I Judge Some Books by their Covers. But Not All.

TB just left for his 12-2am Senators' gig. And I'm sitting here trying to get into my newest book. I tried to find someone to go with me to the gig, but all my friends are either out of town or have plans. Stupid friends who are physically unavailable....

I could have gone by myself. It wouldn't be the first time that I attended one of TB's gigs on my own. But the All Mighty Senators are a completely different situation. These guys are scary.

Now don't get me wrong- I've met most of them and I consider them all to be very decent, intelligent people. Yes, Craig the trombone player has the biggest 'fro I've ever seen on a white guy, which compliments his long beard that he wears braided. And frightens the bejeezes out of SB. Yes, Dave the trumpet player maintains an eerie likening to what would happen if Skeletor and John Lennon created a love child. Yes, Landis, the drummer/lead singer wears makeup and dresses.

But I swear- they're all really nice guys. They're just fairly successful musicians who do nothing but focus on their art, so they can look as scary eccentric as they want.

The problem lies in their following. I mean, what kind of person do you think would be drawn to this:


They've actually come a long way, seeing as how this is what they looked like about 15 years ago.



Click on the photo to enlarge it, then look carefully all the way to the left. You'll see part of a man (I can only presume it's Landis) wearing nothing but Underoos. And this is tame. I remember seeing one shot where band members were wearing diapers and angel wings. Yeah, so you can maybe imagine why I chose to stay at home rather than brave this insanity alone.

So I'm sitting here trying to get through my most recent book, Broken. It wasn't my first choice. I actually got it from the library. I haven't been to the library in years. I prefer to purchase all my books, because I don't really read anything anymore unless I'm confident that I like it. And if I like it I always end up wanting to keep it. But TB told me that we'd probably go broke if I kept buying all my books, plus SB's. Especially since I've been going through a book and a half per week lately.

I was not happy with the library's selection. Barnes & Noble has a much better spread of books. And they're not all smelly and worn out. Who knows where these books have been? Who knows what the person who read this book before me was doing while they read? I shudder just thinking of the possibilities.

I'll be the first to admit it: I'm a total book snob. And I totally judge books by their covers. Unless it was a recommendation from one of my bookworm friends, if the cover's not attractive to me, I don't read it. So this particular book, Broken, was only chosen because its cover was more appealing to me than any other one on the shelf. And because it was paperback. I hate hardcover. I only get them on the very rare occasion that it's the only option for the book I want.

So yeah, I'm not too sure this library thing is going to work out for me. It's great for SB- they had a whole shelf of Dr. Seuss books! But I was so impressed with the ones that we got (One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish and Fox In Socks) that I'm afraid I might just want to go out and buy them.

We'll see.

Whatever It Takes.

So last night's rant about the Spawn of Satan got me thinking about the strange habits of people in my fitness center. Well, that and the fact that one of the most annoying is here now. So I decided to take the time to make fun of discuss some of the bizarre, or just plain old annoying, things people do while here in the Fitness Center.

There's a guy who comes in first thing in the morning. Usually he gets here even before the doors have been unlocked, and I have to let him in. That in and of itself is annoying, in my books. But while he's working out, he raps. Out loud. And he's the scrawniest, tiniest little white boy I've seen in my life. But he's totally gangsta. It's more aggravating than amusing, but he's not the only one who sings out loud to the music bouncing around in his head. There are several people who forget that they're not 1)alone; or 2)trying out for American Idol and sing out loud to their iPod music. But for some reason, this rap guy gets on my nerves the most. I don't need to hear this.

Then there's the Sweaty Moaner. Have I mentioned him before? Nicest guy in the world. And he works out very hard. So hard, in fact, that anything that comes within a 4' radius of him is covered in sweat in a matter of seconds. I understand that naturally, some people sweat more than others. I also have a hunch that he is on some kind of medication, either prescription (antidepressants) or not (thermogenics) that cause excessive sweat. Or all of the above. Because the amount of sweat that penetrates from his body is unnatural. All he needs to do is turn his head and anyone standing in the general vicinity gets a spray. Gross.

But that's not all. In addition to the inhuman amounts of sweat emanating from his body, he also has the obnoxious habit of emitting the most feminine sounds ever to come from a man while he lifts. He tries to lift heavy. Personally, from watching him, I think he's lifting a little too heavy because he doesn't really go through full range of motion, and his form sucks ass. But he's trying. I know a lot of guys here either grunt as they lift, or they exhale forcefully, producing a slightly unnerving hissing sound. As a girl, I don't really get this, but if it's what they need to do to prevent the passing out that would result from them holding their breath as they lifted, then I'm all about it. But the Sweaty Moaner doesn't grunt, he moans.

The first couple of times I heard him, I looked around to see who was getting laid and where. I can't really put into words how this sounds, but whenever I hear it, I immediately expect to hear the sounds of sweaty body parts slamming together, and wait for him to yell out "Oh, GOD, YES!!!!" It's not a sound that any guy should ever make, in the gym or in the bedroom.

There's one guy who talks to himself in the mirror in between sets. I know he's not rapping because he doesn't listen to music as he works out. But in between sets on the machines he'll inch up really close to the mirror, look himself in the eye, and talk quietly to his reflection. I think he's motivating himself and providing himself with positive reinforcement for a job well done. I haven't been lucky enough, or close enough, to actually hear what he's saying. But I'm not completely sure I want to.

One of my least favorite people here is the Slammer. He's an older guy (in his 50's, maybe?) who comes in and slams the weights down once he's finished with each set. Not free weights, where they would only make a dull thud after landing on the padded floor. Oh, no. This guy slams down the weights on the machines. So after he's finished with the leg press, for example, instead of easing the plate back down to the starting position like most normal people, he just lets all tension in his legs go, which results in a loud WHACK, which causes me to jump out of my skin. Every. Single. Time.

Keep in mind that I spent a good part of my career dealing with seniors and high risk populations. I've basically trained myself to, by reflex, jump over the counter at the sound of any loud slamming noise since that usually means someone went down or is pinned under a weight. So I lose about 4 years off of my life every time this guy comes in since I can't seem to get used to it. We've told him before that not only is it bad for the equipment to slam the weight stack down like that, it's also bad on his joints. But he doesn't care. He just nods and moves on to the next exercise.

At some point in his routine, he likes to back himself up against a corner that juts out. Usually, this is the corner adjacent to the door of the group exercise room. He positions himself so that the corner is in line with his butt crack. Then he puts his arms out to the side like he's trying to fly, and proceeds to do squats like that.

Wall squats? I get. They are a great exercise, especially for those with back problems. But I'm not sure why he does it up against a corner. Most people do it against the flat part of the wall. It actually looks painful, especially as he lowers down and his legs bend and (in my mind, as much as I try not to visualize this) open up the crack of his butt more, making him more...vulnerable to the sharp point of the corner.

Weird.

There's plenty more where that came from, but I think I'll save the rest for another post, the next time people's odd habits start getting on my nerves. Stay tuned!

The Spawn Returns

So The Spawn is in here right now. This time, she came in considerably earlier than before- I guess she walked in around 7pm. But she didn't change her clothes, she hobbled right up to the leg press machine, heaved herself onto it and went to town with all of 7.5 pounds of resistance.

Does it even go that low? I hope not.

I say she hobbled because she's limping around like a wounded buffalo. I ran into her on the main floor one day about a month or so ago and saw she had one of those boots on. You know what I'm talking about- those blue boots that people strap on when their injury doesn't warrant a hard cast. I'm sure they have a name, but seeing as how I just barely manage to escape needing medical attention every time I injure myself (which is frequently), I've never needed one.

She's not wearing it now, which disappoints me since I would kick her out of her faster than she could whip out her tail and stab me with the pointy end.

But the battle's on. It's 7:13 and she's the only thing standing in my way of leaving this Hellhole. I have a sinking feeling that she's going to draw out her lame and pointless workout until 7:31, at least, then complain that I was rushing her so I could close early.

A quick survey of the room told me that she's doing pelvic thrusts against the seat of the back extension machine. And by pelvic thrusts I mean standing behind the machine and repeatedly thrusting her lower lady parts area into the back of the seat of the machine. That's a new exercise. I wonder if she's trying to mate with it. Plant her seed. To produce the Spawn of the Spawn of Satan.(Note to self: disinfect back extension machine first thing in the morning. Or better yet, burn it.)

