I know it’s been a while. What can I say? I wish I could be someone who updates daily or weekly, but I guess I’m just not that interesting.
But you have Michael Jackson to thank for this update.
I am on vacation this week, which fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your stance) gives me the opportunity to waste 2 hours, I mean, watch the “funeral” of Michael Jackson.
Now, I have to say, when I heard there would be a public memorial, I did expect to hear pop singers recreating his music. I expected to see sobbing fans. I expected to see a retrospective of his life. I even expected his brothers (damn you Jermaine) to try and steal the spotlight.
Sidenote – did you know Jermaine has a son named JERMADGESTY? I am not making that up. Check Wikipedia.
But as I like to say, I digress.
What I didn’t expect to see was MJ being compared to Martin Luther King Jr. Or hearing that he made Magic Johnson a better basketball player. Or that he will live forever twice (huh? Smokey Robinson – WTF?) Or see him held up as a shining example to the world. Or called the best entertainer in the world. Ever. Hello? Have you not seen David Hasselhoff in concert?
I do not dispute that he gave millions to charity. I do not dispute that he was likely a good father to his kids; at least, as good as he knew how to be, given his paternal example. I do not dispute that he possessed a musical talent not seen in many others.
However.
Let’s not forget that this person was a suspected pedophile. And on not just one occasion. He spent MILLIONS to pay off the first victim who came forward. As some wise dude once said “where’s there smoke, there’s fire.” Word, Captain Obvious!
I’m torn. I feel nostalgic about his music. I remember when Thriller came out, when Michael moonwalked for the first time publicly, when the Jacksons reunited and when he set his hair on fire. I was younger, thinner, single. Good times indeed. I’m not ashamed to say I bust a move to Beat It or Wanna Be Startin’ Something. I may have googled mamase, mamasaw, mo ma cu saw.
But I’m not especially sad that he’s gone. However bad that makes me as a person, there it is. You can’t expect to abuse your body the way he did and live forever. (Twice) It’s not like when Princess Diana died or the Space Shuttle exploded or when President Kennedy was shot. At the end of the day, he was a pop star. Not a humanitarian, a president, a civil rights worker. He didn't cure cancer, or AIDS, or leprosy. He didn't bring a dead girl back from the dead, make water into wine or walk on water. He was not Jesus or Mother Teresa or the Pope or even Barack Obama. He sang and danced. So did Shirley Temple, but I bet she doesn't get this sendoff.
And as I write this, his daughter is on stage. To me, that has crossed the line. Are we worried about who will end up with custody of these kids? They need to be sent out to my Uncle Alan in Kansas, who delights in teaching "city kids" how to tough it out.
This has now turned into every Hollywood production that you make fun of but don’t really think will happen. Who is the ad wizard that came up with this schlock? Whose funeral gets a commemorative program? Did they sell t-shirts? What KoolAid did those people in New York and London drink? The ones who were holding hands and singing “We are the World?”
And who is next? Will Britney or Madonna get the same send off?
Ugh.
Everyone who knows me knows how much I love to read about celebrities. But this event was just so sickening; like a parody of a funeral. Now we’ll be left with newspeople and talking heads speculating on what it all means, what his contribution to society will be and maybe even pushing for his sainthood. I’m sure the DVD will be out soon. And while I joke about a Jackson brother reunion, I don’t think it’s too far out of the realm of possibility. They do, after all, need somewhere else to wear the sequined gloves they were sporting today.
My aunt made a comparison earlier today about the fall of the Roman empire. I don’t usually entertain thoughts like that; I don’t pretend to be smart enough to relate history to current events, BUT, maybe she’s right. Too much obsession with celebrity could be our downfall in the end. When we turn to people like Jon and Kate (and the unfortunate 8 they drag along with them) as a commentary on marriage and divorce, or Britney Spears as a poster child for mental illness....we are losing touch. And I'm a bad offender, I admit.
So right now, I am going to get out my “20 Most Important Events in American History” book and read it cover to cover AND I’m not going to watch any reality TV for the rest of the day. Even though it’s my vacation.
And as Michael eases on down the road to the tune of $4 million, I hope that we all have learned something from this spectacle and that his kids can go back to as "normal" a life as they can.
Peace out.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Neighbors – you gotta love…nope, nope, I can’t.
Something happened this weekend that I can’t decide if I think is funny. Or gross. Or funny. Or icky. You decide.
Some background:
We have semi-new neighbors living next door. They moved in 6 months or so ago I guess. Two families live there – two brothers, their wives, and assorted kids (all boys), ranging in age from 16-ish to about 18 months. One of the wives has another one on the way. At the moment, we are talking 9 people in a five bedroom house. That doesn’t count the cat that looks terrified every time I see it, and the two dogs perpetually tied up out back, yelping their brains out pretty much 24/7 (one of which they acquired by renting a car, driving to CALIFORNIA and buying from some lady on the Internet). For all I know, there is a Grandma tied up in the basement and another family living in the garage/shed. Did I mention they have a hive of bees too? They like to put on beekeeper headdresses, sit in lawn chairs and read “BeeKeeping for Idiots” whilst staring at the hive.
