Children frighten me.

Children frighten me. I am like the queen in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang who has all the children locked underground. (I love this idea!) Unfortunately, I mentioned this phobia in an email that I meant to send to a friend explaining why I would happily supply the snack for cub scouts but I was not be willing to SERVE the snack. Yup, I hit “Reply All”. 120 people got the email. Not so bad except that damn, do-gooder husband o’mine was Pack Master.

        I really just don’t relate to kids. I actually had to say to a child the other day “Listen, I am not good with kids. Act like an adult.”  It was that or I was going to push him into traffic. I like my kids – most of the time, after I have sanitized them with Purell.  But I always say, “I am raising adults, not children. My gift to them is self-sufficiency.”

        My siblings are a lot older than I am. I was raised in a house full of adults. Imagination was not encouraged. Never believed in Santa, I used the word "cadaver" correctly in a sentence in second grade. I didn't have a bed time. Now that I think of it, I was the kid I would not want my children hanging out with. On the surface, I looked like trouble. Hmmmm. I will have to keep that in mind as I judge other children on two-minute encounters, but I digress.

       I hate it when people say that their greatest achievement is their children, especially when the kids are under the age of 18. Guess what? Any idiot can give birth to a kid. Plenty of whack jobs adopt kids. You can be the best parent you can be and still raise nut jobs. You can be the worst parent in the world, and your kid can rise above it and be a success. Face it. Successful people are always saying in interviews "I had a tough childhood. No money, raised by a single parent who was a crack addict. Etc." They rarely say 'I had a charmed childhood. Mother baked healthy meals and every night after dinner, I spent time with my father." I even suggested to my husband that we divorce and move into a burned-out building to raise our kids. It seems to be the only way to ensure their success in life. Ok - he was supposed to move with the kids to the burned out building. I was going to be the absentee parent; I don't do well in unsanitary conditions. Probably because I HAD A CHARMED CHILDHOOD.  It was a bit unconventional but in a really republican, suburban, conservative way. However, I had two parents, food, clothing, a bean bag chair, a Papagallo purse (My mother made covers to match all my outfits). The only difference between me and my peers is that my parents were older. My mother worked. This was in the early 1970's, when women's lib was just hitting the 'burbs.

       I spent this past weekend with my closest friends from childhood. That is a whole ‘nother post in itself. But I found it so interesting when they raised a glass to my mom. My mom. She was the least involved with the group of all the moms. She worked. She went to college. She taught me how to play Bridge when I was 7 because they needed a fourth. While I was busy being self-involved and wishing she was a tad bit like other moms, my mom set an example for my friends. I never knew this until the toast this weekend. Collectively, my friends commented on how they remembered her and that she had taught them that women were not just moms. They were people. People that could pursue many interests and still have families. Sniffle, Sniffle.

I mean, it was a really deep conversation. Then my peppy friend, Rah Rah Lisa (perhaps a distant cousin of La La Michelle) ran into the kitchen excitedly. She came out with a tray with miscellaneous items on it. We all burst out laughing. This was the game that my mom played with all of us at sleepovers. We got to look at the tray for thirty seconds and then my mom whisked the tray away and we had to write down as many things as we could remember. It’s harder than you think. What a great memory – PUN!

       So here is my conclusion. Parenting is hard. Success is random. And sometimes, kids are scary and make you crazy. 

Shopping

This has been a long week. A week my husband decided to travel. (For the record, I hate him.) I had to take the kids shopping for clothes and school supplies.

My 4th grade daughter, delicate flower that she is, refuses to wear anything "girly". Do you know how hard it is to find anything that isn't pink, adorned with sequins or lacks the word "Diva" on it? Seriously, the clothes in the girls' department are for tiny, little street walkers. Of course, my daughter goes to the other extreme. She wants a plain brown shirt and jeans without any adornment on the back pockets. Not one sequin may be on the item of clothing. It will be deemed unacceptable. Is there no happy medium? She is too tiny to fit into Levis or I would take her too the boys’ department. She put on a pair of skinny jeans. BAM – she looked like a supermodel. I found myself whining things like “If you modeled for just one year you could pay for your college education. Pleeeeeeze” Of course, she had a smart aleck comeback “Mom, you know I am more about substance than style.” Brat. Plus, the skinny jeans were tight (not) and uncomfortable. She didn’t like them. (I wish there was a font to indicate whining.) The pants that fit her waist are too short. The pants that are long enough she would have to tie a feather pillow to her waist to hold up. Thank goodness, someone invented that adjustable waist. I salute them.

I HATE shopping! You know that feeling when you start to sweat and your hair just gets messy from frustration. I was there. After 10 minutes I was screaming "I don't care if you pick a shirt that says " I like to kill people", just pick something." I made that mom who poured the hot sauce in her child's mouth look sane and logical. She finally found two shirts and two pairs of jeans that were not totally blinged out. She made sure that the shirts covered any pocket glitz. 