OMG now she's heading over to the rower. Seriously, the woman thing can hardly walk and she's going to row??

Oh, the agony. I swear, she does this on purpose. I must have been naughty recently, because this is certainly punishment. Why am I alone with her? Why didn't I bring my garlic and my cross?

OK, she's off the rower. I think she pulled back twice. Tough workout.

She hobbled over to the water fountain, glanced at a notice hanging above the fountain, and is now making her way back to her lover the back extension machine.

--Are you loving this play-by-play, by the way? It's all I can do to keep from throwing myself onto her back and stabbing her in the place her heart would be with a pen.

OK she's gone. And so am I.

Band Wife or Divorcee?

In case you're wondering why I haven't much been discussing the Band Wife aspect of my life as a Band Wife, it's been a slow couple of months. My husband, both with and without The Band plays much fewer gigs during the winter, and the few that he does play are mostly private jobs that I can't attend.

That being said, he's playing this Friday night at the Recher Theater in Towson with the All Mighty Senators, a funk group who he played and toured with back in the day, before he and I got together. Also on the bill for that evening are Jah Works and the Kelly Bell Band. Kind of big names, locally. I was really looking forward to it but now I'm finding out that none of my friends can go with me. So I'm not sure whether my participation in this event is going to occur.

In a few weeks, he's playing with The Band at a Swing Dance Society dance. LPP is planning on coming back for this one, and bringing his friend Jesus (pronounced Hey-Zoos...in case there was any confusion), which thrills me to no end because 1)it's LPP, and we all know how I feel about him; and 2)they can both swing dance. So I'm looking forward to that.

I hope we have a sitter lined up.

Zero Calorie Foods

I would hope that I know more than the average person about health, fitness and nutrition. If not, then I should probably not be doing what I do. Not that that's really stopped anyone before.

I've been in the field a long time, but I think I maintain a fairly objective view of what people who aren't in the field should and shouldn't know. How to choreograph a step class? Shouldn't necessarily know. That potato chips are not health food because they are made of potatoes, which are vegetables? Probably should know.

When I worked at the hospital, I implemented a hospital-wide team weight loss challenge. Just as it sounds, anyone who worked in the hospital could team up with any 3 other workers. They got their body fat and weight measured at the start of the program, then again at the end. If I remember correctly, the winners were those who lost the greatest percentage of body weight.

Since the whole idea was to promote healthy eating and exercise habits, my department (as representatives of the hospital fitness center) offered weekly emails with hints and suggestions, motivational meetings, free group personal training, and free fitness center memberships through the course of the challenge. I was the contact person for all of this, and all communication came from me.

My Inbox was filled each week with questions and concerns from many participants. I was glad to have the opportunity to help these people achieve their goals, so I didn't mind one bit.

But I started getting frustrated when the stupid questions came pouring in. I know that sounds really mean. But seriously, these were adults asking me things that I couldn't believe someone couldn't know.

For example, one lady asked me for a list of the foods with no calories. Really? Even gum has calories! I told her water and diet soda are the only two I know about, and there has been a lot of research suggesting diet soda actually increases your risk of obesity. I know there are some foods (celery and lettuce, maybe?) that have a reputation for containing less calories than it takes to chew and digest them, but really- was this person planning on living off of celery, lettuce and diet coke? If it were that easy, obesity wouldn't be such a problem in these United States!

Just today, someone approached me after an abs class with concerns that something was wrong with him because he couldn't come up into a full sit-up, in fact he could barely get his shoulder blades off the ground. And he was worried that, when doing the leg lift exercises, he felt pressure in his lower back. I explained to him that nothing was wrong with him, he just needs to strengthen his abdominal muscles.

I also love how girls come to me asking for a new workout routine to help them lose some weight, and when I ask them about their diet, I find that they're basically starving themselves. Sure, that might work in the short term, but eventually they're going to lose all their muscle mass which will slow down their metabolism, which will cause them to burn less calories on a daily basis. Not to mention that this habit can only be maintained for a short period of time before the ultimate binge occurs. Then all the weight will be gained back, with a vengeance, and there will be less muscle to counteract it, and they will be worse off than they started.

Maybe I'm being a snob, but these things seem common sense to me. I'm not sure why someone would come into an abs class and expect to be in as good shape as the instructor or others who have been taking the class a few times per week for the last 2 years.

I wasn't always a fitness professional. Back in the day, if I wanted to lose weight, for example, I read a book or did research on the Internet before confronting a professional with my concerns. At least that way I didn't look like a complete idiot. People are so lazy these days.

Yawn.

I try not to complain about my job too much. Blank Stare? Yes, I complain about him all the time. But he is just one aspect of my job. I feel that there is just no use complaining about my job because right now it's all I've got. But sometimes things just get to me.

I get bored very easily. I'm no Einstein, but I have common sense and a really great work ethic. Don't laugh- I do. I've been complimented on it my entire life. No employer of mine has ever complained that I don't try hard enough, or that I have problems grasping the concept of my job. When faced with a new position, it takes me a little time, but eventually I master it.

Then I get bored.

I am beyond bored in my current position. The only challenging part of my job is when I have to teach a step class with a tummy ache. That's kind of tough. But other than that, it's in the bag. In fact, it was in the bag my first day. I got there at 11:30am, and was alone by 2pm. I closed by myself the first night there. Does that give you a pretty good idea of what's expected of me? Very little.

Yeah. My favorite job so far was when I was an exercise physiologist in the cardiac rehab department of a large hospital. Now that was a good job for me and my WADD (work ADD). On any given day I could be doing any combination of the following: Phase I, II or III cardiac rehab, medical fitness, personal training, teaching group exercise, bariatric consultations, diabetes lectures, new member orientations, writing the newsletter, working on incentive programs, working on the new Exercise for Cancer Patients manual, or MI/high risk patient consultations.

It was awesome. I was never bored, and I was constantly challenged.

Here? I am always bored. Basically I see my current job as one big social hour, interrupted only by classes I teach and the random assessment I get to do. And as much fun as that is to spend my days harassing the people who work for the company whose fitness center I staff, it kind of sucks when they have work to do. Which is more often than I do. Which is never.

But I also get frustrated when I see things that are neglected by my fellow staff. Photocopies of forms that were never made, sweat towels and CDs left out in the AV cabinet in the Group Ex room, publications that brag eternal life and contain so many typos and misprints and spelling/grammatical errors that they look like they were put together by a blind Chinese kindergartner. They leave without folding the required number of towels for the person on the next shift. I understand what it's like to be soooo busy you don't have time to put your towel in the bin. BUT WE'RE SOOOO NOT BUSY AT MY GYM. So really, there's no excuse.

I have high standards. I've been dealing with the repercussions of having these unattainable standards my entire life, so it's really not their problem that I'm getting frustrated. It's my own. But it is really becoming a problem.

I've tried to create work for myself. I expanded the monthly newsletter to 4 pages, from the 2 pages that it was originally. Just so I would have more stuff to research and look up. I've pretty much taken over doing all the end of the month reports and paperwork so that there's at least one day per month that I am slightly busy. Other than that, there's not much else to do.

Except thank my lucky stars that I at least have the Internet, and a plethora of work friends that I can badger with constant emails begging them to entertain me.

Why Don't We All Just Sleep In?

Here's what my eyes are seeing right now, as I sit here at work on yet another boring Saturday morning. I don't know if I'm in a really bad mood right now, and judging relentlessly, or if people are getting weirder and weirder by the day, but people are really annoying me today.

For example, two girls running on treadmills are engaged in a conversation about how annoying a mutual friend is. This wouldn't be so bad, in and of itself, even though it's difficult to hear even a person standing next to you above the sound of the treadmills' motors as well as 2 pairs of feet pounding on the belt. But both girls have their ipods strapped to their arms, and headphones jammed in their ears. So not only do they have to yell over the sound of the machines, but they have to be loud enough that they can hear each other over the sound of each girl's personal selection of background music.