But I digress.
(I should add that as I type this, one of the kids is outside making what can only be described as an attempt to sound like a police siren when the battery is dying – sort of a sad, but awfully annoying, “whoop, whoop, whoop” which is punctuated every few times by someone yelling “IN THE NAME OF THE LAWWWWWWWWWW”)
Anyhoo….my twins and two of the boys (about 9 or 10 years old each) are sitting outside underneath our tree, appearing to play quietly with Pokemon stuff. (Pokemon being the spawn of the devil but that’s another story for another time. I don’t know what drunk idiots came up with that concept , but I guess they are rich drunk idiots, so there you go). Out of the blue, I hear one of the boys say “I LOVE big fat boobs.”
Um, say what WHAT?
To which one of my twins says “We don’t have those.”
Not yet kiddo, not yet.
So, being the responsible parent I am, I march out and proceed to give said brats, I mean kids, a lecture on the use of the “b” word and how I don’t want to hear them talking about it in my yard anymore. “Oh, okay, yeah, okay.”
Flash forward five minutes.
I see one of my twins running around in a section of the yard previously off limits because it’s our garden staging area. I ask her what she’s doing and she tells me that she is running from one of the boys who is “trying to touch her boobs.”
Um, say what what, part two.
Immediately the kid’s cousin throws him under the bus by saying, “yep, that’s what he was doing.” Which comes out sounding like “heppzatsuthe’zduing” because this one has been cursed by a speech impediment that sounds like he is gargling with gravel. Meanwhile, the petite pervert is booking it towards his own house when I stop him to give him a speech about how inappropriate his actions are (although I threw in the word “dude” because after all, I am cool) and how if he does it again he can’t come over.
Sigh.
The problem here is that I didn’t hear the pint sized potential pedo-okay, okay, I’ll stop - actually commit the crime so I’m not feeling like I have a leg to stand on with his parents. Who I’m sure will just tell me “oh, you know, boys will be boys.”
This is the same excuse I got when their toddler wandered over to my yard. Alone. Three times.
“Oh, you know, you’re right. Boys will be boys. But if boys will be boys again, my girls will be girls and kick them in the nu…” – you use your imagination there.
I don’t know what it is about this particular house. Every since we moved in, there have been freaks living there.
Family #1 – during our housewarming party, I come into my front room to see several guests staring out our side window in fascination. Turns out the teenage girl is chucking every article of clothing she owns out of the top window and screaming at her mom. This girl also liked to practice walking like a supermodel up and down the street. She took a little "vacation" just before they sold the house.
Family #2 – salesman, his Russian girlfriend and his cousin. To their credit, they did a ton of work in the inside, restoring some of the original woodwork that came with the house. But then negated it by chipping paint off the outside of the house using hair dryers and sticks. The salesman was divorced, and had his son over about every other weekend. This son would come over at 7:00 in the morning on weekends in his pajamas, asking if Noah could play. We’d ask him where his dad was and he’d say “oh, still asleep.” This kid also told me that "John Kerry sucks."
Family #3 – also two families living together, this time two sisters, the one sister’s husband and five kids between them. This family foreclosed but not before one kid fell off the slide in our backyard, the dad got a girlfriend and the one mom refused to come outside to our block party, preferring instead to call in her order from the potluck to her husband outside. They also refused to pay for garbage pickup, and would instead rent a U-haul every 6 months or so (that’s right, SIX) and haul garbage themselves out of the garage to the dump.
Now, family #4. These boob-lovers have a bag full of soda cans in the backyard that looks like what you pick up after an outdoor music festival, about 5 cars (I think 2 actually work), the bee-hives, the wandering toddler….the list goes on and on.
Bradys? Where are you when we need you? Cleavers, the Beav, hell, I’d even take Roseanne Conner at this point.
Something happened this weekend that I can’t decide if I think is funny. Or gross. Or funny. Or icky. You decide.
Some background:
We have semi-new neighbors living next door. They moved in 6 months or so ago I guess. Two families live there – two brothers, their wives, and assorted kids (all boys), ranging in age from 16-ish to about 18 months. One of the wives has another one on the way. At the moment, we are talking 9 people in a five bedroom house. That doesn’t count the cat that looks terrified every time I see it, and the two dogs perpetually tied up out back, yelping their brains out pretty much 24/7 (one of which they acquired by renting a car, driving to CALIFORNIA and buying from some lady on the Internet). For all I know, there is a Grandma tied up in the basement and another family living in the garage/shed. Did I mention they have a hive of bees too? They like to put on beekeeper headdresses, sit in lawn chairs and read “BeeKeeping for Idiots” whilst staring at the hive.
But I digress.
(I should add that as I type this, one of the kids is outside making what can only be described as an attempt to sound like a police siren when the battery is dying – sort of a sad, but awfully annoying, “whoop, whoop, whoop” which is punctuated every few times by someone yelling “IN THE NAME OF THE LAWWWWWWWWWW”)
Anyhoo….my twins and two of the boys (about 9 or 10 years old each) are sitting outside underneath our tree, appearing to play quietly with Pokemon stuff. (Pokemon being the spawn of the devil but that’s another story for another time. I don’t know what drunk idiots came up with that concept , but I guess they are rich drunk idiots, so there you go). Out of the blue, I hear one of the boys say “I LOVE big fat boobs.”
