Aside by

My normally scheduled post will not occur today as I will be flying up to my 25th high school reunion alone and I need time to categorize and pack my anxieties. And also to prepare the house to not go up in flames while I’m gone. This is a long and involved process, requiring all of my concentration and stomach meds. I’m sure you understand.

I will return on Monday…unless my plane goes down in flames, or the kitchen at the brewery explodes and I’m killed by a flying pint glass, which, come to think of it, isn’t a bad way to go…the pint glass, not the plane crash…but only if the pint glass hits me in the back of the head so that it doesn’t ruin my make up. I want to look decent for the paramedics and then for Hubs when he has to identify me. That’s important.

Please make sure that Hubs remarries someone who is kind but completely unattractive. Someone the kids will love, but never as much as they love me.

Thank you.

Excused Absence

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Outnumbered: A Retail Tragedy

I took the kids to the mall today. Both of them. At the same time. I try never to do this because it tests my sanity but today it couldn’t be helped. Either child on their own is no problem 99% of the time. However, the two together are a volatile mix, the likes of which blow up chemistry classrooms and send chemistry professors into early retirement or a habit of drinking in the closet.

But BFF’s birthday party is tomorrow and we hadn’t yet found the perfect gift. We’d found many imperfect ones but not the absolute right gift to capture the specialness of the bestest friend in the entire universe, including fairy kingdoms, without whom my daughter would surely perish of sorrow and boredom. So off we went today, all three of us, to the mall.

Dum Dum Dum Dum.

I should mention that Conor has skinned and reskinned his knees again, so he’s working his Dickensian limp while holding his shorts up, like Tiny Tim learning to curtsy. It is impressively tragic. Immediately after entering the mall Conor wanted to be carried with his imaginary cane to the Disney store. Scrooge Mommy denied his request.

Don’t laugh. It’s tragic.

The Disney store didn’t have the item we sought. They also didn’t have the back-up item Riley came up with after 15 minutes of coercion. Conor on the other hand found 50 things he desperately wanted in the same amount of time. Have you ever tried to keep two children together and focused in a Disney store? It’s physically impossible. Because they sprinkle crack on the floor.

(Note: Disney denies this allegation and the local CSI teams are all too busy solving “actual crimes” to call me back, but I’m pretty sure I’m on to something.)

Finally we fled left and headed to another store in the mall to look for a back-up to the back-up item. But alas, the perfect gift was nowhere in the second store either. We know because we checked. Every. Aisle. Twice. Riley was despondent and Conor was losing patience and demanding his twentieth escalator ride, so I corralled them into a restaurant to eat.

Immediately after we ordered, Conor announced that he had to pee with an urgency reserved for pregnant women, drunk coeds and children who wait until the last minute. Riley is deeply insulted by even the thought of any boy’s “private parts” (congratulations Hubs) and didn’t want to come with us. As the waiter had disappeared, I also didn’t want him to think that we’d ordered and then left like fugitives. So, with Hubs popping a blood vessel in my imagination, I left Riley to hold our table. Alone. At the very front of the restaurant. Wearing her Dear Child Predator, Take Me Because My Mom Is An Irresponsible Parent t-shirt. While Conor and I took a trip to the bathroom. In the bowels of the earth.

Okay Riley wasn’t wearing that t-shirt. She was wearing this.

Her My Mom Is Irresponsible Enough To Let Me Draw On My Clothes tank top.

Same difference. And the bathroom wasn’t in the bowels of the earth, but it was in the back of the restaurant, which curved around a corner and went on for ten miles. Nearly.

Riley wasn’t abducted but I got plenty of dirty looks on the way back to the table. I wanted to yell, “Shut up! Tiny Tim had to pee!” But I realized that would only be an admission of guilt and we already knew I was guilty. Of so many things.

Conor likes to stretch his meal out as long as possible, so we finally took his corndog to go. Not in a container. That would be too classy. He yanked the stick out and mashed the fried bread/meat combo into his little fist and we took it through the mall. We were giddy from all-you-can-eat steak fries and beyond caring.

When I stopped at Teavana to sample their wares, Conor was possessed by the spirit of mall music and started to bust out some ambitious dance moves, still clutching his fist o’meat. A steak fry buzz will do that to you. Mid-spin he went down hard. So hard, in fact, that the Teavana sample dude just took his things and went inside his store. Conor lie there stunned, wondering where it all went wrong.