There is a guy on the Reebok Fusion who has a towel draped over his head. I don't understand that. He looks like he belongs on the sands of Saudi Arabia on the back of a camel. What would people think if I stood in front of my step class and proceeded to teach with a towel draped over my head? Why can't he just wipe the sweat away on his shirt like everyone else does?

These are all stupid little things, I know. But here's the most annoying thing for me. I took the initiative to have a plastics recycling bin put in the fitness center. We're not the greenest people on earth, so it's certainly the least we could do, especially since water's just about all anyone drinks in here. So imagine my disappointment when I walked in this morning and saw this:



I know for a fact that it's Blank Stare's. That's the kind of water he drinks, and he was the closer last night.

I will give him this: I know what it's like to finish up a bottle of water just before you're walking out for the night. The desk where we watch porn surf the net looking for jobs play on Face Book email coworkers about how much we hate Blank Stare sit is on the opposite end of the gym from the recycling bin.

I know how much of a pain it is to walk all the way to the other end of the fitness center just to drop a bottle in, then turn around and go all the way back. Really, I do! I've been in that exact same situation before, myself.

But I feel so guilty dropping the bottle into the trash, especially since the only reason I'm doing that is because of my own laziness.

So I'll do one of three things: 1) Get over myself and make the 10-second walk to the recycle bin; 2) Throw the empty water bottle into my bag and take it home with me to throw into my own recycling bin there; or 3) Set the empty bottle on my desk and throw it in my bin the next morning.

I am really not the queen of laziness, but at the end of a long day where I've worked out on my own in addition to teaching classes that wear me out, and all I want to do is go home, sometimes I just don't want to make that extra effort. So sue me.

Even if he didn't choose one of my options listed above, I still feel that Blank Stare could have done something besides just throwing it out.

This just reinforces my already unfavorable opinion of him.

Oh- and before you ask- YES I did take the nasty BS-spit-riddled bottle out of the trash and put it in the blue bin.

Dear Diary

Apparently my last post about yesterday evening didn't contain enough excitement for Eludius (can you say Drama Queen?) so here's another post that has less of my current mundane life as a mom and more of my former mundane life as a teenager.

I don't keep a diary now, but I did throughout most of high school. For some reason, a few days ago I thought about my diary and how I chronicled my trying out for the volleyball team my freshman year. I have taken the liberty of transcribing certain entries from this period (word for word), because what could be more thrilling than reading what a 13 year old girl has to say about trying out for the volleyball team? I think this tells you a lot about the kind of person I am. And it's not very favorable. Of course.

August 14, 1993
Hey! Wassup? (Did I expect an answer?)A lot here. I went to Dad's for a week. It was ok but really boring. I got 3 new shirts for school. Now all I need is jeans and summerwear. Tracy's here now but she's asleep. She spent the night here and we stayed up until like 4:30am talking. It was fun. On Monday I start volleyball practice. I can't wait. I hope I make the team. I'm trying out against 30 other girls; 10 will make the team. I hope I'm one of them. It means a lot to me. There was a meeting on Thursday for all autumn sports and Alonzo was there, talking with Susan H. I felt sorta bad cause I just ignored him and didn't even say "hi" but I didn't want to seem as if I was there alone so I had to find Angie C., who's also trying out for volleyball who I'm positive will make it. She's really good. I wish my hair would hurry up and grow. It's starting to grow in straight, but the ends are frizzier than ever. REALLY curly. I hope it's not natural. I sent out to get some shampoo that makes hair grow faster. I doubt I'll get it though. I sent cash and you were supposed to send checks or CODs. They could just take my money. I hope they are honest enough to send it (the shampoo). And if they do, I hope it works. It seems like the perfect solution to my problem. OK Gotta run. C ya.

OK I think that one sentence about the meeting where I ignored Alonzo? Can you say run-on? Also, I'm really glad that I clarified that it was the shampoo that I hope the company sends, and not something else. And yes, a shampoo that makes one's hair grow faster DOES seem like the perfect solution to the problem of hair that needs to grow. Yeah.

August 19, 1993
Hey! I'm SO sore and tired from volleyball. My legs really ache. I don't see why since we're not really doing too much with our legs anyway. Except for all the running. Tomorrow is the first cuts. I'm sorta worried. Jasmine G, Tara, Sarah A, Kim, Shannon, Sherry, Evie and maybe Sarah H. Those are the people I'm most worried about. Crystal too. I really want to make the team. Well, if I don't make the team, I won't be a sore loser about it. At least then I won't have to swim. It's such a pain for me. Alonzo called me again the other day (He can't swim) (He told me that). He also asked what I was doing that night. I was worried what he'd say next so I said "sleeping." That shut him up! I like him, but only as a friend. I'm really tired now. I'll write more tomorrow after I get home from (1st cuts) practice and tell you how I did. C ya.

Really? That's so weird that my legs were sore...but I wasn't doing anything with them. You know, aside from all that running. And no, I have no idea what swimming had to do with making the team.

OK here's my favorite entry:

August 20, 1993
Hi. I'm sorta depressed. I didn't make it past first cuts. NOT! I made it through with flying colors! Here are all the non-varsity players who made it.....I won't bore you with that list, but it started off with "moi"....Angie C. says that she thinks 3-5 people will be cut this Friday. I hope I'm not one of them. I got a temporary uniform to wear tomorrow cause we're getting a group picture taken. I must look bee-yoo-ti ful! I'm not too worried about being popular this year. I just want to be liked. By everyone. C ya.

OK. I can't get over the fact that I actually thought I might FORGET that I was on the volleyball team and believe that I didn't make it past first cuts. Or at least I couldn't until I pulled this diary out a few years ago, read this entry and believed it. Yes. For an instant there, I was terrified that I never actually made it onto the team, but had convinced myself that I had somehow. Whatever, this paragraph is confusing me, even.

But I'm also really impressed at the maturity I showed by not being too worried about being popular and just being happy with being liked. By everyone.

Is It the Weekend Yet?

Yesterday was a very busy day for me, after work. I had to take SB with me to drop Bucky off at the airport, then go straight to dance class, get the obligatory Wednesday night Chicken nugget happy meal and milkshake from Chik Fila (for SB, not me), get my run in, put SB to bed, then settle down to watch America's Next Top Model.

Bringing SB to the airport was a huge mistake. Not like I had a choice or anything, since The Man had to work. But she convinced herself that she was going to get to ride in an airplane, and once she realized that wasn't going to happen, she was inconsolable. In rush hour traffic. On the Baltimore beltway.

Yeah, fun stuff.

So we went to dance class. The good news is that Anna didn't lick the floor this time. She was out sick last week and I can't help but wonder if she licked up some germ off the floor. Yuck! The crazy loud older girls were there again this week, yelling and screaming, knocking on the bathroom door while someone was in it, then running away. I was actually impressed that the Mother Du Jour (I think they all taking turns carting all the girls to class each week) actually reprimanded them for being obnoxious. Plus, I like them just a little more this week because one girl actually went out of her way to tell the one they were making fun of a few weeks ago what they were doing- an obvious attempt to include her! Nevermind that she didn't really care...I was happy they made the effort.

Then I went home and procrastinated running for as long as I possibly could. Dance class ends at 5:30, so after picking up SB's dinner, we were probably home just before 6pm. I think it was around 8pm by the time I heaved myself onto the treadmill. And I didn't accomplish one single thing during that time, except realizing that I have atrocious split ends and am way overdue for a haircut.

I should have not even bothered with the treadmill. I might have helped SB with her milkshake a little- the calories don't count when it's her milkshake, right?? .....right? And I think that's probably the main reason as to why, 13 minutes into the run I had to pull the emergency stop magnet from the machine and throw myself onto the ground, writhing in pain at the horrible cramps in my stomach. I am so not a natural runner. I get cramps and stitches in my side all the freaking time. It's gotten better since I've become more serious about running, but every once in a while I'll do something stupid, like run with half a milkshake in my stomach, or after eating a pound of cherries, and the stitches will come back.

Usually I can run them off, but this one migrated from my right side to the center, then spread to both sides from there. I usually put a hand on the pain and press in, and coordinate my breathing, but I looked really stupid running with both hands on my hips, pinching my fat. Plus it wasn't working. So I gave up.