Um, say what WHAT?
To which one of my twins says “We don’t have those.”
Not yet kiddo, not yet.
So, being the responsible parent I am, I march out and proceed to give said brats, I mean kids, a lecture on the use of the “b” word and how I don’t want to hear them talking about it in my yard anymore. “Oh, okay, yeah, okay.”
Flash forward five minutes.
I see one of my twins running around in a section of the yard previously off limits because it’s our garden staging area. I ask her what she’s doing and she tells me that she is running from one of the boys who is “trying to touch her boobs.”
Um, say what what, part two.
Immediately the kid’s cousin throws him under the bus by saying, “yep, that’s what he was doing.” Which comes out sounding like “heppzatsuthe’zduing” because this one has been cursed by a speech impediment that sounds like he is gargling with gravel. Meanwhile, the petite pervert is booking it towards his own house when I stop him to give him a speech about how inappropriate his actions are (although I threw in the word “dude” because after all, I am cool) and how if he does it again he can’t come over.
Sigh.
The problem here is that I didn’t hear the pint sized potential pedo-okay, okay, I’ll stop - actually commit the crime so I’m not feeling like I have a leg to stand on with his parents. Who I’m sure will just tell me “oh, you know, boys will be boys.”
This is the same excuse I got when their toddler wandered over to my yard. Alone. Three times.
“Oh, you know, you’re right. Boys will be boys. But if boys will be boys again, my girls will be girls and kick them in the nu…” – you use your imagination there.
I don’t know what it is about this particular house. Every since we moved in, there have been freaks living there.
Family #1 – during our housewarming party, I come into my front room to see several guests staring out our side window in fascination. Turns out the teenage girl is chucking every article of clothing she owns out of the top window and screaming at her mom. This girl also liked to practice walking like a supermodel up and down the street. She took a little "vacation" just before they sold the house.
Family #2 – salesman, his Russian girlfriend and his cousin. To their credit, they did a ton of work in the inside, restoring some of the original woodwork that came with the house. But then negated it by chipping paint off the outside of the house using hair dryers and sticks. The salesman was divorced, and had his son over about every other weekend. This son would come over at 7:00 in the morning on weekends in his pajamas, asking if Noah could play. We’d ask him where his dad was and he’d say “oh, still asleep.” This kid also told me that "John Kerry sucks."
Family #3 – also two families living together, this time two sisters, the one sister’s husband and five kids between them. This family foreclosed but not before one kid fell off the slide in our backyard, the dad got a girlfriend and the one mom refused to come outside to our block party, preferring instead to call in her order from the potluck to her husband outside. They also refused to pay for garbage pickup, and would instead rent a U-haul every 6 months or so (that’s right, SIX) and haul garbage themselves out of the garage to the dump.
Now, family #4. These boob-lovers have a bag full of soda cans in the backyard that looks like what you pick up after an outdoor music festival, about 5 cars (I think 2 actually work), the bee-hives, the wandering toddler….the list goes on and on.
Bradys? Where are you when we need you? Cleavers, the Beav, hell, I’d even take Roseanne Conner at this point.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
For My Mom
A few weeks ago I went with my gay work husband George, his partner and another friend to see Debbie Reynolds perform with the Seattle Gay Men’s Chorus. It was a last minute invitation and truthfully, I hemmed and hawed about whether or not I wanted to drive to Seattle to go. But in the end, I’m glad I did…for lots of reasons. First, it goes without saying because I got to spend time with George. He’s like family – not sure he knows how much I adore him exactly, but I do. Second, I got to go the Five Spot. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. ‘Nuff said. And third, it was fun to go to a live performance. With three kids and a tight budget, our live entertainment is limited to people-watching at public parks and the Safeway and the musicals the girls are in every Christmas and spring. It was a treat indeed to see such talented performers and feel the excitement of everyone there.
But…I have to say, I was caught off guard by how much I thought of my mom that evening. See, ole Debbie R. (still rocking the thigh high slit skirt at 70-something) talked a lot about her days in Hollywood. She dished on her friendships with people like Judy Garland, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. And then, there were show tunes.
As anyone who knows my mom will attest, she is a lover of the show tune. Such a lover that she becomes totally uninhibited in her love and zest to share them with others. Mostly at inopportune times, like while on the subway (yes Mom, still holding onto that gem of a memory) or at the grocery store, but often just because the mood strikes, or because someone mentions a word that happens to be in a show tune. I guess in her way, she passed this love and appreciation down to me and many times during the night, I thought about how much she would be thrilled to be at that show. Show tunes + homos (in droves) + George = one happy Lil Debbie, methinks.