Never dance with carnie food. (image via dreamstime)

I helped him up and we shuffled on. Not ten yards later, Conor stepped on somebody’s discarded pastry and took another digger, this time letting loose with his famous super sonic cry. Malls have excellent acoustics. I gave up on BFF’s gift and started to giggle hysterically.

If you saw a manic woman hustling two children through the mall, one of them screaming and limping dramatically while clutching a dirty wad of corndog, it was me. At the car the kids managed to headbutt each other and all three of us started to cry, though I was the only one who also cursed. Then I bought them candy and waited for our car to burst into flame as a capper.

When Hubs got home, Riley and I went out on our own and found a birthday present. We laughed, skipped, shared a soda like childhood sweethearts. It was magical.

One child. It makes all the difference.

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Safe Travels

I woke up at 3:00am yesterday filled with anxiety. A friend’s father has been struggling with a long-term health issue and at 3:00am my mind decided that the issue required my immediate attention, so there I lie at that ungodly hour, fraught with foreboding and a full bladder.

At 6:00am I found my daughter sitting in the hall, mortified that she had uncharacteristically wet the bed with her best friend sleeping next to her. She was so exhausted that she just didn’t wake up. That happens when you party like a rock star at a gazillion back to back sleepovers. Then my son woke up and realized that he’d done the same thing. Everyone passed out and just peed where they lie. It smelled like the Rolling Stones tour bus.

“Our tour bus smells much better now that we all wear diapers.”

When I looked in the bathroom mirror I discovered the ice cream that I had used to comfort myself the day before made me break out, which was cool, since I’d been planning to take the promo picture needed for an upcoming show. I was going for a hip and semi-youthful vibe and nothing says “youthful” more effectively than pimples. Even Loreal Excellence Creme in light auburn can’t compete with that.

I thought to myself, Aha! Those feelings of anxiety were about giant chin pimples and loads of laundry, and breathed a sigh of relief, which wasn’t easy because the pimple on my chin was blocking my oxygen supply.

An aerial view of my chin. (image via wikipedia)

And then I got a call about my friend’s father, who had a health crisis from which he wasn’t expected to recover and I realized that laundry and epic breakouts were the least of my worries. Periodic weeping commenced and continued all day. If you’ve ever seen a red-chinned woman sob while folding piles of laundry you know it wasn’t pretty. Definitely not the day to take a promo picture.

Ever met someone’s family and liked them immediately–even wished fervently in an obsessive but completely uncreepy way that they were your family? My friend Sabra’s family is like that. Everyone loves them. They remind me of my own family minus the baggage–the family of my imagination, with all of the love and humor and none of the addiction.  Her mom, Lynn works in hospice care and health research. Her dad, Al was a professor and researcher at a University. They were in the Peace Corps in Africa when my friend was born and then they trekked across the continent with their newborn. One of their Peace Corps friends read an African prayer at my friend’s wedding. How cool is that?

My dad stepped on my dress repeatedly as he walked me to the altar and then turned me down for the father/daughter dance, which is awesome in its own way (because it makes for a good story), but it’s no African prayer.

I look maniacal and Dad looks confused. That’s about right.

When I was pregnant with my daughter I sat next to Al at a dinner party to celebrate his and Lynn’s visit. Across from us sat a woman who had some extremely negative views on prenatal medicine. She had never been pregnant but she had a friend who was and had accompanied that friend on a doctor’s visit, which clearly made her an expert.

I wish I didn’t have to work so hard for my expertise. Shoot, I wish I had some expertise.

Anyway, she took the opportunity to demonize, at length, the medical and scientific community to which Al had dedicated his working life in the most arrogant of ways, while instructing me on how I should proceed with my pregnancy. Al smiled and was good-natured about the whole exchange, though his medical knowledge dwarfed hers and she was being rude. I mostly kept my mouth shut because I was busy imagining my water glass hurtling toward her head. Sabra told me later that Al had remarked that I’d handled the exchange very well.

In actuality he was the one who handled the exchange, but he gave me the credit. That epitomizes the kind of man he was: kind and engaging, intellectual without being arrogant, unassuming and generous. And when someone of that caliber likes you in return, you feel validated. Or at least I do, because sometimes I see myself in the reflection of the eyes of those I really respect. If those eyes are myopic and mistake me for being more bitchin’ than I actually am, it’s Christmas for my self-esteem.