Once the pain was tolerable, I looked up at SB on the couch and found that she had fallen asleep. What?! That never happens! She never falls asleep on the couch! I guess not getting to ride on the airplane must have really taken something out of her. I brought her upstairs, brushed her teeth, threw her in her pj's and put her to bed a half hour early.

Are you totally on the edge of your seat reading this? I know...exciting stuff.

Then I settled in to watch the season finale of America's Next Top Model. LAME. My girls never wins. Usually my girl comes in second place, but this time she came in 3rd. I don't know why I bother anymore.

So I tossed and turned in bed, getting about 2 hours' worth of sleep total, got up this morning and finished my run. And here I am, waiting for the weekend. Pretty much because the excitement of this week is way too overwhelming for me. I need a break from the crazy.

Is it here yet?

Trust Issues

I am a very gullible person. I tend to believe most of everything I hear. Of course, if my education has taught me otherwise, I will be skeptical. So, those of you who work with me would be relieved to hear that if someone told me that, for example, a study conducted by the University of West Virginia found that women who strength trained regularly for a year were 15-20 years younger at the close of the study, I would contest that. (For those of you who don't work with me and haven't heard that story, it's a kind of inside joke, and I'm well aware that it's West Virginia University.)

But when it comes to personal issues, I will believe just about anything. Why? Because I trust people to tell me the truth. I was a horrible liar in high school. I don't mean I was a bad liar- I was actually quite good at it. By horrible I mean I did it way too much. In high school, I craved adoration and attention, so I would make up stupid stuff to make myself interesting to people. But I'm pretty sure that no one knew. At least, no one ever tried to call me on it. I was good at it. The key to being a good liar is offering just the right amount of information- not too much and not too little- and not making the lies too incredibly outlandish. And making people think you're a bad liar helps too.

But this needy phase in high school was the exception for me. Other than that, I've been an incredibly honest person. Not counting towards my mom. I've lied to her my entire life, and will probably continue to lie to her about random things until the day I die. Even if I die after her, I will probably lie to her in mental conversations with her in the afterlife. Even if she can see every move I make. But my messed up, dishonest relationship with my mother is another post altogether. So take what I say in this post to mean all relationships outside the one with my mom.

When I was in first and second grade, I lived across the court from a boy named Jason. He was my age, and although we went to different schools, we spent a lot of our free time together. I guess I was kind of a slut even then because we would often sneak into the woods behind his house to make out. I know. Second grade. I'm so ashamed.

Anyway, during the time that was not spent swapping spit, he would tell me all these stories about girls in his class that he had crushes on. In one particular instance, he related to me how he had actually tried to kiss one of the girls, but she moved away just in time. I think my brother was around when Jason told this story, and I think I said something to him about it. I don't think Joe knew that Jason and I were having a mini-affair, but I guess it was obvious to him that Jason kind of had a crush on me, because he said Jason was only saying those things to make me jealous.

I didn't get it. Why would he be trying to make me jealous? Didn't he already pretty much get whatever he wanted with me? (Yes, we were just kissing...please!) And I liked Jason, but it's not like I was planning our wedding or anything. I saw it as just having fun. Getting practice for later. We were still allowed to see other people, as far as I was concerned. I obviously felt that I was too young at the time to be tied down to one person. But why is it that Joe could see that these were just stories, but I couldn't?

Even now I have problems taking things with a grain of salt. I have one friend who is notorious among people who know him for exaggerating things. But I don't accept that. If he tells me that he went to a club and the women were all over him, pawing him left and right, I'll believe it. Why wouldn't I? How would he benefit from my believing that is a total ladies' man? A piece of meat? It wouldn't make me paw him up! It doesn't make me jealous because he's not my husband! And why would he want to make me jealous anyway?

For some reason, all of our friends see this. I will relate a story to them that he told me and their unanimous response is that that's what he says but he tends to exaggerate things, so it probably didn't happen, at least not the way he described. But I always believe him. Sometimes it frustrates me because exciting things tend to happen to him, and, as you can tell from this blog, I am experiencing a general lack of excitement in my life these days. That's when I wish that I possessed that skepticism that allows me to separate fantasy from fact and think that things may not have happened quite as interestingly as he described.

So then the problem arises when I compare myself to what this guy, and others like him, are saying. I'm not the kind of person who gets upset when good things happen to other people, especially my friends. But when a person speaks incessantly about, oh, I don't know...how ginormous his house is, or how incredibly busy she is because of her amazing social life, I tend to belittle my own house and social life. Which is even worse when what that person is saying isn't even completely true! So then in my head, these other people have completley fascinating, exciting lives with great houses, perfect families and incredible friends. And I am left feeling completely inadequate. Not a good feeling.

And now I'm having problems with my boyfriend obsession favorite author Augusten. His books are supposed to be true accounts of what happened. I took every word as the gospel. I believed his mother handed him over to her psychiatrist when he was in his early teens so she could deal with the effects of her failing marriage and pursue a life as a poet and writer. I believe that this psychiatrist's family was bizarre, unconventional family who spent their time eating dog food, admiring poop, living in their front yard and creating massive holes in the ceiling of their kitchen.

Why do I believe it? Because he says it's true. So every word is taken literally, in my mind. But now I find out (and forgive me for my ignorance to current events- this is actually old news) that the family that he was sent to live with actually sued him because of his inaccurate portrayal of his time spent with them.

So....it's not true? Did he or did he not play with an old electroshock machine? Who do I believe? I want to believe Augusten. Because why would he lie?

To sell books.

So where does that leave me? I guess at this point, I still believe what people say. And I'm vaguely aware that there might be some element of juicing things up to make them more interesting. And that might bother me somewhat. But I'm not about to start calling people out, attacking every minute detail of what they say in the hopes I can catch them in a lie. I guess the key is just listening and accepting, but not letting the details have an effect on me on the off chance that they are not accurate.

Easier said than done!

A Wolf or a Sheep?

So if you read my last few posts, or if you are my friend on face book, you'd know about my obsession with Augusten Burroughs. It's no secret that he is my Infatuation Du Semaine. So it's only to be expected that today's post be about...well, him.

Not so much him specifically as the effect that he's had on my life. Well, not so much the effect he's had, but more his father, and the relationship (or lack thereof) that they had.

It took me about a day to finish Burroughs' most recent book, A Wolf at the Table. This is a memoir that focuses primarily on Burroughs' youth and living and dealing with his unemotive father, who is depicted as a pathetic excuse for a parent. Examples of his apathy toward his younger son include, but are not limited to: pushing Augusten away when trying to hug him upon his return home from work, killing off his guinea pig, getting him a baseball mit for his birthday, but refusing to play with him or even thinking of getting him a ball with which to use it, trying to drive the car, occupied by Augusten and himself, into a pole, and refusing to tell Augusten that he was a good son, after doing just that to his older brother, when on his death bed.

Yeah. So basically the guy's a creep. While reading any of Burroughs' books, my heart goes out to him completely because of his honesty and vulnerability. But this particular booked touched me in a different way.

Because a lot of the stories were told from a young child's perspective, it gave me some insight into how SB must see things.

Don't get me wrong- I most certainly do not neglect SB. She gets tons of attention from both parents. But I do value her "playing alone" time as well. And sometimes she finishes her alone time before I am finished with mine. So I put her off for a few minutes until I am ready to play.

But there is tons of play time. I know all her toys as well as, if not better than, she does. I can recite all the words to her favorite movies since I'm sitting right next to her watching them. I know all her silly dances and recognize if she's cranky because she's bored or tired. I take her to new places and on fun trips. And when there's nothing else to do, we're just stupid and silly together.

But this book has made me reconsider how I spend my time with her. Before, if there was housework that needed to be done, I'd park SB in front of the TV or set her up with her Play Doh so that she was occupied while I did it. It made sense to me: get her interested in something else so I can do what I need to do. But the housework is always going to be there, and I want her earliest memories to be of us doing things together.

So last night I assigned myself the fun task of spot-cleaning the carpet in the living room and staircase and scrubbing the kitchen floor. I turned the TV off, armed SB with her own towel (although she preferred to use baby wipes) and she worked in the kitchen while I worked on the carpet. Then we switched. This worked for a while, and she was chatting away the entire time about how clean the floor is, and telling me how to do it right.