As I drove home, I realized all the things my mom has passed down to me that I’m not sure I ever thanked her for. Things like making a big deal out of a special event. Or making a big deal out of a sorta dumb event, like Valentine’s Day. I remember the cupcakes with huge pink frosting and plastic hearts that she would buy us at Giant. Things like having a red plate for the person who had something cool to celebrate or who had achieved something at school. Things like having beautifully wrapped gifts for birthday and Christmas – gifts that really meant something to the person receiving them. I wish I could have a house decorated as nicely as my mom’s – not because of fancy, store bought furniture, but because of the way she takes meaningful things, like my grandmother’s violin, and makes them part of the décor. The list goes on and on, really.
There are other things too. The memories I have of family vacations to Disney World, to Kansas, Oklahoma, South Dakota and California and most of all, to the Outer Banks are priceless. The family gatherings for holidays. The shopping trips – even when she made me get my ears pierced first.
I suspect my mom feels like she didn’t “contribute” because she stayed home with us instead of getting a paying job. But if wealth can be measured by the contributions you make to the world, I would say my mom wins tenfold. Because today, on Mother’s Day, I want to tell her that she did the best job. She taught me how to be a good mom (striving for great, not quite there yet) and my brother how to be a great dad. She taught us the importance of family tradition. She gave us the comfort and the security that someone would always be there – when we skinned our knee, when someone teased us, when we were scared. She taught us boundaries (it is NOT okay to tell your little brother that he should pee outside by the tree like dogs do, by the way). She taught us family comes first.
Thanks Mom. I probably don’t tell you enough that you are my best friend. I love and admire you. I’m sorry for all the times I let you down, did something I wasn’t supposed to or made you want to pull your hair out. I’m sorry for the times I snuck some of your Cadbury bars that you had hidden in the cabinet. I’m sorry for the times I borrowed your clothes without asking. Sorry for the times I knocked on your bedroom door when it was shut. I now understand why you were in there.
Thank you also for:
But…I have to say, I was caught off guard by how much I thought of my mom that evening. See, ole Debbie R. (still rocking the thigh high slit skirt at 70-something) talked a lot about her days in Hollywood. She dished on her friendships with people like Judy Garland, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. And then, there were show tunes.
As anyone who knows my mom will attest, she is a lover of the show tune. Such a lover that she becomes totally uninhibited in her love and zest to share them with others. Mostly at inopportune times, like while on the subway (yes Mom, still holding onto that gem of a memory) or at the grocery store, but often just because the mood strikes, or because someone mentions a word that happens to be in a show tune. I guess in her way, she passed this love and appreciation down to me and many times during the night, I thought about how much she would be thrilled to be at that show. Show tunes + homos (in droves) + George = one happy Lil Debbie, methinks.
As I drove home, I realized all the things my mom has passed down to me that I’m not sure I ever thanked her for. Things like making a big deal out of a special event. Or making a big deal out of a sorta dumb event, like Valentine’s Day. I remember the cupcakes with huge pink frosting and plastic hearts that she would buy us at Giant. Things like having a red plate for the person who had something cool to celebrate or who had achieved something at school. Things like having beautifully wrapped gifts for birthday and Christmas – gifts that really meant something to the person receiving them. I wish I could have a house decorated as nicely as my mom’s – not because of fancy, store bought furniture, but because of the way she takes meaningful things, like my grandmother’s violin, and makes them part of the décor. The list goes on and on, really.
There are other things too. The memories I have of family vacations to Disney World, to Kansas, Oklahoma, South Dakota and California and most of all, to the Outer Banks are priceless. The family gatherings for holidays. The shopping trips – even when she made me get my ears pierced first.
I suspect my mom feels like she didn’t “contribute” because she stayed home with us instead of getting a paying job. But if wealth can be measured by the contributions you make to the world, I would say my mom wins tenfold. Because today, on Mother’s Day, I want to tell her that she did the best job. She taught me how to be a good mom (striving for great, not quite there yet) and my brother how to be a great dad. She taught us the importance of family tradition. She gave us the comfort and the security that someone would always be there – when we skinned our knee, when someone teased us, when we were scared. She taught us boundaries (it is NOT okay to tell your little brother that he should pee outside by the tree like dogs do, by the way). She taught us family comes first.
Thanks Mom. I probably don’t tell you enough that you are my best friend. I love and admire you. I’m sorry for all the times I let you down, did something I wasn’t supposed to or made you want to pull your hair out. I’m sorry for the times I snuck some of your Cadbury bars that you had hidden in the cabinet. I’m sorry for the times I borrowed your clothes without asking. Sorry for the times I knocked on your bedroom door when it was shut. I now understand why you were in there.
Thank you also for:
- Taking us to the drive-in in our pajamas
- For letting me go to Senior Week at Ocean City but then coming to check on us “just because we wanted to see the ocean for a couple hours”
- Always pretending Santa came, even when we were in our twenties
- Driving across country with me and going to see Graceland even though you didn’t really want to, and agreeing to stay in the hotel with a guitar shaped pool
- Going to see the movie about Howard Stern with me
- Not killing us when you took us to dinner theatre and other shows and we told you how bored we were
- Letting us open one present on Christmas Eve
- Making me a clown cake when I turned one. And then again when I turned 21.
