled into my personal life. I bet that there are more sports bras in my drawer than regular bras. Sometimes I even double up with the sports bras just to make sure nothing bounces around. I hate bouncing.

It's actually gotten to the point where I will put on a regular bra only if I'm going somewhere semi-respectable, like out to dinner, or to a club, or something. Which is almost never. So about 98% of the time, I'm squished down and happy about it. What can I say, work has completely spoiled me in this sense.

Now I was never one to peddle my wares. Don't get me wrong, I think that if you got it, you are perfectly entitled to flaunt it. And I think a girl can definitely flaunt it without looking sleazy or slutty. I personally have just always been a very conservative dresser who prefers maximum coverage under clothes to ensure a respectable shape and to reduce the chances of anything personal being exposed to the general public. I don't like it when my bra shows, and I like it even less when something that the bra's supposed to be covering up shows.

And I'm not really huge into low cut tops or racy blouses, or even cleavage because I don't want to spend the entire night worrying about what might fall out if I bend over too far or stand the wrong way. I just don't want to be bothered with those things.

So what possessed me to buy the bra? I have no idea. I was just walking around and saw them and realized I never had one and decided to splurge.

And boy, am I glad I did.

Without going into too much graphic detail, let me just say that I consider myself very average in this category. I'm a happy medium between Pamela Anderson and Hillary Swank in Boys Don't Cry. I don't necessarily want to be any bigger or any smaller.

But here's the difference this bra made:


Let me also note here that I took the "after" photo on my cell, then uploaded it onto my flickr site. My parents visit this site just about every day so I didn't want a huge photo of my tatas to greet them tomorrow morning when they log in. In between the time that I uploaded the photo and went to mark it "private" - which was a span of about 2 seconds- it already had 4 hits. Boys!

Anyway, my whole reason for going into all this is to tell all the girls out there who might stumble upon this post that if they don't already have a push-up bra, it is worth the investment. I honestly thought that either it wouldn't make that big of a difference or it would make me look like a prostitue, but I don't think either is the case.

Either way, my husband definitely likes it. But since our bi-annual date night was yesterday, I just have to figure out where I'm going to wear this....

Date Night 2008

Last night was date night. I was trying to think of the last time we had date night, and I could not remember it. It might have possibly been some time during the winter. I'm not sure. Either way, we took advantage of the MIL being in town to sneak away for dinner and a movie.

We headed to Hunt Valley, which is about 20 minutes away via windy country back roads. I got horribly car sick. I'm not sure why I get so car sick all the time anymore, but it seems any car ride longer than 10 minutes has me feeling ill.

We (and by we, I mean I) decided to go to Outback Steakhouse for dinner. I'm not a huge meateater but every once in a while I get a steak, because it makes me feel like I'm getting some iron and protein, which I think I lack most of the time. That, coupled with steamed broccoli and a baked potato with butter and sour cream on the side, actually makes for a semi-healthy dinner so I don't feel too bad about it. Plus I didn't want to be sitting through the movie feeling like a stuffed sausage.

So we get to Outback and place our orders. My husband gets this:

Of course I immediately snap the picture on my cell phone and send it to half a dozen of my friends with the caption "The Man's Gay Drink". He didn't like that too much so he very quickly turned it into this:

Then he ordered a manly Corona.

When our dinners arrived, I cut into my steak to find that it was practically still mooing. I always order medium well. I don't like blood. It's tough enough to grasp the concept that I'm actually eating meat (I was a vegetarian for the better part of my teens and 20's, and even a vegan for a bit), I don't need to be reminded by pools of blood. We waited for the waitress to come back but she was nowhere to be found so the man walked my slab of meat up to the bar and asked them to cook it for longer.

Sometime on his way up to the bar, he developed some kind of stomachache so he went outside to try to walk it off. Yeah, it doesn't make sense to me either. When I have a stomachache, which is very often, all I want to do is lay down. But he went outside, and he left his keys, wallet and cell phone on the table, which meant he was planning on coming back, so I wasn't too worried.

But he took forever. I couldn't wait for him any longer. I finished off my broccoli and was just starting on my potato when the waitress came back and tried to take my plate. I held onto it because, dammit, I was still eating my potato! Which is quite possibly my all-time favorite food. Plus, it was the absolute perfect consistency with just the right amount of butter and sour cream soaked into it. So we fought for a minute before I realized there was someone standing behind her with a new plate of food, including my slab of meat.

I begrudgingly gave up my perfect potato and let them plop a new potato, new side of broccoli and medium-well done steak in front of me. I just started to pick at the broccoli, which was the only thing that wasn't too hot to eat when my husband returned. Apparently his stomachache had been walked off.

So I was in a pickle now. I didn't really want to eat a whole second serving of broccoli. That's a lot of broccoli. But I didn't want to waste it either. And taking it home wasn't really an option since we were going to a movie right after, and broccoli, as good as it is for you, doesn't really smell too pretty. And this new potato was ok, but nowhere near the caliber of the last one. Which was probably sitting in the trash can in the kitchen.

I ended up eating half the potato, leaving the broccoli and eating most of the steak. All in all it was a pretty good meal.

Then we went to go see Get Smart. The theater was dead, there were maybe 5 of us in the room. Which was awesome. The movie was ok; a cute movie that I'm glad I saw. Before heading home, we stopped off at an Italian bakery near the theater to get MIL some cookies (which she had asked for). The Man got a gelato and I got a cream puff, which I ate on the way back to the car and got more on my face than in my mouth. Why don't they make those easier to eat?

I got car sick again on the way home. Gave SB a bath and went to bed myself. Thus ends my semi-annual date night. Next time I think I'll stay closer to home!

Scary...Part Deux

OK so I think this is the scary lady that I talked about in an older post but I'm not 100% sure. I'm not very good at remembering scary wenches. I kind of hope it is the same person because I would hate to think that there might be TWO of them in this world.

Here's what happened.

So I'm at work minding my own business, being the model employee that I am, since I don't know how to be any other way. We close at 7:30pm. This means that all members must have showered, dressed, primped, plucked and accessorized in plenty of time to be leaving the center at 7:30pm. This does NOT mean they should be walking into the locker room at 7:30 to take a dump, wash their hands, shine their shoes, then finally leave closer to 8pm. No. At 7:30, my only view of anyone should be of their rear ends walking out the door. Preferably, with me tailgating them as I leave as well.

I'm not sure exactly what time it was when she came in. Maybe 7:10 or 7:15. I know it was somewhere after 7pm because I had already recognized and celebrated that I was in the home stretch. Which is ridiculously late to be just coming in to a fitness center that closes at 7:30. But whatever.