Then, she got bored of doing her own thing, and started climbing on my back. I kept working, but tried to play with her at the same time. Once I finished my work and the floors were acceptably spotless and vacuumed completely, I washed my hands and read her a book. Then she took her bath and went to bed.

Today I didn't have to be at work until 11:30 so this morning I applied the same concept of living my life and doing my thing, but including her in everything I did instead of trying to juggle entertaining her and getting my work done.

Amazingly, last night and this morning were probably the nicest times I've spent with her in a long time. There was hardly any crying (on her part or mine!), no whining, no complaining, and best of all- no fighting, hitting, or saying no! I couldn't believe it. And I got stuff done. Without feeling like I was pushing SB away or neglecting her.

I can't wait for Burroughs to put out more books. I feel like I owe him a major thank you for putting me in the right mindset and realizing that kids understand what's going on, and remember things. Before it got too late.

Enter, Restraining Order

So...I have a new obsession.

I am all but physically stalking Augusten Burroughs. Yes, Augusten Burroughs as in Running with Scissors, Dry, Sellevision, Possible Side Effects, Magical Thinking, and most recently, A Wolf at the Table.

To say I'm a fan would be the understatement of the year. I read the first 4 of the books listed above a while ago and was very into his style of writing. His complete and utter devotion to being 100% honest about everything quickly gave him a special place in my heart. I was all about him.

Then I forgot about him. Things got busy with the job, with the kid, with life, and I completely forgot to look out for any new books of his. But then I was at the bookstore last week and I came across Magical Thinking, which I immediatlely purchased and completed within days. Over the weekend I bought A Wolf at the Table, which I am already more than halfway through.

But the best part is that he's approachable. Or stalkable, I should say. He has a facebook page. Which I have spent countless hours perusing. He has his own website, also at the top of my list of recently visited sites on both my home and work computer.

I have a long history of becoming obsessed with people. Rockapella (specifically Scott Leonard...are we married yet?), They Might Be Giants, and more ordinary in-my-everyday-life people than I'd care to admit (unfortunately, I'm still working on the absolute honesty thing, myself).

Scott Leonard is from Indiana, and I have an uncle who lives there. When I was in my teens, my father brought me there to visit him. I'd be lying if I said I didn't look up C. Scott Leonard in the phone book, attempt to call, and even go so far as to look up potential cab companies to bring me to him, since I knew my father would not go for that. Luckily I was broke so I had to settle for racking up my uncle's phone bill by prank calling someone who might or might not have been Scott. Or related to him. Or an unfortunate man with the same name who happened to live in Indiana.

When I was in high school I had a huge crush on the guy who sat in front of me in spanish class. His name was Nathan Doll and he was amazing. His mother was from Ecuador and I'm pretty sure his father was a Greek god. He was really tall and had this awesome dark curly hair and these really long long legs that I'd stare at for hours. His quads were like perfect rectangles under his jeans. And the back of his shoulders were...

Ahem...is it hot in here?

Anyway.

So Nathan. Somehow I found out where he lived, and despite his home's location on the opposite side of Cowtown from me, I would drive by his house on a daily basis. Sometimes twice in a day. Good thing I never saw him mowing the lawn with his shirt off or anything or I'd probably drive off the road.

One time I left school for a dentist appointment, and for some reason, couldn't make the entire 3 minute drive from the dentist's office to the school without having to stop to go to the bathroom. So I stopped at the one MacDonald's in Cowtown. As I was leaving the parking lot, I found myself in line behind Nathan. So I did what any normal teenage girl would do with her current infatuation in the car in front of her.

I rear-ended him.

It was gently. He turned around in his seat all pissed off. I smiled and waved and I think I even blew him a kiss. Luckily he recognized me, smiled back and went on his way. I don't think we ever discussed that incident.

So bottom line? Even though Augusten is a gay guy living in New York and I am a heterosexual female living in Baltimore, and both of us are in monogamous relationships, if I should find myself in my car behind his, you better believe I'll be giving the back of his car a love tap with my own.

From the Mouths of Babes

This weekend was pretty rough. Friday was spent trying to calm down 2 toddlers who both have sharing issues. Saturday was spent trying to entertain a very grumpy SB, and Sunday was spent begging SB to stop whining and crying.

It's just a phase.

At least that's what TB and I keep telling ourselves.

I was on my own with SB on Saturday afternoon/evening because TB had some private gig in Baltimore. My intentions were to bring her to "Storyville," which is located in a nearby public library and, according to their website, provides a free indoor play area that promotes reading. Win-win! However, SB took a very late nap, and by the time she woke up and rid herself of her post-nap wenchitude, Storyville was closed for the day.

So I brought her to the Hunt Valley Town Center with the promise of a surprise from the "toy store" and an ice cream if she would behave at Dick's long enough for Mommy to buy some new workout gloves. She wasn't horrendous. The ride home wasn't the best ever, but I've witnessed worse. I spent about $80 at Greetings & Readings, and all I bought for myself was the new Augusten Burroughs (my newest obsession- check back later for more on that) book. Everything else was toys or presents for SB.

The little rascal thanked me for my graciousness later that evening. She requested no bath for the evening, and my goal for that night was no fights, so I agreed. We put her jammies on and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. My MO for flossing her teeth involves sitting cross-legged on the floor of the bathroom with her head in my lap, mouth open and chin up. It's the easiest way for me to get to the back teeth, and I'm amazingly gentle for fear of drawing blood, so she usually doesn't mind.

Except this time. For some reason she did NOT want her teeth flossed. She kept swatting my hands away and screaming, then shutting her mouth and clamping her hands over them. I wasn't about to give in to this 3-year old, so I gently put her head down on the ground and rearranged us so that her hands were down by her side, held there by my leg, which I draped over her body.

I know this sounds cruel, but I wasn't hurting her, and I really needed both hands so that I could hold her mouth open so I didn't hurt her. I'm really scared that if she closes her mouth, especially hard, and bites down on the little dental floss-on-a-stick thing I use, she will really hurt herself.

She did not like this one bit, although I can't really say that I blamed her. I tried to go as fast as I could, but she kept crying and closing her mouth, so I was not being productive.

So she threw up on me.

OK I'll admit, there might have been a better way to go about it. I probably should have used some kind of psychology on her where she would eventually agree to open her mouth on her own, rather than forcing it open myself. But she is so stubborn!

So I plopped her in the bathtub, cleaned her off and put her to bed. That whole situation exhausted me, and I felt a weird mixture of frustration at her for being so stubborn and sympathy and guilt for getting my own child so upset that she puked.

But despite my frustrations with her, I can honestly say I've never laid a hand on her. With the exception of squirting Windex into my eyes (which she said was a mistake- more of a reflex with no intention of hurting me, she just did it without thinking...and I believe her), my mother never hit me or my brother. We used to punish SB by giving her a "time out" in the Princess Chair, until I discovered that she actually liked being banished to that chair. So now she stands in the corner, at the end of the hallway. But neither TB nor I have ever, even in the heat of the moment, raised our hand to smack her.

So you can imagine my horror, when yesterday, as I was trying to coax her out of my office so we could put her shoes on to go over to my friend Bucky's place so TB could hang some stuff up on the walls in her room, SB looked me dead in the eye and calmly said "Mommy. Don't make me hit you."

Not that I'm scared of SB hitting me. Somehow, she has gotten into that habit, and gets sent to the corner at least once per day for hitting me. It's not like she hits hard, or anything. And after she tells me she's sorry, she seems to realize it's not something she's supposed to do.

What scares me is if she says something like that to her teachers at preschool. Because I can see them automatically thinking that she's repeating something TB or I tell her.

Bon Voyage, LPP!

Last night was a semi-surprise going away party for one of my all-time favorite people in the world, LPP. There was no question in my mind that I was going to go- I very openly adore the boy, and take advantage of every opportunity to spend time with him. But I was a little wary of the event itself, for several reasons.