- Finding seafood restaurants that served chicken
- Always coming up with cool Halloween costume ideas (although I think Alex got the really good ones)
- Making manicotti even though the time it took you to make it was 10 times longer than the time it took us to eat it
- Cooking dinner (breakfast?) after prom that one time – and while we are on the prom topic,
- For not letting me wear some poufy monstrosity that I would be mortified to look at now
- Not getting super mad when I would sneak something into the grocery cart, that you didn’t find out about until it was being swiped
Anyway, you get the idea.
Thanks. I love you. You (well, and Dad, but it’s not Fathers Day) made me who I am today – which some people say is not all that bad.
And I officially forgive you for not getting me a Big Wheel when I was little. I have learned to remember with fondness the Inch Worm you thought would be a good substitute.
Happy Mother’s Day to all the other amazing moms I know – especially the ones in my family: Judy, Kathy, Beth, Ann, Terri, A, Jacki, Libby, Casey, Christy, Abby, Patti, and to all my friends: Karen (all three of them), Jesse, Wendie, Lori, Glenda, Susie, and the many other moms I know, that are too countless to name here. You all inspire me in your own way – whether you’re married, single, empty nesting, expecting, struggling……
Finally, if you’ve read this far, I ask for your thoughts and prayers for my friends W&J, and for J – all of whom face health challenges in the days and months ahead and need extra good wishes sent their way.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Equality Day
Today was Marriage Equality Day. I made Noah come with me and we drove down to Olympia for a rally sponsored by Equal Rights Washington. I was also hoping to meet with my legislators, but we got there a little late and so we didn’t get to do that part. But all in all, it was a good day – the sun was out, I got to spend some time with my teenager, and I felt good expressing my opinion about a cause that really matters to me.
I thought a lot about my friend/”uncle” Donald today. Way back when – gosh, like 20 or 21 years ago, he first exposed me to the world of homos. I remember him coming to visit us in Maryland because he was going to a display of the AIDS quilt and then going to a protest, I think with ACT UP. He and my mom talked about jello molds and he told us that he knew exactly what to bring the day of the protest in case he got arrested. We went to see him at the AIDS quilt, and that was really my first taste of social issues. I really couldn’t understand why people would be discriminated against because they were sick. I worked a couple of AIDS quilts after that. I remember one year, I had a panel in my section that had been covered up by the family of the person named. They were embarrassed and didn’t want people to know their son had been gay and died of AIDS. Sad. Donald has been gone almost 11 years now.
Years later, I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that in 2009, people are still discriminated against because of who they fall in love with or more specifically, what they do in the bedroom. Who cares? Would any of us want to be judged by the same token? I’m guessing no (if so, Bret Michaels is in a world of hurt). It’s so ridiculous. My neighbors down the street have been together as long as my husband and I have been. Is their relationship any less significant than mine, because I have the legal piece of paper and they don’t? No.
If I do nothing else as a parent, it will be to try and teach my kids that skin color doesn’t matter. Religious affiliation doesn’t matter. And sexual orientation doesn’t matter. Everyone deserves respect. We the people means ALL the people, doesn’t it? Our forefather didn’t say – “except those boys who kiss other boys. “
OK, soapbox put away now. :)
Here’s a funny Noah story. Just recently, he has discovered ‘80s music, and thinks it’s really cool. All of a sudden, I’m hip because I have Def Leppard CDs, and I’ve seen Depeche Mode in person and oh my god in heaven, I have a CD with “Jessie’s Girl” on it. We had to play said song all the way home from Olympia today, with Noah singing all the words he knows. This consists of sporadic phrases like “she’s lovin’ him with that body, I just know it” and “I want, I want Jessie’s girl.” Picture complete quiet, except for the song, and then Noah busting out those parts. Whoa.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The magical mathematical mystery
Probably much to the dismay of my dad (an electrical engineer), math has never been my strong suit. I’m not ashamed to admit that I need a calculator to figure out my age (okay, not really, but only because my current age ends in a zero). Usually math works against me - geometry gave me the only D I ever got in my entire high school career (I mean really – who needs to know what a parallelogram is anyway – do you ever see one in real life? When's the last time you had to calculate the linear term of an equation? I rest my case.) Or, like when I step on the scale – those are not friendly numbers.
But today, math gave me a gift. I found out that the distance I thought I was running was really almost double what I originally calculated!! That’s right homies – I thought one lap around my block was 1/8 of a mile, but turns out it’s almost ¼ of a mile! I don’t need a stinkin’ calculator to tell me that for the last four weeks, I’ve actually been walking/running TWICE what I originally thought! So when I was getting discouraged because all I could run consistently was that 1/8th of a mile, I was really running double that. No wonder my poor legs were like “hey bitch, pull over!” This puts me over my initial goal for the end of February and means that I can walk/run over half of the distance I need to do in the triathlon.
Now don’t get me wrong, I still need to work desperately on running a longer, consistent distance. But given that this is the most exercise I’ve done in a good ten years, I have to say, I’m proud of that number. And this comes at a good time. A couple days ago, I had my first serious crisis of faith. My legs just would not run. It’s like they decided to go on strike. I came in that night seriously defeated and I will admit, there were some tears. I had some doubts about whether or not I could do this. But I regrouped. I may be lots of things, but I am not a quitter!