So this lady, let's call her Spawn of Satan, comes in, goes into the locker room to change, then comes out and plops herself on the rowing machine. There were only two other people in the fitness center at this point, and they both left within her first 5 minutes on the rower.

So it's just me and her. This in and of itself kind of pisses me off. It's obvious she's the only thing keeping me there. And while technically she's entitled, if the tables were turned, I would feel bad working out alone and making someone stay solely on my account. But again, technically she's not doing anything wrong, and she is the Spawn of Satan, so I got over myself and just dealt with it.

And she's happily rowing away while the minutes tick by. I'm staring holes through the clock. Finally at around 7:28 I get up from the desk and start turning off equipment. As I approached her, I said as nicely as possible "Not to rush you, but I wanted to make sure you knew that we close in about 2 minutes." I smiled as I said it. I am a nice person and I was being nice. I even hit my head on a television as I said it (by accident, mind you) since I was so focused on sounding nice. Her response?

No I don't have a clock pasted to my forehead so there's no way I would know what time it is.

I was a bit taken aback, to say the least. My first thought was to respond that if there was a clock pasted to her forehead, it would do her no good since she wouldn't be able to see it...pasted to her forehead. I came very close to saying this. Dangerously close, because it would prove her stupidity. And I have decided that she is, in fact, stupid.

But no, I am still the sweet nonthreatening girl at the fitness center so I bit my tongue and didn't reply. After a moment's pause, The Spawn said:

Are you trying to tell me it took me 10 minutes to get here from my desk?

What??!! Where the hell did she get that from? I don't know where her desk is! And to be honest, there are 4 buildings in the campus. If she came from another building, it could very well have taken her 10 minutes to make her way down to the fitness center, change her clothes, file her horns down, tie up her tail and get on the rower.

But regardless-- what a stupid thing to ask me? How does "two minutes until closing time" translate into "it took you 10 minutes to get here you fat slob now get out of my fitness center before I pour some holy water on you"? OK maybe I was actually thinking the last part, but the part about how long it took her to get to the fitness center was completely taken from left field. And she said it accusingly. I actually felt that she was blaming me for the time. Like she didn't believe me when I told her it's 2 minutes to closing time. How could I respond to that? I told her I didn't know about any of that but it's almost 7:30.

So then she mutters some stuff that I didn't catch, and I was too scared to ask her what she said. Plus I honestly didn't care. She was probably blaming me for the weather and yelling at me for asking her to believe it's July. I did catch her saying something about maybe the clocks being fast.

Seriously? Are 2 minutes on the rower really that crucial? I mean I'm all about getting that workout in, and squeezing those last few minutes in, but this is ridiculous. This beast lady was a good 50-100 pounds overweight. The 2 minutes on the rower was not going to work any miracles for her.

Plus she was still going on the rower. Despite my warning, she never even stopped, even though everything was turned off around her except the television right in front of her and the lights.

Finally The Spawn got up and went into the locker room. I turned off the television, and we passed each other as she left the locker room. I smiled and said "have a good night" because, although she had been incredibly rude to me, I didn't say or do anything rude to her. So technically, we were still "cool" in my books because it's not like we had an all-out catfight or anything. I was totally the bigger person and just stood there and took all her crap and her comments went nowhere. So we still could have saved our relationship.

But she ignored me.

Completely and obviously.

That stung a little. Because that was my little last-ditch effort at keeping things on the up and up between us. If she had responded then we would still be cool. I would have chalked up her attitude to her having a bad life day and not taken it personally and we would have been fine. But no, she had to go THERE.

By the time she reached the door to leave, I was right behind her. Because I move quickly when it's time to leave work, and obesely ugly Spawns of Satan kind of waddle around slowly. As she passed the computer where people are supposed to log in (which she didn't do, and I know this because I looked it up to see how Satan names his children, and to see what time she came in) she glanced at the clock on the screen and said "mumble mumble mumble, it's 7:27" and walked out.

I was literally 2 feet behind her and as soon as she said it I looked at the screen. It said 7:29. So The Spawn of Satan is a big fat liar (big surprise there). Or she can't read.

In my defense, I did nothing wrong. The clocks that are posted in the fitness center both said 7:30 as she was doing her Walk of Shame from the locker room to the door. OK so maybe they are fast. But either way, the rules state that she needs to be out of there by 7:30. So I gave her a 2-minute warning to make sure that she had collected her stuff and vacated the premises by 7:30.

Which she did. Personally, I think she should be thanking me.

Maybe her dad can hook me up with some prime real estate, since I'll probably be staying with him a while once I've put in my time here.

MIL

I've been quiet the past few days. I haven't really had a lot to say. I've been doing a lot of thinking on my own. I've been very stressed lately and I can see it coming out in displays of impatience and irritation. So I've been trying to figure out what needs to change in my life so I can go back to being Little Ms. Happy Go Lucky. The sad thing is, I haven't seen her since...oh, about college or shortly thereafter. But I'm still trying to get us back together. For some girl on girl. Wanna watch?

Just kidding.

Anyway I've also been busy trying to get both my act and my house together for my mother-in-law, who is here now and staying all week. The Man has an annual trumpet day camp that he directs, which requires him to be away in the mornings for almost a week. Since I'm at work during that time, MIL is here to take care of SB. I don't really have a problem with my MIL, personally. I think she's really nice, she adores SB and does great with her. My issue is with having someone new in my house.

My house isn't large. It's about the size of an outhouse. So when it's just me and SB and my husband, we're kind of cramped. Add another person and we're practically on top of each other. It's not her fault- short of locking herself in the bathroom, there's really nowhere for her to go. It's just another body I'm not used to.

And as much as I want her to make herself at home, my house smelling like coffee (which neither my husband nor I drink) and random items placed on the kitchen counter just kind of make my house not my home for a while.

I actually feel sorry for her when she comes here to stay over. I don't cook much, and I can't really keep sweets in the house because my willpower is pretty much....well, nonexistent. So there's really nothing for her to eat when she comes over. While I'm perfectly happy eating pudding for breakfast, a bar for lunch and doing carryout for dinner, she's not quite as comfortable with my approach to nutrition.

So this time I was ready for her. I brought SB to Giant and spent the morning in the kitchen. So now we have a variety of fruits to choose from as well as stew (simmering in the crock pot right now making my house smell super yummy), 2 types of pasta primavera, with extra vegetables added, all sorts of sandwich stuff, spaghetti, cookies and some rice thing I slapped together. Plus I loaded up on frozen meals, chicken and vegetables. I commented out loud to no one in particular earlier on today that my goal was to not have to go to Giant for the rest of the week. My husband laughed at that.