The first is that it seems that every time I go out with my little group of "party friends" there is some sort of drama. Nothing major, but enough that it prevents me from saying "last night was completely AWESOME" the next morning. For example, when we went out for my 30th birthday, I did have fun. But as it got later and my friends got increasingly drunk and annoying, I found it difficult to enjoy myself with certain buddies drunk-dancing in my face. I'm not a huge touchy-feely person, especially with other girls. I don't care how drunk you are, stay out of my personal space or I'll get pissed.

Another time, some of the people I was with abruptly decided to leave, for no reason at all. Which would have been fine, except that it would have left me, a married woman, awkwardly hanging out alone in a bar with a married guy. That wouldn't have flown well with TB (or the guy's wife, probably) so we were forced to call it a night, way before either of us was really ready to. And another time, it was a huge mess, with one friend pissed off at the other because he was too touchy-feely with her, which in turn pissed him off, which pissed the rest of us off because no one was having a good time. And then there was the time that one guy just left one of my girlfriends alone in the bar and bolted, because I was at the ATM with my other friends and he didn't feel like waiting. Drunk and alone, my girlfriend also left the bar, but I was driving her so we had to find her. Finally after multiple unanswered cell phone calls and a good 20-30 minutes of searching the streets of Federal Hill, we found her at Pizza Boli's with a new "friend".

Get the picture? So I was really worried that there would be similar drama. I was also concerned that I wouldn't really be having a great time because the place we were going to, a dueling piano bar called Howl At The Moon, was not my all-time favorite place to go. My friends dragged me there for my bachelorette party and I made them take me somewhere else because I just didn't like it. I didn't know any of the songs, and I wasn't in any position to just belt out the choruses to the few I did know. So I was worried I'd be in a similar place this time.

So I didn't really put too much effort forth in looking really good. I was happy that I fit into my skinniest jeans (no muffin tops or anything!) and pulled on a basic black long sleeved t-shirt. Makeup was minimal and I gave up blow drying my hair halfway through because it was frizz weather so I knew it would do its own thing anyway.

Despite all of the above, I actually had an AWESOME time. I really did. I think because my expectations were low, I wasn't disappointed. I didn't expect to know any of the songs, but I actually knew maybe more than half, so was singing at the top of my lungs. PLUS they sang "Because I Was High" which I used to play nonstop when it first came out. My husband gets a kick out of hearing me sing with it because that song is SOOOOOOOO not me. And I think he secretly likes hearing me say "I was going to eat your p**** too, because I was high....now I'm jacking off...." since I never talk that way.

I didn't go out of my way to look extra nice, but I looked ok (at least I think) so I wasn't worried about whether my efforts were "working" and I was looking hot. I really didn't care. My clothes were conservative so I wasn't obsessed with whether a boob was sticking out of a low-cut top or whether you could see my underwear poking out from the top of my jeans. I wore my favorite boots so my feet weren't hurting.

We even got some free stuff- Miller Lite hats and a 104.3 keychain. Plus Bucky and I got our photo taken for the 104.3 website. So check it out to see if we made it on.

It was completely awesome. I had fun. I now know the secret to going out and having a good time. Just be comfortable, don't expect anything, and relax.

Photo FAIL

Every year around this time I get started on the daunting task of selecting the cream of the crop of the 4.7 billion photos we take of SB every year so that I can order prints and give them as (cheap-o) Christmas gifts to my family. The top 2 or 3 get blown up into whatever the next larger size is after 5 x 7 while the rest are forced to remain 4 x 6 and stuffed into nice (cheap-o) photo albums. This is mostly for my mother and my mother-in-law, because they are not computer-savvy enough to show people photos of their grandchild via email. They like it, and it's a cheap alternative to taking print orders all year long, so it's a complete win-win situation.

I received the first batch in the mail today and immediately started perusing the photos documenting the past 12 months of my life as if I'd never seen them in my life. There was SB opening her presents last Christmas, SB at the zoo, SB hugging the dog, SB brushing her teeth, SB at the beach, SB at the pool, SB sitting on the sofa, Sb....well, you get the picture (no pun intended).

And then there was this:


Um....I don't know what that is. I mean, I know what it is, it's a castle-type thing and a river or canal-type thing with some house-looking things alongside it. But I've never been there. And neither has TB.

In fact, upon closer inspection, I'm pretty sure this isn't even America. Are there any castles in the US? Nah, those buildings look too pretty and clean to be the US. If you look closely, the pink building in the background has some flags on it, but I can't tell what the flage depict. And there are some banners hanging from the streetlamps but I can't make out what they say.

So somehow we got someone else's photo mixed in with our bunch. I didn't think this could happen very easily when ording prints online, but I guess it's possible. So that leads me to wonder what print, if any, of ours, the rightful owner of this print received.

Could it be one of the random photos I take of my legs, for no apparent reason at all?




Maybe they are standing there right now wondering if their photos got mixed up with some cannibal porn?


Or maybe someone got this beauty by accident?



Hopefully no one was forced to take a gander at these gorgeous self-portraits.






I'm hoping whoever got one of my photos isn't some big animal rights activist who now has to witness the torture I put my dogs through.











Surely they wouldn't report me after that unmistakable look of pure joy on her face...


Or maybe one of my many "I'm bored at work in the senior center" photos? Will they realize this is a balloon? I wish I looked like that when I was pregnant....

A Little Joke...

...to start the day. I just heard someone say this on television (I wish I could give whoever it was credit, but I have no idea who it was, or why they were talking about this):

(paraphrased)
Is this country really ready for a black president? Next we'll be saying we're ready for a black Michael Jackson.

Hardy har har...

Happily Ever After?

I've recently started plugging my iPod into the car for my 5-minute commute to and from work. By the time I get it plugged in and find a song I actually like (how the hell did Sonatina in F Major get on my iPod???), I can usually get about three-quarters of the way through the song before I pull into the garage at work, then about halfway into the next song between work and home.

But nonetheless, it's had an effect on me. I've come to realize 2 things.

1-Listening to music really does affect a person's attitude and outlook. I find myself much peppier after rocking out to one of my favorite songs, or at least most of it, even at 5am as I roll into the fitness center dreading stalling for my workout.

I'm not sure how detailed a view the security cameras at my work get of people in their cars as they drive onto the campus and into the garages, but if it's even remotely clear, I'm sure whichever security guard is on night duty gets a kick out of me doing my little in-the-seat butt dance to Buona Sera as I drive in, with thumbs out, while singing at the top of my lungs, doing my best Louie Prima imitation. If you did a youtube search for "fitness center freak singing and dancing to lame obscure songs" my contorted face would probably pop up.

2-Kind of along the same lines, a person who puts too much stock into what songs say will turn into a hopeless romantic and eventually become tragically disappointed at how little these stories, notions and words are mimicked in real life.

Not that I say this from experience, or anything.

This is why so many guys don't live up to girls' expectations. Think about it. Girls are smothered with Princess this and Princess that when they're just little tykes who don't know any better. These Princess stories are incredibly romantic, and now Disney has made them even less life-like by adding a musical element to them.

Today as I was taking SB to dance class, she insisted on listening to "Kiss the Girl" from the Little Mermaid about a million times in a row. I didn't complain one bit- I actually like that song. But for the first time I really really listened to the lyrics.

There you see her
Sitting there across the way
She don’t got a lot to say
But there’s something about her
And you don’t know why
But you’re dying to try
You wanna kiss the girl

It's a sweet song. But it reminds me of another song, called Quiet Sensation. This song says:


She is a quiet sensation, not the kind you look at twice
The first time you see her, you don't even notice
The second time she looks kinda nice
Then you're hooked and you're booked, she's a quiet sensation
Oh she's a quiet sensation, yeah, she is.

She ain't a knockout, no drop-dead beauty
She ain't a fox, no, not a cutie
She's got a heart as big as the world
For some crazy reason she'll end up your girl
Bring her on, put her up, she's a quiet sensation
Oh she's a quiet sensation.

She don't have a wealthy daddy, she don't have a famous name, no no
She don't look like a movie star, she's got no attitude
But you can't forget the way she makes you feel.

Don't understand why you keep on looking
Ain't nothing you can put your finger on
It's not the way she's dressed, or the things she says
Not the way she walks or talks, she's a quiet sensation
Oh she's a quiet sensation.