Now this incredible person has come to the end of this leg of his adventure, his family is suffering and all I can do is tearfully write a blog post, awkwardly extolling his virtues. Well I never said our association was mutually rewarding.

Thank you, Al, for the privilege of your acquaintance. My life is richer having known you. Safe travels. Wherever you go, they will be lucky to have you.

 

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How Hippies Make Fine Wine

I just read about the Summerhill Pyramid Winery in British Columbia, the first organic and bio-dynamic certified winery in BC.

Bio-dynamic. That’s an impressive word. I was captivated by it, as I often am by words I don’t really understand and want to toss around in conversations. However, as I’ve been known to use words incorrectly, I looked it up first.

According to Wikipedia, bio-dynamics is a method of organic farming that emphasizes the holistic development and interrelationships of the soil, plants and animals as a self-sustaining system. This means that I’d sound ignorant if I walked out of my yoga class and declared that I felt bio-dynamic, unless I was also coated in dirt and chicken poop.

But here’s the part of the article that really got my attention. Evidently one bio-dynamic technique this winery uses involves using rainwater mixed with the manure of a lactating cow that was harvested during a full moon, stuffed inside a cow horn and buried under the ground for around a year. Then it was dug up during certain astrological conditions. I’m fuzzy on the details, but I’m pretty sure that Uranus was in opposition to something.

“I smell something bio-dynamic.” (image via dreamstime)

I am not making this up. In fact, if you want to see cutting edge wine technology in action, click this link: dude digging up poo-stuffed cow horns.

This process produces a biologically-active fertilizer, which is then sprayed on the vines in order to suppress and resist mildew and fungal diseases, as well as enhance nutrients flowing to the roots. The fact that the cow is lactating makes all the difference. The manure of single cows who’ve decided to adopt is not desirable here. We’re not making a judgment on their lifestyle choices, just their manure.

“I’m really focused on my career right now.” (image via dreamstime)

I’m kicking myself because when I was lactating I flushed biologically-active fertilizer down our commode on a daily basis. I could have had my own vineyard and supplied myself with bottles of bio-dynamic stress reliever, plus made a boat load of cash! Then again, considering that I didn’t even brush my hair or apply body lotion the whole first year of my daughter’s life, maybe running a vineyard would have been aiming a little high.

They’re still calling this wine vegan-friendly because the animal byproducts never actually touch the wine. Though they do ferment herbs in stag bladders and cow intestines, but these things only touch the soil, which is a shame because if I’d gone to the trouble of fermenting some herbs in a stag’s bladder, I’d want to sprinkle it over some pasta or something. They do not use any fish bladders, gelatin, egg whites, milk, or milk byproducts in their winemaking, which is (attention my drunk, vegan friends) evidently a common practice among winemakers.

If you’d like to see the winemakers dig up some stag’s bladders, animal skulls stuffed with what looks like supernatural ectoplasm and other nifty items not found at your local butcher, click on this link dude digging up weird animal parts. You’re going to want a big old glass of grappa when you’re done watching it. Nothing goes with ectoplasm like a Riesling.

But wait, there’s more!

Did I mention that this winery has a genuine pyramid? Yessiree. But don’t expect a bunch of slot machines inside.  According to the proprietor, Stephen Cipes, “the knowingness of eternity awaits us in this sacred chamber.” You can’t get knowingness at the Luxor.

I bet Bartles & James never had a pyramid

As I understand it, the theory is that humans are mostly liquid, especially when they’re pumped full of wine, so when they enter the sacred chamber, it’s an opportunity to “clarify their own inner selves”. Like butter. The chamber helps them get to the “knowingness of who they are,” which may be just a bunch of cow turd-loving winos, but y’all know I don’t judge.

The chamber “enhances our receptiveness, opening the left and right sides of our brains, much like the dolphins, whales, and elephants” which are apparently all new age animals and “in touch with the all-one ‘soul of the world,'” even though you almost never see a dolphin getting a palm reading.

“I’m more of a numerology mammal.” (image via dreamstime)

Awe. Some. I love hippies. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m ready to climb into that pyramid with a bottle of bio-dynamic wine and some elephants and just get wrecked on clarity.

Tell me you wouldn’t go drinking with this cutie. (image via dreamstime)

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The Law Of Attraction To Charlie Sheen

Warning: You can’t process this blog post with a normal brain.