My biggest challenge with the MIL here will be working out. The treadmill is in the same room as where MIL sleeps, so I don't think she'd appreciate me running at 4am about 2 feet from her head. It will even be a little bit of an issue to get to work early to work out because I will have nowhere to wake up and get ready.

So consider this fair warning- if you return to this blog, you will probably be succumbed to reading various rants and vents about dealing with my MIL staying here for a week while I try to maintain a normal life.

On a Roll

OK the flood gates are open. I'm officially ranting. I might regret putting all this on the Internet but the audacity of some people is really starting to get to me. I mean really get to me.

I have worked with special populations in the past. I am very familiar with hypertension and the effects of high blood pressure, as well as the medications that supposedly help treat it. About 90% of the seniors I worked with at the senior center were on some kind of blood pressure medication, or at least a diuretic. I am very comfortable dealing with people with high blood pressure, and recognizing the signs and symptoms that go along with it.

But these days, I work with a relatively low risk population. There are a few people here and there in my gym who I know need to be careful while working out. And if I see them overworking themselves I am very comfortable with knowing when to step in.

This being said, I can continue with my Tuesday Evening Bitch Session.

One lady, let's call her EP's Nightmare, has been taking my classes recently. She got scared of my core class and refused to come back. She almost didn't come back to step until a co-worker of hers agreed to take it with her if she went back. I offered to spend some time with them before class and show them the steps. Co-worker showed up but Nightmare stood us up.

She came in about 3 minutes before my Fit Ball class was supposed to start and asked me if we had blood pressure machine. That question always sounds the alarm in my mind, just from habit. I tell her we don't have a machine but I can take it manually, which is about a million times more accurate. I lead her into the back room and ask her if she's feeling ok. She tells me that her legs, ankles and fingers are all swollen. I ask if she's ever had problems with blood pressure before and she nods.

I take her pressure but there was some movement during the reading and I missed the systolic. I tell her I think it's in the upper 130's over 92 but I want to do it again just to make sure that I didn't mistake a bump for the first sound. So while I'm waiting to do it a second time, I ask her more questions as I pull out her chart (since we were right there). Guess what? Absolutely nothing on the chart about blood pressure issues. I ask if she's on any medication for it. Her response? Sometimes.

What the hell does that mean? Doctors don't prescribe BP medication on an as-needed basis, at least not in my experience. She admits that she's supposed to take it all the time but she doesn't. But she has been taking it for the past few days, since she started to experience the swelling. I ask her why there's nothing on her health history form about the BP and why she didn't list her medication? She kind of looked sheepish and muttered something about it not being a big deal.

NOT A BIG DEAL? If her blood pressure skyrocketed during a step class and she had some kind of cardiac event in my fitness center, how on earth was I going to be able to provide the best possible treatment for her without even knowing she has a blood pressure problem? So because she just didn't want to have to go through the trouble of getting clearance from her physician, she is going to put ME at risk for her having some kind of a heart attack or stroke in MY fitness center and make ME give her CPR and get all stressed out. Then no one's going to want to take my classes anymore because they think they'll die if they do.

Oh, BMore's teaching that? Someone died while taking her class. Maybe we should wait and take bootcamp with Blank Stare outside in the 100 degree weather with 99% humidity in our sweats and moon boots while injecting heroin laced with crack into our veins and then go play in traffic. It's probably safer than taking BMore's class.

Not to mention that without this information from Nightmare, I don't even know to watch out for her. At the senior center, I was lucky enough to know every single person that walked through my doors. I personally went through their applications, their health history, spoke with their doctors, if necessary, and was familiar with every medication they were on. We monitored blood pressure before and after exercise, and I knew everyone's normal range. Even if a blood pressure was "normal" by industry standards, if it was unusual for the individual, that person was questioned.

I now work in a completely different atmosphere so there's no way I could be that intimate with all my members. And I'm sure Nightmare's not the only one to lie on her application to get in quickly. But since she called attention to herself and the fact that she withheld serious information from us when she joined, I'm officially mad.

So my point? When you are joining a gym, or filling out any type of paperwork where they question your health history, don't just take the easy way out and lie. Chances are the facility will never know. This is true. But you are doing yourself a huge disservice. There's a reason that they ask those things, and it's not just to make life difficult for you. I don't like going to the doctor any more than the next person. But working out is not something to be taken lightly. Exercise is stress on your heart. Ideally, it is good stress, but there's a fine line between good stress and the kind of stress that can result in acute MIs and strokes and all that good stuff.

And believe me, you don't want to be the person in the hospital gown that stays open in the back, so you don't strangle yourself when sitting down but at the same time lets your butt cheeks hang out and say good morning to whoever is lucky enough to be behind you; who has a catheter trailing down your leg attached to a big urine pouch that goes everywhere you do. You don't want to be the one who needs people to come into your room every few hours to teach you how to walk again, this time with the oxygen tank strapped over their shoulder and attached to your mouth, then strap you to an ekg monitor and pulse-o-meter to make sure that a stroll to the rest room won't send your heart into a frenzied panic attack resulting in bypass surgery. Then, after the bypass, you don't want to be the one coughing up greenish yellowish mucous with a huge gash down your leg from where they extracted the fresh new blood vessel to transplant into your heart after sawing your ribs in half and prying your chest open, then sewing it shut with metal twine and leaving tubes sticking out to drain all the pus and mucous and other nasty crap out. Hopefully they didn't leave any gauze in you.

Wow. I didn't know I had all that in me.

Yeah. All that from neglecting to mention that you have blood pressure issues on your corporate fitness center application. Sweet Dreams!

Bmore Mama, MD

I forgot to mention this earlier. Remember waaaay back to last month when I was bitching about this lady at my gym who comes to me asking for advice then argues it? Or kind of doesn't really like what I tell her so she just keeps asking the same thing over and over hoping for a different answer?

Yeah, well now, I'd like to inform you that among the many services I provide to my dear members is the diagnosis and treatment of injury/pain/birth defect. Just call me Doc!

She comes up to me and points to her hip and tells me that she's feeling pain there. I wait patiently for her to go on. When she doesn't, I realize that she's expecting me to tell her what's wrong with her hip. I'd like to meet the doctor that can diagnose anything just from a finger point to a clothed area on a body and the description of pain.