The next night, I went back out. Lucky for me, we were having a windstorm which meant that every time I tried to run down my side of the street, I was blown backwards. The last thing I need is MORE resistance. I’ve got enough natural resistance right now. So I had to settle for running down one side of the street and walking up the other. It’s all good though.
Tonight, Mother Nature has dealt me a cruel joke in the form of daylight savings time. Unless I want to wait until 10:00 to run, I will have to start doing it without my security blanket of darkness. Oh well, I’ll strap on both bras (regular and ass - AKA compression shorts) and hit the road.
This week I also added swimming, and for the last two weeks I’ve been biking. When I get off the bike, I feel like I’ve been riding a horse. I would say my crotch hurts, but my friend Jesse has informed me that the correct terminology is to say my “saddle” hurts. Anyway you say it, it ain’t good. Thank god for padded bike shorts (worn underneath the workout pants). I'm really trying to earn a new, road bike - I have my eye on one that matches my bike helmet.
A side note – as I work on this, I’m listening to the Bret Michaels Rock of Love episode I missed from last week. I think I just heard the best line ever in any TV show in history – “I specifically asked you guys NOT to be slutty or whorry.” That’s awesome. I wonder who I can say that to this coming week. Too bad performance reviews are done at work – that would have been good peer feedback to give someone. AHAHAHAHA – I crack myself up.
But I digress.
Twin story of the week – the other day, Hannah decided to go through her stuffed animals. I asked her what she was doing and she said “Mama, I’m just looking at my toys. They remind me of olden days.” Maybe we'll send some of the discarded animals to cousin Pat and cousin Gabe.
And yes, I do have Noah stories too. I will share next time.
Compton, out!
But today, math gave me a gift. I found out that the distance I thought I was running was really almost double what I originally calculated!! That’s right homies – I thought one lap around my block was 1/8 of a mile, but turns out it’s almost ¼ of a mile! I don’t need a stinkin’ calculator to tell me that for the last four weeks, I’ve actually been walking/running TWICE what I originally thought! So when I was getting discouraged because all I could run consistently was that 1/8th of a mile, I was really running double that. No wonder my poor legs were like “hey bitch, pull over!” This puts me over my initial goal for the end of February and means that I can walk/run over half of the distance I need to do in the triathlon.
Now don’t get me wrong, I still need to work desperately on running a longer, consistent distance. But given that this is the most exercise I’ve done in a good ten years, I have to say, I’m proud of that number. And this comes at a good time. A couple days ago, I had my first serious crisis of faith. My legs just would not run. It’s like they decided to go on strike. I came in that night seriously defeated and I will admit, there were some tears. I had some doubts about whether or not I could do this. But I regrouped. I may be lots of things, but I am not a quitter!
The next night, I went back out. Lucky for me, we were having a windstorm which meant that every time I tried to run down my side of the street, I was blown backwards. The last thing I need is MORE resistance. I’ve got enough natural resistance right now. So I had to settle for running down one side of the street and walking up the other. It’s all good though.
Tonight, Mother Nature has dealt me a cruel joke in the form of daylight savings time. Unless I want to wait until 10:00 to run, I will have to start doing it without my security blanket of darkness. Oh well, I’ll strap on both bras (regular and ass - AKA compression shorts) and hit the road.
This week I also added swimming, and for the last two weeks I’ve been biking. When I get off the bike, I feel like I’ve been riding a horse. I would say my crotch hurts, but my friend Jesse has informed me that the correct terminology is to say my “saddle” hurts. Anyway you say it, it ain’t good. Thank god for padded bike shorts (worn underneath the workout pants). I'm really trying to earn a new, road bike - I have my eye on one that matches my bike helmet.
A side note – as I work on this, I’m listening to the Bret Michaels Rock of Love episode I missed from last week. I think I just heard the best line ever in any TV show in history – “I specifically asked you guys NOT to be slutty or whorry.” That’s awesome. I wonder who I can say that to this coming week. Too bad performance reviews are done at work – that would have been good peer feedback to give someone. AHAHAHAHA – I crack myself up.
But I digress.
Twin story of the week – the other day, Hannah decided to go through her stuffed animals. I asked her what she was doing and she said “Mama, I’m just looking at my toys. They remind me of olden days.” Maybe we'll send some of the discarded animals to cousin Pat and cousin Gabe.
And yes, I do have Noah stories too. I will share next time.
Compton, out!
Monday, February 9, 2009
For Wendie
OK, so my friend Wendie reminded me today that I need to update this blog. She actually said it in a way that did not include "you are wasting your time here" which is a step forward, so in her honor, here I am. I am even giving up watching Bret Michaels Rock of Love to do this, so Wendie, if you are reading, you should feel pretty special indeed.
I actually can't believe that 5 months have passed without this being updated. It unfortunately confirms one of my character flaws, which is to start something with good intentions only to see it fall by the wayside in the midst of all the other things that suck at my time.