I’ve been trying to follow the law of attraction lately. You know, the whole “like attracts like” theory, which states that the thoughts you put out there ultimately attract positive or negative things to you depending on if you are a mental ray of sunshine or possess more of an Andy Dick on a bender attitude…

I might not be explaining this very well.

“No you are not. Has any ever told you that your head is enormous?” (image via starpulse)

Anyway, I’m a fairly positive person but I do spend a lot of time going over worst case scenarios in my head and I decided one day after reading about the law of attraction on someone’s blog (isn’t that where everyone gets their pertinent information?) that I didn’t necessarily want to attract some of the things I’d been thinking about. Maybe I should spend less time thinking about homicidal maniacs breaking into my house and more time thinking about unicorns and rainbows and Ryan Reynolds’s abs.

You’re welcome.

I decided to test this theory by focusing my thoughts on something I really wanted.

Specifically a house. More specifically the HGTV Green Home. And how I was going to win it.

Oh look, there I am in the window with a glass of organic wine. (image via hgtv.com)

Then I thought, who knows more about winning than Charlie Sheen? (Granted, someone might know more about this subject, but they don’t talk about it in the media and so I haven’t heard about them and therefore they don’t count as totally bitchin’ rock stars from Mars in my book.) And since I’m pretty sure that I also possess tiger’s blood and possibly Adonis DNA (although I’m less sure about the latter) I decided to take a page out of the book of Charlie.

Now I should be specific here. I don’t want to actually be on the drug called Charlie Sheen, because I don’t want my children to weep over my exploded body and I don’t particularly want my face to melt off either, but certainly his winning attitude would be handy. Who doesn’t want to be a battle-tested bayonet?

Even Charlie Sheen wants to be Charlie Sheen, because he’s winning. It says so on his wrist. (image via starpulse)

I focused my mind, evicted the psychological fools and trolls, who are really hard to evict even for Charlie Sheen, and concentrated my energy on imagining myself winning that house: being notified, packing up our stuff, moving across the country, acclimating to our new neighborhood and living a blissfully green existence in our new, eco-friendly home practically just down the street from Nana and Grandpa. Winning!

Okay, it is true that I had to occasionally redirect my worst case scenario thoughts when I started to think about lightning strikes and necrotizing fascitis and depressed daughters who have been separated from their BFFs and then start hanging out with the wrong people and doing drugs and flunking out of school and eventually running off to become one of Charlie Sheen’s goddesses. (I’m sorry, Charlie, you are an inspiration, but that thought is still horrifying.)

Still, I was pretty diligent about my positive thinking. Anthony Robbins even put me on speed dial for an inspirational Charlie quote pick-me-up.

I was all like, “Anthony, you’ve got to stop pretending that your life isn’t perfect and bitchin’ and just winning every second. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got poetry in my fingertips and I need to put it in a blog post.”

(That conversation didn’t actually happen. But only because he doesn’t have my phone number. Or any idea who the heck I am.)

“Are you my housekeeper, Magdelena?” (image via wikipedia)

However, as it turned out, some random woman in Texas was an even bigger winner than I was and attracted the house instead. She might have been an actual goddess. I was understandably disappointed and seriously considered challenging her to enter my octagon to meet with my fire-breathing fists, but decided that that could be construed as counterproductive and possibly illegal…and really the sort of invitation that should only be extended to CBS and the creator of Two and a Half Men.

Then I noticed that I had attracted a crap-load of other positive things to myself. Apparently my positive thoughts weren’t limited to green homes. I’d list them here, but I don’t want to gloat or demonstrate how low my standards are, because according to the Sheen, you have the right to kill me, but you do not have the right to judge me.

So my point is…dang it, what was my point again? Oh yes, think positively! Think like a winner! You might not get the thing you were shooting for, but it’s highly likely that God’s great dane will squat in your front yard and deposit the mother-load of blessings on your lawn. And you don’t even have to bag that shiznit because it is. Pure. Gold.

Would you look at that? I’ve tapped into my inner Charlie Sheen and am now making my own inappropriate inspirational quotes.

Boom!

 

Disclaimer: I do not advocate living like or even with Charlie Sheen. In fact, I maintain hope that Charlie Sheen will stop living like Charlie Sheen and go on to live a long, sober life of quote generating.

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Go Ruck Yourself UPDATED

Marines are not known for their restraint and moderation. You’ll never hear a war story of a battalion that went in and made some people mildly uncomfortable, broke a couple of things, said sorry and left. That’s just not how they roll. Marines are mildly depraved and dangerous.