Just to be nice, I ask some questions. When does it hurt? Does it feel like it's a muscle pain or something else? Has she done anything different lately, like take up skiing or ice skating? Then she mentions that one of her hips is higher than the other. That makes things more interesting. But still doesn't award me a medical degree and magical powers. She also informs me that her hamstring is sore sometimes after she runs. Wow, a sore hamstring after a run. That's so freakin weird. I didn't even think you used your hamstrings when you ran. How could it possibly get sore?

Pardon me if I'm a little dry. If you read my previous post, you probably know that I'm not in the best mood of my life. Yet I must type on....

Anyway so this lady goes on and on and somewhere in her ramblings, mentions that her physical therapist that she's seeing for her shoulder told her that the pain in her hip is probably just due to her structure, or the biomechanics of her compensating for unilateral flaws in her structure (those were my words, not hers.....I should totally be a doctor. Or a lawyer.). The PT suggested she shorten her stride length while running. Sounds good to me!

Sooooo she was already kind of diagnosed by someone for whom it's still beyond the scope of her professional skills to diagnose (I used to work in a PT office so I know this) but still wants me to recommend some additional treatment. Or magically cure her. I feel really bad telling her I don't know what to say. I consider making up some stuff. Like telling her hip pain is generally caused by underdeveloped calf muscles. And the only treatment would be to build up her calves until they're the size of tree trunks.

But I remain professional and adopt my co-worker's Blank Stare while politely informing her that I can't tell her what's causing her hip pain, and unless I have a diagnosis from a doctor (a real one, not one appointed by her) then I can't offer any recommendations because then I could potentially be telling her to do something that makes it worse. All I can say is that if something hurts, it's probably a good idea to avoid overworking it.

She tries to argue this, but I have to admit that the Blank Stare is a fairly effective tool in getting people to shut up and leave me alone. Maybe I don't give this guy enough credit.....

Feelings of Blobbery

Ever have one of those days where you know you would have been more productive had you stayed in bed all day? Today was one of those.

It started out normal enough. I got to work early and was debating whether to lift upper body or lower body. I kind of did a half-assed leg workout on Saturday then completely missed my upper body workout on Sunday, tried to make up for it on Monday but got interrupted. So I wasn't sure where I was. I decided to go with finishing upper body.

Bad call. I was extremely tired, physically, and I have no idea why. My Monday Night Insomnia had taken a break (probably because I worked the early shift which is unusual for me) so I was fairly well-rested. But for the first time in my life, I gave up mid-biceps curl and dropped the weights on the ground. Good thing I was alone! It wasn't my proudest moment in the gym.

I did teach 2 classes at work today, so that was semi-productive, but I kind of think I phoned it in. I wasn't completely there. Other than that, I hardly did anything at work. And I left early.

Then I spent my first three hours at home doing the exact same thing I did at work for 6 hours- surfing the net (SB was napping). Somewhere during all this heart-pounding adventure I discovered that I injured something in my right hand, probably while I was lifting, because the area between my third and fourth knuckle was very sore. It was uncomfortable to do certain things. Like type.

So obviously not getting the hint that I should just give up attempting anything productive today, I decided to try to run. Seriously, why doesn't someone knock some sense into me? I did't even get in a mile. I was too pooped. And I was doing so well with my running lately too!

So now I just feel like a huge blob. It's a weird feeling. I really want to run but I just can't force myself. Hopefully tomorrow I'll wake up and spring from the bed with a renewed lust for life.

At this point I'll just be happy if I make it out of bed tomorrow.

It's In The Bag....

Some people think I'm joking around or exaggerating when I say I go to Giant a minimum of three times per week. Well, it's only Monday and so far I've been twice this week! It's not due to poor planning on my part- I understand how to plan ahead, and make and stick to a shopping list. It's mostly because when I go to Giant, I'm alone with SB and it's just easier for me to bring in a few bags than load myself down with them or make 479 trips from the truck to the house to get an entire week's worth of groceries in the door. So, you see, there's a method to my madness. Plus it's something to do when we're bored.

Anyway, so tonight's visit was actually at SB's request. She wanted a cookie and I wasn't opposed to having one myself so off we went. As I walked through the doors near the produce section I realized that our fruit bowl that we keep on the kitchen counter was down to one measly apple. It desperately needed to be restocked. And my all-time favorite fruits, nectarines, just happened to be smiling right at me from the bin as I walked in. There was one guy at the bin with a little girl about 1-1/2 years old. I only really noticed them because they were blocking my access to the plastic produce bags. But upon closer inspection, something was wrong.

The man had his back to the little girl (which, in and of itself was certainly not a big deal- she was only about a foot and a half away from him), who was happily sitting in her cart playing with what was probably the last produce bag.

Let that sink in for a minute there.

The guy had his back to the little girl who was playing with a plastic bag.

If you're not completely horrified and gasping for breath right now then you don't get it.

Let me explain.

Babies/toddlers and plastic bags don't mix. The bags are a choking hazard. Something about the plastic bag makes the baby want to put it on her head, it's inevitable. Once she succeeds in putting the bag over her head, which is also inevitable, then chances are she can't get it off and then could potentially suffocate. Most parents try to avoid having their young children suffocate. I realize there are unfortunate exceptions to this rule. But I'm talking about the general sane responsible public here.

Anyway, I watched this little girl try again and again to get the bag over her head, to no avail. I wasn't about to say anything to the father prematurely but at the same time I wasn't about to just walk away while the guy remains without a clue. So I just stood there staring, despite the fact that my cart was full of nectarines and bananas, waiting for the child to finally experience success in her endeavors.

It didn't take long. After about 30 seconds, the little girl's head was completely engulfed in the plastic bag. I immediately said, very loudly, "Um, she has a plastic bag on her head." The man looked and immediately yanked it off, and muttered some kind of an excuse, something about kids being sneaky. I kind of half smiled, extremely proud of myself for not only practically saving this child's life, but for not judging the man on his negligence or his notable lack of a thank you for my stepping in.

I don't think this guy is a bad parent. Personally the whole giving a curious toddler a plastic bag to play with thing was a no-brainer for me (and doing that then turning your back just screams moron), but I'm sure I've done things that were just as stupid but seemed like a good idea at the time. It's not my place to judge and I'm not going to. I'm sure this guy was extremely embarrassed that a stranger in a grocery store was keeping a closer eye on his baby than he was. I'm kind of more taken aback that he wasn't on his knees kissing my hand in gratitude.

I know what I did really wasn't a big deal, but I can't imagine just turning around to see SB with a bag on her head. My heart would stop. Just remembering how that little girl looked makes me uncomfortable. And I would be stuttering over myself with appreciation for a person speaking up, let alone not calling CPS on me.