And so with this update, I am committing to try and change this habit, and in more than one way.
Last week, I decided to do the Danskin tri-athlon in August.
Those of you who know me, or have just even seen me lately, are probably either laughing, or scratching your head in disbelief, or some combination of the above. Go ahead, because believe me, I've done the same thing.
In all seriousness, I need to do something. I am not the semi-svelte teenager I used to be. I can blame the extra weight on having kids (because truly, that's how it arrived) but I can only blame its ongoing existence on bad habits. And since I'm 40 now, and since no matter how many times I do an "I Dream of Jeannie" blink or wish upon a star, and go to bed hoping that in the morning, all the extra weight will mysteriously and miraculously melt away - none of that is going to happen.
Besides the fact that I am now committed to this event, there are several reasons why I need to lose this weight:
I actually can't believe that 5 months have passed without this being updated. It unfortunately confirms one of my character flaws, which is to start something with good intentions only to see it fall by the wayside in the midst of all the other things that suck at my time.
And so with this update, I am committing to try and change this habit, and in more than one way.
Last week, I decided to do the Danskin tri-athlon in August.
Those of you who know me, or have just even seen me lately, are probably either laughing, or scratching your head in disbelief, or some combination of the above. Go ahead, because believe me, I've done the same thing.
In all seriousness, I need to do something. I am not the semi-svelte teenager I used to be. I can blame the extra weight on having kids (because truly, that's how it arrived) but I can only blame its ongoing existence on bad habits. And since I'm 40 now, and since no matter how many times I do an "I Dream of Jeannie" blink or wish upon a star, and go to bed hoping that in the morning, all the extra weight will mysteriously and miraculously melt away - none of that is going to happen.
Besides the fact that I am now committed to this event, there are several reasons why I need to lose this weight:
- when I run, things jiggle in the front AND the back. I don't think anyone actually makes an ass-bra, but there is probably a market for it.
- I work at a place where seriously 98% of the population is fit and trim. I'm talking people riding mini Tour de France races at lunchtime, a candy machine where the candy actually expires, and people jogging from building to building for meetings. I sorta stick out like a sore thumb.
- I want cuter clothes. Chubby girl clothes only get more hideous the older you get.
- I want to be proud to post my current picture on Facebook, and not hide behind a head shot or a picture of me at age 4. How come most of the girls from high school look exactly the same? At this point, I'd rather let them look me up in the old yearbook and remember fondly how cute I used to be and how I rocked the pegged jeans in the late '80s.
But honestly, besides the semi-funny reasons above, and the all too serious reasons (like for my health), I want my kids, especially my daughters, to see their mom set a goal and stick to it. I want them to see me cross that finish line, even if I have to drag myself across, crying my eyes out like a big ole baby. WHICH, is a high probability....I'm just sayin'.
Tonight started the Routine. The Routine is my plan of attack to be able to be in fighting shape by August. It's a combo of run/walk, biking and swimming, with set goals and milestones along the way.
The Routine will require that I purchase AND wear a bathing suit. In front of other people. More than once.
The Routine will require that I learn to run the entire time and not walk at all, which will mean I need to work through the shooting pain in my shins and try not to fall on my face.
The Routine means I actually have to get on the bike that up 'til now has just been a holder for my bike helmet.
The Routine will necessitate that I stop breathing through my mouth when I try to run.
The Routine is guaranteed to make me cranky, sore and exhausted. And will probably do the same to my poor family, who will have to live with me.
I started tonight by running/walking the block around my house. I do this under the cover of dark so none of my neighbors can see me run (see bullet point 1 above). Unfortunately my new neighbor did catch me, but was nice enough to cheer me on rather than comment on the sorry state of my less than graceful running. I love my new neighbor.
And who knows, maybe at the end of all this, I'll be able to fit into some kicky kitschy Carol Brady pantsuit. For Halloween of course, not to wear around the house (hee hee, well, not often around the house).
Wish me luck. I will need it.
Finally, for those of you who tune in here solely to read a funny kid story, I'll leave you with this:
This weekend, after being cooped up in our house for what feels like 6 months, we took a little day trip over to Bremerton. We brought along the twins' best friend and his brother, and all the kids had a great time, eating Belgian frites (look it up) and throwing rocks in the water. At one point, Hannah sits down cross legged (AKA Indian style, which is what we called it pre-politically correct) and assumes a yoga position, complete (replete?) with fingers positioned up in the air and eyes closed. She starts "oh"ming - you know, "ohmmmm" "ohmmmm," as all good yoga-ers do. When she realizes that the other kids are not participating, she stops, opens her eyes and says "GUYS! I'm doing my ohms right now, I really need you to be quiet. NOw, if you want to sit down and ohm with me, fine. But I need quiet."
And there you have it. I am now returning to the conclusion of Bret Michaels Rock of Love, so I can see which strip-testant is voted off this week.
Peace out!
Friday, September 19, 2008
Not really a sunshine day
And that’s literal – the famous (infamous) Seattle weather has reared its ugly head today – gray, dark, with a constant misting of rain, which honestly, is more annoying than straight up rain. Do I need the wipers on? Do I need a raincoat? And speaking of which, what is up with people who put their intermittent wipers on the fastest setting? Why not just turn the regular wipers on?