Which is why I married one. Who doesn’t want to sleep next to depraved and dangerous every night?

Hubs derives a great deal of joy from enthusiastically hurting himself with physical endeavors and I enjoy watching. Every once in a while he will try to include me in his physical torture, but I’ve become fairly adept at graciously bowing out. See, Moderation is my middle name. When my body says, “ouch” I say, “What’s the matter? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry. Let’s talk about it over a beer.”

I might use Hubs as inspiration to stay physically fit, but I do my best to keep our fitness regimens fairly separate. It’s best that way. Because I want to live.

However, I have a friend who frequently does mud runs and physical challenges with her husband. There are always pictures of the two of them looking exhausted and happy at the end, somewhere near the beer tent. Sometimes one of them is wearing a tutu. I look at the pictures and inevitably feel a pang of envy. I want to do that. Suffering is okay when it’s done in a tutu and followed by a beer. And it would be something Hubs and I could do together.

Foolishly I mentioned this to him, thereby proving that communication isn’t always the answer because this is what he came up with:

THE GORUCK CHALLENGE

(image via gorucknews.com)

I should have known that it was way beyond my capabilities by the excitement on Hubs’s face when he called me over to the computer. He looked like a five-year old opening his first box of Hot Wheels.

The Goruck Challenge was created by a Green Beret. Notice the distinct lack of tutus. Still, I looked at the picture above and thought, that doesn’t look so bad. They’re doing push ups in the surf. I like the beach. Maybe there’s a picnic afterward.

(image via gorucknews.com)

Treading water arm in arm can be fun.

(image via gorucknews.com)

Especially if you’re next to the pretty people.

I was feeling cautiously optimistic. I had visions of Hubs and I smiling and sweating side by side, just us and our new friends with whom we’d share laughter and a pitcher of beer later. Like an Amstel Light commercial, but with better beer.

Then I saw this picture and my enthusiasm ran from the room Scooby Doo-style.

(image via gorucknews.com)

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that is nighttime. And those people are still carrying a giant log.  In cold wet clothes. Without a food truck. I like physical exertion. I also like to sleep and eat.

All of a sudden it didn’t look like fun anymore. Cold, wet pants chafe. Nobody wants raw thighs.

And then I realized what the Goruck Challenge really is. It’s some sort of mini Hell Week for people who fantasize about joining the Special Forces or want to relive that torturous time. I am not one of those people. I don’t need to be a Green Beret. Rambo was a Green Beret. He ended up in a tree, sewing up his own arm. I have difficulty stitching up a stuffed animal. And my big head looks terrible in berets.

(image via gorucknews.com)

Oh look, it’s dawn. And that’s not a breakfast burrito they’re carrying.

(image via gorucknews.com)

There’s nothing I like doing better after not sleeping or eating than push ups. Here is where I would collapse in a pool of my own vomit and cry or giggle hysterically while the Cadre (which is a nice way of saying Sadist) yells at me.

(image via gorucknews.com)

They’re carrying out the participants who’ve lost the will to live. That’s nice of them.

(image via gorucknews.com)

This guy made it through alive, but take a look at his elbow. I believe that’s an open wound. I bet he’s been crawling through all kinds of nastiness all night with that thing, picking up Lord only knows what diseases and no one gave him antiseptic and a Goruck Challenge band-aid. I give him another 12 hours before his arm falls off.

(image via gorucknews.com)

And now everyone is ready to go home. Wait a minute…

No beer tent???? Ah HELL no! If I’m going to carry a log all night in chafing pants, somebody had better be waiting for me, holding a frosty beverage.

Clearly this challenge is designed to make me cry, vomit and tear a muscle. Hubs and I have very different ideas about what constitutes a fun physical challenge. And as many times as I tell Hubs that this does not in any way look like a good time to me, he keeps grinning and saying, “I know you can do it” like some sort of deranged motivational speaker. Clearly he has no respect for my life or my inner thighs, which leads me to wonder if he’s taken out a large insurance policy on me or something.  My personal well-being may be at risk.

Please send help.

UPDATE:

The Goruck Challenge is now following me on twitter. I’m being stalked by a challenge! They’re coming for me…and I think they’re bringing the log. Please hurry. Time is. Running. Out.