I guess it takes all types. If nothing else, I hope this guy goes home and is just that much more appreciative of his child, and makes a little bit more of an effort to keep an eye on her at all times.

Lurman Amphitheatre

Today The Band played, or tried to play, at the Lurman Amphitheatre in Catonsville. They were scheduled to play 6-8pm but actually started later and ended earlier due to thunderstorms. To be honest, I'm surprised they got to play at all, and equally surprised they had a decent crowd, considering the weather. This is what they had to work around:

I was on CD duty, which I do a lot. I field a lot of questions and hear a lot of "Wow, these guys sound great. My cousin's baby mama plays the panflute so we have musicians in our family too!" Today, for some reason, the questions were unusual. One person asked if they were going to play some festival I'd never heard of. I told them I didn't know and they proceeded to tell me that The Band used to be Knights of Rhythm or something bizarre like that. I told them I'm pretty sure the band was never called that. This guy insisted that some of the members of The Band used to be in the Knights of Rhythm. Whatever.

The great thing about tonight's gig was the dancers. SB was dancing her little heart out and it was the cutest thing in the world. During a drum solo she actually bent down low and was shaking her booty and pumping her arms. Everyone was getting a kick out of her. She had a little boyfriend James, who looked to be about 2ish, who was a very groovy dancer, especially for a white boy. He had rhythm and would hear the music and just start shrugging his shoulders in time, then once he had properly captured the groove, he would bend his knees and stick out his hands and go to town. It was hilarious. I actually had several strangers come up to me to comment on SB's dancing skills (which I took full credit for, of course) and I know James' mom did too.

But the most interesting dancer was this guy.


He was totally channeling Michael Jackson. He was even working the white glove, although he had two on instead of one. I was sitting front and center, and earlier on he actually attempted a ballet leap, which frightened me a little. But you have to give him credit- he was definitely in the groove. He had a badge on his belt which makes me think he's some kind of security guy. I see him every time The Band plays at this venue, so he might work there.

About 7:45ish, the skies opened up and we got POURED ON. My husband carried SB so he had the umbrella and we were both going as fast as possible but all three of us were soaked by the time we got to the truck. I guess that's the beauty of being a trumpet player- no heavy equipment to load up! He just put his trumpet in the case, put his stand away and rolled out.

The Avenue at White Marsh

Last night, The Band played at an outdoor venue in White Marsh, MD known as The Avenue. I heart The Avenue. It's got a Chili's, a Don Pablos, an Old Navy, a Barnes & Noble, a Pier 1, a Payless, and will soon have a Coldstone Creamery. All they need to do is put in Kohl's and I would never leave. I used to go there all the time when we lived in Hamilton, but since we're farther northwest, I don't make the trip too often.

The weather last night was perfect. It was warm but not icky hot and certainly not humid. There was a light breeze blowing so that just added the perfect touch. I couldn't ask for a better night for an outdoor gig. Plus they started playing at 7 so it only got better as the night came and cooled it off even more.

The crowd at this place is great, too. There are usually a few dancers (I know you're going to ask so I'll just get it out of the way now- no, the Crazy Dancers did not make an appearance) but most of the crowd just brings their chairs and sits around in a big circle. Usually little kids take center stage in front of the band and dance on their own accord, and the crowd is conducive to this. There are some outdoor gigs where I will not let SB out to dance and go crazy because the "dance floor" area is too jam-packed with people dancing, kids running around, etc. But this place has a really laid-back atmosphere with nice people who aren't drunk or too absorbed in their own worlds to be conscious of others.

And the best part of the whole thing (besides the amazing band that was playing there) is that the concerts occur in a little paved area between some of the stores, across from the movie theater, behind a large water fountain. They turn the fountain off during the concerts for some reason, but it was great to keep little ones entertained. SB and her little pals spent a lot of time running back and forth to peek into the fountain. And when they turned it back on after the concert was over, it was lit up with yellow lights and, against the dark night, looked pretty darn nifty, even I must admit.

I met up with my friend Bucky and we got carryout at Chili's where SB stopped to feed the fake ducks. Apparently she was not the first to try to feed them, because each duck (which would include the Mama Duck and about 4 or 5 ducklings tagging along behind her) had a little pile of yellow leaves in front of it. It was pretty cute. And please- this is the second photo I have posted of SB on this blog, and it just so happens she's wearing the same dress in both of them. We do have more than one outfit for our child. I promise. I just really love this dress.

The band starts playing and people really seem to be enjoying the music. SB finds a girl about her age who is there with what I would assume is her mother. Both are dressed in the same dress. I wonder if I should start dressing like SB. Honestly, it's never occurred to me to find matching outfits for my two-year old and myself. I wouldn't mind wearing some of the stuff she wears- it looks pretty comfy. But I don't think they make onesies in my size. At least I hope they don't!

Anyway apparently this whole dressing alike thing was appealing to SB because she completely forgot about me and spent all her time with this new pair. At first the little girl didn't know what to make of SB. SB tried to dance with her, tried to copy what she was doing. The little girl finally decided she didn't like this and was obviously trying to avoid my daughter. SB was following her around like a little puppy and trying to be her friend and the mother was acting nice enough to SB but the little girl wanted nothing to do with her and would blatantly turn her back to SB to keep her out of their little circle. Bitch. It was heartbreaking.

What's worse is that SB either didn't understand or didn't care because she was persistent. She followed them both back to where they were sitting. She put her hand on the mother's thigh, trying to get her attention when she turned away. I tried to help her retain some dignity and get her to come back to us but she kept returning to her new, much snappier dressing family. Little Bitch was getting more and more obvious about her dislike for SB tagging along so I decided to bring out the Big Guns. Little Bitch was going to like my daughter. I pulled out the bubbles.

Almost like magic, the tables turned. SB pulled out the little wand and blew a few bubbles and Little Bitch was following her around like a puppy. I was satisfied. So what if I have to buy SB friends? Don't judge me. I was a little disappointed when SB held out the wand for Little Bitch to blow some bubbles. I kind of wanted her to make her sweat, maybe beg a little. But I guess SB is a bigger person than I.

So the new family's table finally was ready and they left. Yes, SB did try to walk with them to the restaurant. Yes, I did have to chase her down a couple of times to bring her back and tell her she can't go with them. But after a few minutes she was over it and back to favoring her own mommy.

All in all, with the exception of my daughter wanting to abandon me for another family, the gig was a good one. No drama with the band. The drummer (a sub) was one who I adore, he plays the congas and the drums at the same time. Yeah, he's pretty awesome. The best part was that The Band can now consider themselves Rock Stars, thanks to the sign below. Wow, they're really moving up in the world!