Ugh. As you can see, my mood today matches this gray foul weather.
It started yesterday when I reconnected with my sister in law on Facebook. Yes, I have a Facebook. I’m not ashamed! I found out through her that my brother in law is deploying to Iraq in a couple of weeks. The last time I saw my brother in law, he was six and didn’t want me to give him a kiss. Now he is 20, and going to IRAQ. Scary stuff. Up ‘til now, I didn’t know anyone in Iraq. Sure, the occasional cousin of a friend’s boyfriend or something, but no one in my actual extended family.
Then I find out that my dad, who is visiting my brother in Maryland, has had another “episode.” “Episode” is code for “Bob passes out for no explicable reason, necessitating a trip to the ER for a myriad of tests.” It may or may not be followed by a stay in said hospital. Luckily, last night, it did not include a stay in the hospital and the battery of tests found nothing super serious. My beloved father just does not drink enough water, a trait he has unfortunately passed down to me, but I digress. I don’t know why this bothered me so much yesterday – was it because he was so far away? Because I found out through my aunt’s blog? I don’t know. I got upset at my mom, which I feel really horrible about now, and made my brother promise me not to allow my parents to get back in the car and drive home to California today. There was a lot of crying and well, that just doesn’t help. Or does it? Jury’s out.
To top it all off, I get home to see that my son, who is being homeschooled this year, wasn’t feeling well enough to do schoolwork and go to drama auditions, but did somehow find the inner strength and fortitude to play computer games and check his Myspace page.
When it rains, it pours. And I’m not just saying that because I live in Seattle.
I guess my point is, as much as I would like to have a Brady Bunch life, it’s just not possible. The Bradys never had to deal with crap like this. Mrs. Brady never had more on her plate than kids fighting over who got to live in the attic or where to go on vacation. If things were really serious, it involved a swollen nose or Jan wearing a wig. Come on!
When it comes down to it, I’m not Carol Brady at all. I use swear words sometimes (OK, most times), I don’t have an Alice making my dinners, I work outside the home, I still haven’t lost my baby weight so there is really no hope in wearing a kicky pantsuit (at least not in the near future), the list goes on and on.
This test of faith - in a higher power, in my parenting skills, in my coping skills as a whole, has shaken me today. What to do? I don’t know. This one won’t be wrapped up neatly in 30 minutes, I guess.
But at least Bobby is feeling better and is out of the hospital. For that I am grateful. To my mom and brother, I’m sorry for my "episode" yesterday.
Ugh. As you can see, my mood today matches this gray foul weather.
It started yesterday when I reconnected with my sister in law on Facebook. Yes, I have a Facebook. I’m not ashamed! I found out through her that my brother in law is deploying to Iraq in a couple of weeks. The last time I saw my brother in law, he was six and didn’t want me to give him a kiss. Now he is 20, and going to IRAQ. Scary stuff. Up ‘til now, I didn’t know anyone in Iraq. Sure, the occasional cousin of a friend’s boyfriend or something, but no one in my actual extended family.
Then I find out that my dad, who is visiting my brother in Maryland, has had another “episode.” “Episode” is code for “Bob passes out for no explicable reason, necessitating a trip to the ER for a myriad of tests.” It may or may not be followed by a stay in said hospital. Luckily, last night, it did not include a stay in the hospital and the battery of tests found nothing super serious. My beloved father just does not drink enough water, a trait he has unfortunately passed down to me, but I digress. I don’t know why this bothered me so much yesterday – was it because he was so far away? Because I found out through my aunt’s blog? I don’t know. I got upset at my mom, which I feel really horrible about now, and made my brother promise me not to allow my parents to get back in the car and drive home to California today. There was a lot of crying and well, that just doesn’t help. Or does it? Jury’s out.
To top it all off, I get home to see that my son, who is being homeschooled this year, wasn’t feeling well enough to do schoolwork and go to drama auditions, but did somehow find the inner strength and fortitude to play computer games and check his Myspace page.
When it rains, it pours. And I’m not just saying that because I live in Seattle.
I guess my point is, as much as I would like to have a Brady Bunch life, it’s just not possible. The Bradys never had to deal with crap like this. Mrs. Brady never had more on her plate than kids fighting over who got to live in the attic or where to go on vacation. If things were really serious, it involved a swollen nose or Jan wearing a wig. Come on!
When it comes down to it, I’m not Carol Brady at all. I use swear words sometimes (OK, most times), I don’t have an Alice making my dinners, I work outside the home, I still haven’t lost my baby weight so there is really no hope in wearing a kicky pantsuit (at least not in the near future), the list goes on and on.
This test of faith - in a higher power, in my parenting skills, in my coping skills as a whole, has shaken me today. What to do? I don’t know. This one won’t be wrapped up neatly in 30 minutes, I guess.
But at least Bobby is feeling better and is out of the hospital. For that I am grateful. To my mom and brother, I’m sorry for my "episode" yesterday.
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