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What To Do On A Thursday Night In Nebraska

Every once in a while as I’m reading the news I stumble across a story that really grabs me. I identify with the subject–sort of a “there but for the grace of God go I” type of thing. Take, for instance, this man, Jason Dornhoff, out of Kearney Nebraska.

Mr. Dornhoff was smoking methamphetamine one recent Thursday night when, according to court documents and the Huffington post, he decided that he needed to acquire a job and fulfill some sexual fantasies. (We’ve all been there, am I right?) He then drove over to a local restaurant and filled out an application, but, perhaps fearing that he wouldn’t stand out in this job market, decided to write a little note on the back of his application.

Allegedly.

According to the Kearney Hub, he wrote: “I have no money, a huge bomb in my truck, and a syringe of bleach that will kill you instantly. If you be quiet and help me, you won’t die.”

Now if that doesn’t put you at the top of the application pile, I don’t know what will.

The article didn’t mention exactly which restaurant Dornhoff had used to commit this crime, but I immediately pictured a TGI Friday’s, because I’ve worked at a couple of TGI Friday’s and he matches the description of some of my former customers. Maybe his sexual fantasies involved a waitress covered in fajita grease and “flair.” All of those buttons make a girl look mad sexy.

Admit it, you’re picturing me in those buttons right now. (image via flickr & Ray Yu)

He was probably hoping to run into a waitress with a hostage fantasy, which is not unreasonable. Toward the end of my shifts I often wished to be dragged out of the restaurant and stuck with a syringe full of bleach. Bleach is, after all, one of the few things that will remove the smell of fajitas from your hair while simultaneously whitening your teeth and giving you highlights.

I identify with this man on so many different levels. First of all, what is there to do on a Thursday night? I was just asking myself that very question. I was all like, “should I smoke some meth and then go down to Applebee’s with a bomb threat or should I just watch season four of True Blood?” The truth is that they both seem kind of pointless, so I might just fold some laundry.

And what about all of your pent up sexual energy? Where does a lonely horndog go for satisfaction? PeeWee Herman and Fred Willard could tell you that an adult theater is not the way to go. Lord knows a park bathroom is also a bad choice. Thank you, George Michael. The options start to dwindle until finally you find yourself at the local watering hole with a job application and a misunderstood, grammatically incorrect love note.

To be fair, crystal meth messes with your grammar. And your teeth. So let’s not be judgmental.

Also, have you been to central Nebraska? My dad was raised there and I bet if he were alive today he would tell us that he might have done the exact same thing…if it wasn’t the Depression and he hadn’t been living in a tent and the local restaurant wasn’t simply a soup line. I drove through Nebraska a couple of years back and if I hadn’t been trying to outrun what I thought was a funnel cloud, I might have made a similar choice.

Nothing saves you from a bad choice like a natural disaster. (image via flickr & Thomas-birdpics)

I think we all have a purpose in life. Maybe this guy was simply fulfilling his destiny. Just this morning I was having a discussion with my daughter about the perils of drug use (because nothing goes better with oatmeal than cautionary tales) and I told her that if she did drugs she could find herself down at Chuck E Cheeses telling them that she’d detonate the bomb on her scooter if they didn’t give her a job or some game tokens. Maybe his life purpose was to scare my daughter straight. I wonder if he can get her to go to college.

(Okay maybe that conversation didn’t actually happen, but if could have…if Hubs read the story. He loves “teaching moments” that confuse and horrify the children. It’s one of his more endearing qualities and why we make such a good team.)

At the very least, people like Jason Dornhoff give Hubs job security and me a smile. And for that I am grateful. Thank you, Jason Dornhoff. Your next order of fajitas is on me.

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A Bucket And A Rock

Today I’m just this side of useless.

Hubs and I have been in training to become MMA fighters…well Hubs bought a book written by an MMA trainer, which is nearly the same thing.

Guaranteed to make you look like a beast. Actual fighting skills not included.

I love this book. I did one of the workouts and then strutted up and down our street in a roid rage, looking for someone to choke out. All I could find was our 90-year old neighbor and he’s in a different weight class, so I haven’t technically put my title on the line, but I’m pretty sure that I’m invincible. Seriously, I am this close to earning a Tap Out t-shirt and a tribal armband tattoo.

I’ve been following the book’s diet plan religiously: no refined foods, lot’s of whole grains, fruits and veggies.  Because you can eat like a hippie and not lose your agro edge, which is important to know if you chase gang members for a living or shop at Target on a weekend. The diet has me feeling like a finely tuned machine. A washing machine, but not just any washing machine. A really good one. Like a front loading Whirlpool with all of the extra settings that I would never use.