I Believe.

Wow, three posts in one day...you lucky little devils you! Apparently I've got a lot on my mind today.

I don't consider myself a very opinionated person. I've been trying for years to force myself to take a stand on abortion, for example, but I just can't do it. I find myself arguing both sides back and forth and back and forth until I collapse into a quivering pile of indecision. There are a few things, however, that I firmly believe. And you lucky dogs get to hear what they are, in no particular order!

I believe:

-Every woman should be able to do at least 10 pushups. On her toes. (If she's really old she can do it on her knees)

-Every person, before they get their permanent drivers' licenses, should be required to do at least a 40-hour internship in all of the following: food service industry (waiting tables, etc.), retail, gas station/convenience store attendant, insurance claims service. There is so little respect in this world.

-Celebrities are artists (usually); not role models, and not gods.

-Back dimples are sexy. (Oh yes, I'm passionate about this one.)

-If a woman chooses not to breastfeed for purely selfish reasons (not wanting to have to get up at night, etc.), she should question her readiness to be a mother. But no matter what her decision or reasoning, all others should respect it without passing judgment.

-Everybody should have a wild period in their lives.

-There should be more attention given to mental health, stress and burnout in today's society.

-It's fun to make fun of someone's poor choice in clothing, but ridiculing something they can't help, like the shape of their nose or their big ears, is crossing the line.

-You shouldn't get a speeding ticket if you're the only one on the road.

-Mary Kay is a cult. But I appreciate that they don't test on animals.

-Animal testing is wrong.

-So is eating veal. There shouldn't even be a food word for what veal is. It should only be baby cow. Emphasis on the baby.

-People with ugly feet shouldn't be allowed to wear open-toed shoes in places where they serve food.

-The President of the United States should be smarter than the general public. Perhaps he/she should be required to qualify for mensa?

-It's cool if you're in mensa. It's annoying if you advertise it. On a bumper sticker on your van. And somehow end up in front of me on my way to work at least twice a week.

-Women should be able to protect themselves. But men should feel obligated to protect them too.

-It shouldn't be taboo for a married woman to have male friends. Both partners should be secure enough and there should be enough trust in the relationship for both of them to be friends with whoever they want.

-Quiet people should not be labeled as snobs.

-I can't think of a single person who wouldn't benefit from yoga. (Is that a belief? I think it can pass as one)

-Kids these days (oh lord did I really just say that?) have so much more opportunity than their predecessors, but seem lazier, more apathetic, and stupider.

-Everyone over the age of 18 should know their blood pressure, cholesterol level, and blood type.

-There is a time and a place for medication, but people tend to be too quick to rely on a pill to solve their problems- both mental and physical.

-Babies, dogs, spouses and mothers should all come with mute buttons.

G Squared

OK this might be a little bit of a taboo topic, and some people might be offended reading this but I have to get this off my chest. For some reason this topic has come up in several conversations I've had with friends recently, and I have to be completely honest- I don't understand what the big deal is. What am I talking about, you wonder? Girl on girl.

Yes, I understand how guys can find two attractive girls naked and groping each other hot. Seeing as how I'm a heterosexual female, it's not my cup of tea....but I can see how a guy would like that. But what's so hot about two mediocre girls sloppy drunk and playing tonsil hockey? I don't get it. It's not hot. I don't see it.

Now I'm not here to judge. And I'm not talking about lesbians. If a girl is homosexual or even bisexual, and is honestly turned on by making out with another girl, that's a completely different topic. I fully support their decision and wish them happy makeout sessions for life.

I'm talking about heterosexual girls who will, in the presence of and encouragement by horny men, make out with another girl just for show. I had no idea this was as commonplace as it is until recently. I got into a disagreement about how normal it is for a married woman to make out with another woman. Personally, the thought of making out with another woman never once entered my mind as something I'd be even mildly interested in. And I've never seen any of my girlfriends make out with anyone but guys, no matter how sloppy drunk they were. But this person insisted all girls do it. I couldn't wrap my mind around this so I asked one of my close friends if she ever made out with girls.

Her response was that she would do it in HIGH SCHOOL, just to get attention from the guys. She said she no longer did it because she didn't really feel the need to impress guys that way anymore now that she's a little older. She's 25.

This makes me mad, for some reason. Why on earth would any self-respecting girl do something she normally wouldn't do ONLY to impress a guy? I know we do things every day that we don't particularly like to make ourselves more attractive, with a special emphasis on attracting the opposite sex- like wearing heels, tight jeans, makeup etc. But to go so far as to make out with, grope or even go further with someone you're not interested in? Just for attention? Just so you feel someone thinks you're sexy? I don't get it. I'm not saying I don't understand it. I'm saying I don't like it. Why is it that important that someone else thinks you're sexy? If you think you're sexy then that's all that should matter.

And it's such a double standard, too. If I were to announce to a guy that I was dating (let's pretend I'm not married for a minute here) that I find it sooooooo hot to see two guys making out, there's not a snowball's chance in hell that I would ever get to see that. It would be too much of a blow to their manhood, no matter how hot it looks to the other sex. So why do they expect it from us? And why do we do it?

So now when I see photos of girls who are out partying, and obviously drunk, making out with other girls, I feel sorry for them. Because chances are they're not doing it out of pleasure or because they want to, they're doing it because they feel the need to impress other people. We should be more confident in ourselves than that. We should know that we can score a great guy without having to resort to engaging in sexual behavior with someone who we wouldn't otherwise be interested in.

On a completely unrelated, kind of random note, I just found out that I'll be celebrating my 30th birthday in New Orleans later this year. Woo hoo!

Car Jack Vibes

My rides to work are usually fairly uneventful. There's hardly anyone on the streets when I leave the house and the drive takes all of 7 minutes. I'm usually fairly groggy for the ride, so I'm usually just collecting my thoughts and getting my act together. It's a pretty quiet ride. So there's not much trouble I can get into on the way in.

This morning I was extra groggy for some reason. I slept like a brick last night. And slept through my first alarm this morning! (I always set 2 because I am a paranoid freak with a tendency to shut her alarm off during the night without waking up). So when the second one sounded, I barely had enough time to wash my face, get dressed and walk out the door. If I were a cartoon I would have grabbed a couple toothpicks to prop my eyes open with. That's how groggy I was.

So I leave my neighborhood and pull out onto the main strip. It's early and it's actually quite nice outside so my window's open. I'm sitting in a turn lane waiting for the green arrow, wondering if I had enough time for a quick nap before it changed. A car pulls up next to me and I hear a click.