Her legs ain't especially long, and she ain't no flashlight blonde, no no
She wouldn't stop a speeding train with her baby blues
But she sticks in your mind like gum on your shoe.

She don't look like nothing special, she don't wear no designer clothes
She takes your hand and your heart starts to hammer
She makes you feel like the king of the world
She blows all the others away, she's a quiet sensation
Oh she's a quiet sensation, she's a quiet sensation
My girl, a quiet sensation

Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic, but I have to wonder what young impressionable girl, upon hearing those words, doesn't want to be that girl? Maybe I'm unique here, but I desperately find myself secretly wishing that's how people talk about me behind my back.

But here's the kicker: even if I was that girl, no one talks like that. Songs and poems and stories, and even movies and TV shows are all idealistic representations of life. But we all grow up surrounded by these representations. We study Shakespeare and Wordsworth and Shelley in school. We watch TV shows and movies where the hero falls head over heels with a girl and verbalizes his emotions like no one in real life actually does. We hear songs where these romantic vulnerable feelings are adorned with sweet words and poetic descriptions, and we get confused.

We wonder why our husbands and boyfriends don't talk to us like that. We question whether they feel the same way towards us as Prince Eric feels towards Arielle. And we wonder if people describe us the same way we would describe Cinderella.

So we strive to be perfect in our lives. To be kind and gentle. To get along with people. We try to make the right decisions and have discipline and morals and brains. To be that girl and have others speak positively of you, no matter what.

And there are little snippets of moments where you actually feel that you succeeded. You have a ton of people call you on your birthday, or notice when you're feeling upset, or send you a random email thanking you for being a good friend, and you think to yourself, Wow, I made a difference in this person's life. They like me! They respect me! They care for me and think I'm something special...I'm that girl.

But then you hear something negative. Someone's scared of you. Someone doesn't get your sense of humor. You look in the mirror and wonder how you could compare yourself to a flawless princess. Someone says you have bad skin or ugly hair or chunky thighs or bad teeth. You speak out of turn and hurt someone's feelings. You weren't invited to someone's party or you find out that a co-worker just plain old doesn't like you. And that moment is shattered.

And all you have is that song. That isn't about you...and never will be.

Shake, Senora....Let Me See That Thong!

It's really weird how the most random things can pop into your head for absolutely no reason at all. Like today, for example, after I got out of my shower, I had the Thong Song stuck in my head. You know, that old hit by that little rapper guy with the bleached white hair, Sisqo, or something like that. You know you liked it when it came out. Or at least it grew on you.

Anyway, I couldn't tell you the last time I heard that song. Probably at my senior prom. But for some reason, there it was stuck in my head all morning. Until I finally was able to replace it with Shake, Senora. Remember? From Beetlejuice? Shake your body line, OK, I BELIEVE YOU.

Don't judge me and my obscure musical references.

Well, just like the most random songs can pop into your mind, the most random memories can, as well. In my case, most of these tend to be pretty embarrassing. I think it was Kurt Vonnegut who wrote that book, where time is not a continuous thing, where once the moment is over, it's gone...but kind of more like a million snapshots taken of every moment, just kind of hanging around in space, and you could jump from snapshot to snapshot and bounce around in time. I'm sure I'm not doing his concept justice in that explanation, but it's all I got.

If that were the case, then just about every snapshot of mine could be entered into a YM magazine Say Anything photo competition. And win.

My moment du jour is from my junior or senior year in high school. It was spirit week, where each day had its own fun theme designed to increase school spirit, whatever that was. One day was Pajama Day, there was Yellow and Blue Day (our school colors)...and I can't really remember what else they came up with to try to embarrass us.

This particular moment occurred on Opposite Sex Day. As you can probably gather, on this day, the boys were supposed to dress up like girls, and vice versa. A complete tomboy at heart, I felt this would be very easy for me. I'm not sure why I ever thought anything would be easy for me, because I tend to complicate things.

Instead of raiding my big brother's closet and using things a guy might actually wear, I hit the mall (any excuse at that age!) and bought my outfit. Which consisted of: kahki shorts and a thick black thermal shirt. Apparently, I was not only dressing up as a boy, I was dressing up as an obese boy, because everything I bought was about 4 sizes too large for me.

But here's the best part.

Along with my Obese Man outfit, I bought a pair of blue silk boxers. I'm honestly not sure where I was going with that, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But here's the problem: the shirt was very long. And the shorts were very big. So you couldn't even see the boxers. (Which I wore on top of my own underwear. Because I know you were wondering.) But I went through all the trouble of buying these boxers! People had to know they were there, and I wasn't about to pull my pants down for every person I ran into.

So what did I do? The only thing that made sense. I tucked my shirt into my boxers. Read that sentence again. I tucked my thick long black shirt into my boxers.

I'm sure I don't need to describe to you how utterly and completely RETARDED that looked.

There is actually a photo of that floating around somewhere. Yes, as usual, my stupidity was documented. A snapshot taken to remind me of that brilliant moment in my life, for all of eternity.

I actually looked for it, because I knew you would want to see- if nothing else, to prove to you that someone can actually look that bad on purpose. But I couldn't find it. Hopefully my husband came across it and burned it in fear I would try to emulate that look again. If it turns up, I'll be sure to post it here.

This Is My Cat, Eggs...

So since I was kind of depressing myself with the last post I decided to write something that dealt with a lighter subject matter.

So last weekend, when we were out celebrating my birthday, no sooner had we made our way upstairs in one bar than my friend Bucky and I got hit on by some smelly drunk guy. I say my friend and I because I'm honestly not sure which one he was trying to get to. He approached me, but I'm fairly certain he never made eye contact with me. Not that he was looking at Bucky, either- he was kind of staring off into nothing.

But drunk and who knows what else as he was, he does get credit for an incredibly original, yet completely ineffective pickup line. Are you ready for it? He comes up to me and says "I need your help with something. If you had twin cats, what would you name them?"

After I got past his stank breath, which nearly knocked me off my feet, I found myself repeating the phrase "twin cats" over and over. What exactly are twin cats? Are any two cats out of the same litter considered twins? Or do they have have identical markings? Was he referring to identical or fraternal twins? I didn't get the chance to clarify all these points because Bucky, almost equally drunk, was rattling off weird names to this guy.

Beavis and Butthead. Harry and Sally. Bacon and Eggs.

I interrupted her here. Bacon and Eggs?

I asked her who names their cats Bacon and Eggs. And what if they're separated for some reason? To prove my point (keeping in mind I had not a drop to drink the entire night unless you count the Diet Coke I inhaled in .05 second flat) I pretended to hold a cat in my hands while introducing it as "this is my cat, Eggs."

For some reason we all found that hysterical. (And by "we" I mean me and Bucky. Smelly guy didn't see the humor in it so much.) Probably because, when pretending to hold the cat, for some reason, I acted as if I were holding a leaking gun out in front of me, with one hand holding the gun with my finger on the trigger, and the other one cupped underneath the first. You know...to catch the leak. And not only did I hold my hands in this unusual way, but I also bounced both hands up and down with every syllable.

Of course, this set drunken Bucky into uncontrollable fits of laughter, between which she was barely able to blurt out "who...holds their cat....like this?" while imitating my stupid movement.

Of course, for the remainder of the night, and most of the next day, "This is my cat, Eggs" was repeated numerous times, while accompanied by the wacky leaky bouncy gun motion.

This is why I can't take Bucky anywhere. But at least the smelly guy went away.

Kids These Days...

Well, it's been an interesting couple of days. I haven't really been too active here on the blog lately because I've had a ton of Mom crap going on. On Thursday we had to take SB to the dentist to have 3 out of 6 cavities filled. I know. That's kind of excessive for a 3-year old. Part of it can be attributed to the fact that we let her have apple juice, although it was diluted with water, in her crib way longer than we should have. But it's not all our fault. Part of it, according to the dentist, is genes and part of it is that her teeth are really close together. Regardless of the reason, both TB and I felt really really guilty as we watched our only daughter, a toddler, lay on the chair with the gas mask on and her mouth pried open.

She was awesome during the actual procedure, but needless to say, she was not a treat that afternoon, as the Novocaine wore off and her "fat lip was tingly." But that day is over. The last 3 cavities are scheduled to be filled on 12/5, and then hopefully she won't have to go back for anything more than regular cleanings for a long long time.