But here’s the thing about a deluxe Whirlpool washer, you need to treat it well. You don’t dump a bunch of crayons and gum in it and expect your next load to be pristine…are you getting lost in my metaphor? See, I’m the washer and the crayons and gum are…yeah, I know my metaphor sucks. What do you expect from a gummy, crayon filled washer?

Somewhere in those suds is a better metaphor. (image via dreamstime)

You see, yesterday after my yoga class I was feeling a little smug and self empowered, so I impulsively decided to treat myself to a piece of key lime cheesecake, as a reward for my hard work and potential bad@ssery. I took my cheesecake home where I ate it in half hour increments because that makes it healthier…in my mind, you know, where it counts. I haven’t had any refined sugar for a couple of weeks so I caught a rush off that cheesecake like a cheap date.

Then we went to a little shindig at our neighbor’s house, which turned out to be a dessert party. I have the feeling MMA fighters don’t hang out at dessert parties. Whole grains and vegetables were notably absent and all of the fruit was coated in custard.

I was strong. At first. But I got hungry and the kids didn’t eat all of their treats and I hate to waste food and did I mention I was hungry? So I had a little off their plate. I mean plates. And by a little I mean that I licked those plates clean. And then I had a teeny tiny dark chocolate, espresso brownie of my own, but not on a plate so that it wouldn’t count, but apparently nobody explained that rule to the brownie because that sucker was DEADLY.

I knew it was a mistake immediately. I felt light-headed and sick, like I’d just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, dipped in crack and rolled in the scat of llamas that have dined solely on poppies.  It occurred to me that I hadn’t really eaten anything except desserts all day. So when we got home I made myself a super healthy meal, but by then it was 8:00 and the damage was done. All I could do was wait for my stomach to revolt, which it did at about 10:00 (bye super healthy meal), and vow to treat myself better today.

Feeling the llama’s wrath. (image via mushypony.com)

This morning I woke up with a full on sugar hangover. I need a nap and a large German woman to knead my muscles and throw me in a sauna to detox. I have zero energy and no pithy thoughts.

The Whirlpool is broken. What you’ve got here is a bucket and a rock.

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Racism Is Nutty

Have I mentioned that racial equality is a hot button issue for me? Always has been. In fact, as a kid I labored under the delusion that I was Dr. Martin Luther King reincarnated.

The resemblance is uncanny.

Well come on, not everyone can be Cleopatra.

I assumed that my purpose in life was to become a martyr for the cause. I mean, what else is an idealistic 8-year old to think when confronted with a past life destiny? Of course as I got older I realized that being shot and killed isn’t actually a good time and leaves very little time for dating, so I let go of my “purpose” in favor of self-preservation. However, I’ve continued to think about the subject (behind bullet proof glass), because as a former civil rights worker and current coward, it’s the least I can do.

My theory is that we need to get to the heart of the problem, like a plantar wart and at the heart of racism is fear.  If hate filled people are largely driven by fear, I think that fear should be used as a motivator in the opposite direction. We should have a campaign of fear against fear, which would be, ipso facto, a campaign against racism. Sort of like fighting fire with fire, which always confused me because it seemed to me that if you fought fire with fire you just had…a bigger fire, but I didn’t understand Calculus either, so I’m just going to trust them on this one.

“Why don’t you leave fire fighting to bears in hats, math genius.”  (image via wikipedia)

Then I figured that, though racism isn’t limited to a specific gender, the people in charge tend to be men (you can tell because those white hooded robes are so unflattering), so the campaign should be aimed at them. Go after the head of the snake, as it were.

Then it hit me. Like a burning cross. The anti-racism campaign to end all anti-racism campaigns. The slogan that the equal rights movement is missing. The phrase that will strike fear into the hearts of male racists everywhere and cause them to abandon their wicked ways, thereby inspiring female racists to follow suit.

Racism Causes Testicular Cancer

Bam! Genius, right? And before you ask, no I don’t have a degree in marketing or psychology, I’m just naturally gifted…you know, because of my past life. And the many times I saw The Color Purple.