I recognized this sounds as doors locking on a car. Immediately I look around to see where the carjacker was so I could avoid him. But there was no one around. So I figured this person was just locking his doors to lock his doors. I looked over at the driver, which is weird for me because I never do that. Especially when my windows are open and I'm stopped. I think I mentioned it before, but I have a thing with getting shot. I don't want to do it. And there are freaks on the road so I don't take that chance. Although I was the first one at the light (the only one in my lane) so in this situation if I needed to speed off to save my life, I could.

But apparently I was feeling bold this morning because I made eye contact. I turned to look at this girl, maybe a couple of years older than me, staring back at me. I did a quick idiot check to make sure I wasn't doing anything embarrassing. I washed my face so I know I didn't have any dried up drool on my chin. My hair was pulled back into a ponytail so that wasn't doing anything funky. I wasn't talking on my cell phone, and I know I didn't make any jerk maneuver to cut her off or anything because I was just sitting at the light when she pulled up.

Then it occurred to me. She was locking her doors because of me.

I'm a pretty naive person when it comes to things like locking doors and stuff like that. I grew up in Frederick, MD, where we would have our front door wide open when the weather was nice, and the windows open to just the screens. Sometimes I would sleep in my basement with the door wide open and no screen in there! Since moving closer to Baltimore my husband has taught me to be somewhat more cautious, especially when driving. When we're in a bad part of the city, he'll reach over out of the blue to lock the doors. When I'm driving alone, especially at night and especially in the city, if I talk to him on my cell phone, he always asks if my doors are locked. I've never been the victim of a carjack but I know they happen. So I don't blame him for being cautious.

And I don't blame this girl either. But there was no one around. And we were in a safe neighborhood. And she was looking right at me.

It's like she was telling me Stay in your car, crazy woman. See me locking my doors? Don't mess with me.

Nothing happened. The light turned green and we both drove off. I didn't even judge her for locking the doors while her windows were completely open and her car was the type where the locks are just inside the window and all you have to do to unlock them is pull up on the tabby thing. So if I wanted to, I could have reached over out my window, pulled her lock up and driven away, cackling maniacally at my cleverness. And there's nothing she could do about it. Unless she was carrying. In which case I would probably be dead. with a maniacal grin on my face.

Anyway so as I'm driving to work I'm thinking about this whole scenario and it strikes me as funny. I am one of the least intimidating people in the world. At least, I think so. First off, I drive a freakin Golf. It's not like I was in a Hummer or a pimped out Low Rider Honda with the windows tinted and the bumper and front left quarter panel a different color from the rest of the car. And I am the most average person in terms of looks. I'm 5'4" and medium build. Even though that's average height, I've recently discovered that many people think of me as short. There is nothing distinguishing or remarkable about me. I have a tattoo but it's on my ankle so there's no way she could have seen it, and even if she had, she'd be more curious about the significance of the cartoon bee wearing Doc Martens while standing on my birthday than intimidated by it.

I believe in vibes, too. I think a totally normal-looking person can send off creepy vibes. Maybe I was just putting out bad vibes. Although as the nmother of a two-year old I feel like my vibes are pretty much G-rated. Maybe I looked semi-deranged in my attempts to wake myself up and that scared her. Who knows?

The Family Table

As much as I complained about how useless my weekend was, there was one significant event that occurred. For the first time since I can remember, my husband and I ate dinner together three nights in a row.

I've explained this so many times before but even still my friends don't realize how different my life is from theirs. Most days of the week, I'm out the door well before 6am. I work until about 2pm. So breakfast is usually eaten in my car on the way to work (at least round 1 is) and lunch is eaten sometime during my workday. When I get home, I usually have about 4 minutes during which I can talk to the man before he has to start getting ready to leave for work. Three of those four minutes are generally spent discussing SB (what she ate, when she went down for a nap, etc.). Most days, that last minute is spent with me whining about how tired I am. I know, I'm such a baby.

Then he showers and leaves for work while I stay home and entertain SB. He usually gets home from work around 9-9:30pm, which is about the time I start thinking about going to bed. Or taking a bath with poo.

Sometimes on the weekends, we'll get to eat together. Usually this is carryout because we all know I don't cook. But a lot of times, we kind of fend for ourselves during the day since that's pretty much what we're used to.

I never really grew up doing the big family dinner thing. When I was younger, it was just my brother and me. My mom would fix dinner for us and we'd eat it together and she would sit there and read to us while we ate. I'm not sure why she didn't just eat with us. Then as we got older, our schedules got hectic with work, school, clubs, sports, and social lives so my mom would just make meals for us to heat up whenever.

Some television channel made a big deal about the "family table" for a while, advertising that kids who ate a sit-down dinner with their family on a regular basis were more likely to stay off drugs, get good jobs, become snappy dressers and have fresher morning breath, or something like that. So I naturally wanted all that for SB, because she definitely has some nasty morning breath.

But I'm rambling on. It was nice that we were able to sit down together three days in a row. I was even able to turn a blind eye to my husband's abominable eating habits long enough to enjoy it. (Seriously, is his elbow glued to the table?)

I know that seems really lame, but that never happens. And for those of you who are able to have a normal dinner - or any meal! - with your spouse/partner on a daily basis, please don't take that for granted.

Hairball

It almost happened. I almost felt sorry for you guys. For a minute there, it looked like I was going to go yet another day with nothing to say. And, in some ways, that's not a bad thing. We can all use a relaxing drama-free weekend every now and then. And mine was almost that. But not quite.

It started off as not only a relaxing uneventful weekend, but a lazy one. For the past two days, I considered my family lucky if I changed out of my pajamas before dinner. Yesterday I spent the entire morning vegging on the couch watching E! and wondering why I wasn't sleeping. I actually got offended when around 4:30pm my husband suggested we go for a walk. But I gave in, peeled myself off the couch and went along. About 10 minutes into it I decided I was too tired and it was too hot so I whined until he agreed to turn around and go home.

Yeah, that's pretty much how my weekend's been going so far. Apparently the whole being lazy thing was too much for me to handle because after I put SB to bed last night, I was exhausted! All I wanted to do was take a bath and go to bed.

So I cleaned all SB's toys out of the tub, filled it up and hopped in. I was just getting to that relaxing point where I was channeling that lady from the old Calgon commercials (Calgon, take me away!!) when I noticed something floating around in the tub. It looked like a little brown fuzz ball.

I figured it was a tuft of our chocolate lab's hair. She had just gotten a bath recently so she was shedding all over the place. Don't ask me why she sheds after she has a bath, she just does. And the fur comes off in little tufts. Which is what I assumed I was bathing with.