SB's Christmas dance recital is coming up next month- she is in a portion of Trepak from the Nutcracker. Basically, her job is to put on a tutu and look adorable while the "big girls" dance around her. And by "big girls" I mean skinny little 6 or 7 year olds. So this past week, SB's class was treated to a rehearsal with the big girls. The first 15 minutes of class went as follows: the little girls stood there glued to the floor as they stared at the big girls, who were showing off by prancing all around the room. Then, as the initial amazement wore off, the little girls actually started doing their portion of the dance (jump big, jump little, jump up, jump down). It actually looked like it might turn into something choreographed on stage, once the big girls stepped in and helped the little ones do their thing. I was touched that the big girls were so willing to help and so eager to be role models for the little ones. They meshed really well and I couldn't wait for SB to become one of the big girls.

That wish changed very quickly.

The big girls who shared the dance with SB's class left and SB and her friends continued with the tap portion of their lesson. Here's where all the drama started.

SB's lesson runs from 4:30-5:30. All of the parents (4 of us) hang out in the waiting room, always doing the same thing. I'm always reading. Anna's mom is usually bouncing back and forth between reading, gabbing on the phone, and reprimanding Anna for commando crawling out of the studio or laying on the floor and licking it during the lesson. Jordan's dad either just sits there watching the class or sometimes works on his laptop while listening to music. And Gabriella's mom just sits there staring out the window. We each have our own "spot" (although sometimes Jordan's dad and I fight for the coveted seat where you can peek in on class without having to get up. Whoever gets there first gets the prize.) and pretty much stay there.

Usually, around 5 or 5:15ish, a 10-year old-ish hip hop class commences, where about 3-4 kids kind of roll in one at a time, put on their shoes and disappear into the room. I think they are dropped off because I rarely see a parent. Something was different this week and I'm really hoping it was a one-time thing.

Instead of the usual hip hoppers, little girls around 5 or 6 started coming in with their moms. I had finished all my books, so I grabbed Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart, which I've had forever but can't seem to get into so I've never finished it. And I was still having trouble getting into it. But I found that it got more and more difficult to concentrate with the growing crowd.

There were only 4 kids at first but it sounded like a freaking riot. The kids were running around, shouting and screaming and the moms were even being loud and gabbing, completely ignoring their savage kids. They were jumping up onto the counter of the desk and grabbing at things on the other side. They were slapping each other and yelling at their moms, who were completely ignoring them, immersed in their own conversations. I understand that kids will get loud, but there was a class going on, and the waiting room is not big. Why weren't these parents keeping their kids quiet?

I actually got up from my seat and moved into the hallway portion of the waiting room near the door because the entire group was giving me such a headache. From this perch, I could see the door of the classroom, but the belly of the waiting room was out of sight. The kids gathered around SB's classroom door and peered in, then proceeded to make fun of everything SB and her little classmates were doing.

I tried very hard not to judge. Kids will make fun of other kids. It doesn't mean they are bad kids. And parents will let them make fun of other kids. I guess this doesn't mean they're bad parents. I'm sure these girls (and one boy- who was the brother of a dance student, I think) didn't realize that it's normal for 3-year olds to not know their right from their left? So if the teacher is saying "tap, tap, tap on your left foot" and half the girls are tap, tap, tapping on their right foot, I wouldn't expect these kids to share my enthusiasm that there is actually tap, tap, tapping going on at all, even if it is the wrong foot!

But then something happened that completely made me hate these kids, as much as an adult could really hate a kid.

A little girl walked in with her mother, obviously planning on taking the same class as these girls. This little girl had very very long blond hair and a very round face. She stood apart from the other girls, and I gathered from watching that this was her first time attending class. The other girls formed a semi-circle about 2 feet away from this girl and were obviously making fun of her. Two feet away from her. As she watched them. And as her mother watched them. And as I watched them. Also in plain view of their own mothers, who were (hopefully) not paying attention.

A minute later, the girls moved away from the blond girl, but very obviously were talking about her. The mother reached out and patted the girl's hair, and I was on the verge of tears.

I had complete sympathy for the mother. It must be so hard to watch other kids judge your own kid, yet not really be able to do anything about it because you want your child to learn to fend for herself and develop tough skin because it just gets worse as they get older. And it broke my heart to see this girl being made fun of-- and she's not even my own kid! And it made me so mad that the chatty girls' mothers didn't even reprimand them for being so rude.

As a mom, I never want SB to be on the victim side of taunting. But on the other hand, I'd probably rather she be made fun of than turn into the snobby brat that makes fun of other kids.

I left dance that day appreciating her vulnerable yet non-judgmental age.

What I Learned at Work Today

Today's my late day at work. On those days I usually spend from 2pm-4:45pm harrassing my coworkers to pay attention to me via email while surfing the net and googling random things.

Let's ignore for a minute what I might have been googling and focus on what I found. I came across a forum where a girl of unknown age was trying to figure out if she was pregnant. Apparently she didn't want any type of concrete confirmation of her pregnancy that something like, oh I don't know, a home pregnancy test would provide. She was happy with the opinion of people she has never met who read her "symptoms" over the Internet.

Anyway, this was the end of her post:

I have been experiencing the following:
- extreme fatigue
- milky vaginal discharge
- awful back pain
- increase in appetite, craving fast food/fried food
- extreme emotions
- strange dreams/nightmares
- my female cat constantly sits with me and rubs her face/head on me lovingly.

OK the first 6 bullets are basically me every day. Well, maybe not #2 so much. But I understand that when women are trying to conceive, everything becomes a pregnancy symptom. I know that you really want every single unusual thing to be a sign that you are pregnant. I get it.

But seriously- an affectionate cat? My cat used to sit next to me and rub her face/head on me constantly no matter what! And as dinner time approached, the displays of affection just increased.

So I thought that was funny. But I thought one of the replies to her post was even funnier:

Why not see a doctor??? I don't know about the loving cat..that seems a little extreme. If they don't rub up against you does that meant that your not pregnant?

Last 4 Days Recap

Not much excitement going on over, sorry. TB was out of town for Thursday and Friday of last week (he was playing a sold-out concert at some college in TN with a 17-piece band), so SB and I were on our own.

Thursday was SB's preschool field trip to some local farm where we took a hayride to a pumpkin patch. The last time SB chose her own pumpkin, which was a few weeks earlier, she chose one with stunning likeness to an orange. I actually picked the pumpkin up several times off the kitchen table to put it back in the fruit bowl before realizing it was her pumpkin. Because it was too small to carve, SB decorated it with princess stickers.

So this time, there weren't any pumpkins quite that small. She tried to choose a green one for her father, then decided on one with the entire bottom rotted out. Finally, with some coaxing, she settled for two small, but pumpkin-sized pumpkins. Then she fed some goats, and we went home.

Friday night we brought SB trick-or-treating for the first time ever. She didn't quite get the concept of saying "trick or treat" but she did grasp the concept of helping herself to candy very quickly.

Saturday night I went out with some friends for another belated bday celebration (but not the last- there's one more lunch coming up next week...this is the birthday that never ends!). We went between a few bars in Federal Hill. The most exciting part of the night for me was when they played my "anthem", Low. I broke out all the hot moves.

The most interesting thing about the night, besides the fact that I wore a strapless top for the first time in....maybe ever, occurred when I went to the bathroom in one of the bars. I was washing my hands when a girl tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that I had a toilet paper train on the bottom of my shoe. She said it almost apologetically, like she was being a pain for telling me. I couldn't thank her enough...there is no way in hell I'd be able to live that one down if any of my friends had caught it! I didn't even think that really happened to people!

Yesterday was a loooong day, and I don't think the time change had anything to do with it. I didn't sleep at all Saturday night so I got a quick nap from 9-10:30am then had another birthday celebration with my brother, sister-in-law and mother. Then basically we spent the rest of the day listening to SB cry and whine because she was tired because she refused to take a nap.

Well that's the past four days in a nutshell for me. Things are kind of back to normal this week, so hopefully there will be some exciting stuff for me to talk about soon! If not...well, sorry in advance.