“It’s true, my movie made her an expert.” (image via wikipedia)

This would be a television campaign, but you could put up posters in areas where they might spend more time picking their banjos than watching tv. The commercials would show a semi-respectable Caucasian male throwing his white hood in the trash. He would turn to the camera, showing a face filled with pain and loss. Then he would say:

“I used to love spending my weekends at a clan meeting or burning a cross on somebody’s lawn. But then my nuts shriveled up and fell off. The doctor said that racism gave me nut cancer.”

And then they would pan out and we would see an old African American gentleman sitting on a porch across the way, looking on. The camera would close in on his face. He would nod and say:

“My nuts are fine.”

Fade to black.

Hordes of bigoted men would then race to their bathrooms to palpate their testicles and reevaluate their narrow world view. Racism would disappear and we would all stand, holding hands across America, singing Kumbaya.

You are welcome, America. Problem solved. Now if you will excuse me, I need to borrow the Pope-mobile to go grocery shopping.

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Author’s Note: This post is in no way meant to suggest that all victims of testicular cancer are racist. Nor is it meant to trivialize a very serious disease or the effects of racism. Testicular cancer and racism are horrible and nobody should have to suffer from either. Which is why I put my nose to the grind stone to fix the latter. I will work on a cure for testicular cancer tomorrow, but I can’t make any promises, as cancer seems to be much less responsive to catchy slogans.

Also, my testicular cancer cure will only be available to non-racist patients. You’ve got to heal your mind before you heal your nuts, people.

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Separation Anxiety

I’m a bit maudlin today. Earlier this morning I stealth cried into my daughter’s hair while listening to a Kimbra CD (the emotional equivalent of crying at a Disneyland).

You see, I’m having a hard time handling Riley’s maturation.

I know what you’re thinking. “You, Kelly? But you handle everything with such ease, hardly a ruffle in your outer veneer of total competence.”

I know. I too am baffled. I actually expected to enjoy this part of parenting quite a bit. My mother seemed to enjoy it. And during those sleepless nights when my babies only wanted me to hold them I thought wistfully of their future independence. Both of my children were very attached to me.

True, Conor would sprint toward traffic if given a moment’s chance. But that was only because he knew how much I enjoyed the heart attack and subsequent chase, while toting a diaper bag and insensible shoes. He’s a thoughtful boy, that one.

Riley, however, would hardly leave my side to play at the park. You could always count on her to stay close in stores or any other public forum. She craved my closeness. I appreciated her attachment, but at the same time I wanted some confidence for her, some sense that all would be okay if she wasn’t holding my hand.

So here it is.

This weekend Riley slept over at her best friend’s house two nights in a row. She prefers to sleep at their house. They have a pool. Totally understandable. Riley now prefers the company of her best friend to mine and then spends whatever time she and I have together talking about her best friend and what they did together. I get that. I remember how that was. I am happy that she found some assurance in the world outside of my arms.

Well maybe happy is too simple a word. If you took happiness, added misery and heartbreak and then mixed it up into a muddy swirl of ambivalence you would be closer to how I feel about my daughter’s mounting independence. My little girl is separating from me. It reminds me of the time my mom had to rip off the rest of my big toe nail after a gruesome toe-stubbing. Only this is bloodier and deeper and hasn’t been followed by a trip to The King’s Table buffet restaurant.

And I know that further separation is inevitable and the thought of it eviscerates my tender mommy emotions. Dang it! I hate being a needy pile of mush. Please tell me that I’m not going to spend day after day staring out my bedroom window while singing George Michael’s Careless Whisper badly and full of feeling.

I am, aren’t I?

I can’t say I wasn’t warned, hadn’t watched other women go through this or listened to them talk about it. But I honestly didn’t think it would apply to me. I swear to God, I thought I would handle this transition sh!t smoothly. In no way did I anticipate that I would miss her so badly while she was still living in my home. Nor did I see myself mooning over her baby pictures, longing to smell her baby breath once more.

Ah, baby breath. It smells like love dipped in sweet cream. And there is absolutely no way to save it for posterity. I have Riley’s first shoes in a box, but what I really want is her baby breath in a bottle and the smell of her baby head on my pillow at night.

I am psychotic.

I’m not the only one who’s suffering here. Conor is also struggling with the changes in his sister. He’s baffled that the girl who used to dote on him, suddenly doesn’t want him around, doesn’t want to include him when she’s playing with her friend, doesn’t think anything he says is cute or funny. When she spends the night elsewhere, Conor asks where she is. Hourly. His heartbreak is second only to mine.

Maybe we can sing a duet of Careless Whisper. I should teach him the words.