I picked it up and was about to reach over to throw it in the trash when I realized something wasn't right. It wasn't furry. It was squishy.

I am a smart person but my brain must have been lazy this weekend too. Instead of being a logical adult and assuming that whatever it was, I didn't want it in the bath tub with me, and tossing it out, I decided to play detective and try to figure out what it was. Bad call.

I studied it closely, it looked like dirt. Or mud, I guess. But how was it staying together in this little ball-like formation? And how did it get in my tub? I certainly didn't do anything that would have involved getting muddy, and neither had SB.

Then it hit me. It was poop. I was holding poop in my hands. SB must have let a little out in the tub during her bath and now I was sitting here holding it. I was holding her poop.

At this point, any normal person would have flung the poo as far away as possible and quickly commenced vigorous hand-washing.

Not me. I felt it necessary to smell the poo.

Just to confirm.

Because wouldn't you want to make sure that the squishy wet brown gunk that you're holding in your hand in the bath tub is, in fact, poo? Isn't it of the utmost importance that you confirm what you think is poo....actually is? Heaven forbid I assume I'm holding poo, only to later find out it wasn't poo at all.

Sometimes I wonder how I made it past kindergarten. Hmmm, I'm pretty sure this is poo, but let me just smell it to be sure. Yeah, that's a brilliant mind right there.

Anyway, needless to say, I was right. It was poo. The bath tub has since been bleached and scrubbed. As have I.

Pretty In Pink

I know that I talk a lot about going to the pool to do my laps, but that's about the most excitement I'm getting these day. It's kind of like my new hobby, and after a rough first couple of weeks (SB got sick then the weather got bad and things just kept coming up) I've been going very consistently! Even if I don't want to.

Once I started going regularly I decided I needed to be organized about it. I am a very organized person. Stop laughing. I am. And I like buying things. So I made a trip to my other bff Target and loaded up a little backpack with things like travel-sized deodorant and shower stuff, a comb, leave-in conditioner to spray in my hair afterwards since I have a serious aversion to showering anywhere but my house, and stuff like that. I bought a little shower tote thingee to put all this new stuff in. I bought a pair of flip-flops to keep in this bag so I always had something to wear out to the pool.

So basically everything stays in my "swimming bag" and all I have to do is take out the wet bathing suit when I get home and replace it with a clean/dry one. I only had 1 one-piece bathing suit so I had to go buy a couple more since I swim every other day and I'm sometimes too lazy tired busy when I get home to take the wet one out and that's just nasty.

See how organized I am? No more rushing around at the last minute to put together a bag to take while trying to get SB ready for the trip.

But I did notice yesterday one little problem with my master plan. Somehow - and this is purely coincidental, I swear - I found myself walking around the locker room yesterday surrounded by this:


I'm not a huge fan of pink. Most of the pink clothes SB had as a baby were gifts, and even now hardly anything in her closet is pink. I think I own one pink shirt, which I rarely wear. And I never do hot pink.

How embarrassing. The ladies in the locker room probably all thought I was some kind of middle school wanna-be. They were probably expecting me to walk out wearing Sketchers and booty shorts with "Princess" written across the bum and a tiara on my head, talking on my pink cell phone which would be decked out with pink fur and glittery stickers while carrying my Hello Kitty backpack, saying things like OMG and NO Way and starting every sentence with the word "like".

Like, omg, that was sooooooo totally not cool.

Face Cellulite

This morning was a rough one for me. I woke up before my alarm with a sinking feeling in my chest, knowing that I was going to have to wake up soon. But instead of trying to go back to sleep I dwelled on this until I finally sucked it up and looked at the clock to see how much time I had left. I think it was around 40 minutes so I went back to sleep.

I got up at 4:20 with the intention of coming in to work around 5am and lifting lower body. But as I started to get dressed I realized my legs were kind of sore from teaching class yesterday, plus I have to teach a step class in a little bit. So I didn't think stressing out my muscles even more was a great idea. Not to mention that I had a headache.

So I stretched out on the couch downstairs and vegged for an hour before getting ready. As I was washing my face I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror (I usually try to avoid this at all costs, especially first thing in the morning) and almost had a heart attack.

I had face cellulite.

Yes you read that right. Cellulite. On my face.

ON MY FACE.

Who has cellulite on her face? I'm 29! I'm in fairly good shape. I only have 1 chin. I fit into single-digit sizes and have decent muscle tone. Why the F do I have cellulite on my FACE and why did I never notice it before?

It was on the left side of my face, down between my chin and my ear. I studied it closely, tugged at it, smushed it together, spread it out, patted it down. It remained lumpy. Luckily it hadn't migrated over to the right side yet so there was still hope. I wondered if they perform jawline liposuction and how much that would cost.

So I'm sitting there somewhere between freaking out and having an aneurysm, for literally about 10 minutes until I realize that my cellulite is the result of an hour's worth of dozing with my face on an afghan.

What a relief!

CyberStalker

It's way past my bedtime and I'm very grumpy right now. I want to go to bed but I'm waiting for some laundry to finish so I can put it in the dryer. Because I trust NO ONE to do this for me when I'm relying on clean clothes the next day.

My excitement du jour is that I finally sucked it up and joined Face Book today. The only reason I did it was because people keep asking me. Plus I was bored out of my mind today and that filled some time.

So I filled out where I went to high school, college and where I work and all these people I might know popped up. I didn't know anyone from college- big surprise there since I was a complete recluse and went out of my way to spend as little time on campus as humanly possible. A bunch of familiar faces came up under the work category which helped pass some time.

But the really interesting thing was seeing all the people from my high school. Kids I went to school with. I'm 29 years old and for some reason I was surprised at how many of the girls were married. Jeez, what does that tell you about me being in denial about my age?! Most of them aren't even in Maryland anymore! I just naturally assumed most would stay in Walkersville. Even though there's nothing there but cows. And a goat.

The funny thing is that for some reason the one person who kept popping up everywhere, even though I didn't go to her profile or anything, was the sister of the first guy I kissed in high school. It's like she knew. And now she totally hates me and she's stalking me on Face Book even though I haven't seen either of them for over 10 years (Good Lord I'm old!). I should throw a birthday cake at her or something. I hear you can do that on Face Book.

So I spent the last 2 hours of my work day looking at everyone I knew and starting to request them as a friend then chickening out at the last minute because I was worried they'd think I was a big fat nerd with no friends. Which I am, but I'm not interested in making that public knowledge. Except to you.