My son picked out two very nice outfits without my help. (He would totally mock me for calling them “outfits”. I agree. I sound like I am 80.) He has always loved clothes and shoes. Since he was a year and a half old, he has dressed himself and picked his own clothes. We walked into The Gap when he was five, and he audibly sighed with happiness. He has his finger on the pulse of the sneaker nation. The sneakers he has on his feet right now were just made available to the public.  He better run Nike someday. I need to get my money back.

We weathered a visit to Staples quite nicely. My kids want PLAIN stuff. One color, primary color, stuff. When I was their age, well, they didn't have anything else, so never mind. I kept suggesting this and that. Nope. Plain. Black, brown or blue. And preferably in the shape of a laptop. No laptops for you! You are too young! And I don’t like you enough to spend the money. (Now don’t get your panties in a bunch. I am kidding. It is humor. People think I am so mean. No, I am so funny. At least that is how I see it.)

Here is why I think they might be pod people - They checked prices and, when we got home, they said "Thank you, Mom"  without me saying a word. Who raised these little monsters? I am definitely sleeping with one eye open from now on.

Vermont - The perfect ski getaway!

I am in Vermont! La La Michelle and her husband invited us to spend a few days with them at their ski house. Our kids get along. The husbands are buds. Everyone is seriously excited.

Everyone, but me. I hate to ski. I loathe skiing. And it is not because I can't ski. I can. I can actually ski pretty well. But I hate every moment of it.

Let's examine. First, there is a shitload of crap involved with skiing. Nobody can ever find their other gloves. "Whose face mask is this? My goggles hurt. I can't zip my jacket." And that is my husband. The kids are even worse. How does a person  lose a ski boot? How? You take them off at the same time. You don't walk around for an hour dragging one leg behind you and realize that you still have on a ski boot. You take them both off and put them in the same place. Somehow, that doesn't happen.  And how the hell does the one ski boot get left outside? It is inconceivable to me. I start hyperventilating as La La Michelle helps the kids get ready. "Oh, just wear this hat." "Here are two gloves - it doesn't matter if they don't match." La la la. To me, it is like being trapped in the big box of lost and found at the elementary school. I hate it. I hate the discombobulation. It makes me CRAZY. No one else seems to care a wit. Everybody is happily trotting out the door, ready to take on the mountain.

So the kids are gone, the husband is gone. Now I go to get ready. Reluctantly, I put on my long underwear, Oh excuse me, "base layer". I pull on two pairs of socks, camisole, undershirt, turtleneck. Then, I look at my bibs. I know they are probably have some fancy name but I got these in 1978. They are friggin' snow pants. I am surprised they have not dry-rotted by this point. There they are. On the bed. Now I know I don't weigh what I weighed in high school. I don't even weigh what I weighed six months ago.  Tentatively I pull them on. So far, so good. Probably because my "base layer" is that shiny material, um, Lycra? Suspenders up over my shoulders. Well, of course, I have not gotten any taller since 1978. I just need to zip them up. Now, I am no engineer, but even I know that this is going to take some brute force. I consider lying on the bed and using a hangar to pull up the zipper. But then I would be stuck there, like a big ol' stink bug on it's back. So I suck it in and wiggle that zipper up and over my middle-aged middle. Zipper is up! I can't bend over but the zipper is up.

I waddle upstairs. I hear La La Michelle's quick intake of  breathe when she sees me. The pity in her eyes is so apparent. God, I just want to smack the shit out of her. She is like Ski-tastic Barbie in her matching 2011 outfit. I just grumble and pull on my coat. My coat is more up to date because my 1978 coat actually did dry-rot. I pull on my day-glo pink mittens. The bitch pulls out a camera! "Say cheese!" "Oh, it's cute. Look". The picture on the camera is a picture of a giant balloon headed down 5th Avenue for the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. All that is missing are the tether lines. Why am I subjecting myself to this?

Finally, we get to the lodge. Off I go to rent my skis. I hand in my slip with my honest-to-goodness real weight on it to the snickering pimple covered teen. I am afraid to lie even one oz. lest it be the difference between the ski coming off during a fall or me breaking my leg. I huff and puff myself into the boots. I could use some help because bending over in these snow pants is impossible, but I am grateful for my solitude. Only teenage strangers are witnessing my humiliation. I am sweating. I think of the people on the Biggest Loser. Are they this uncomfortable?

I lumber outside. F*&#! It is cold! Have I mentioned I HATE being cold?  There they are waiting for me. "Let's got to the top. I know this darling little pass." La La Michelle chirps. Whatever. We get on the lift. Miracle of miracles, I do not fall getting on OR off the lift. It really is beautiful. The trees limbs are heavy with last night's snow fall. We are overlooking part of the Appalachian Trail. I do like a good view. "This way" tweets Michelle. And off we go.

My body remembers this. I have skied several times since 1978. I just haven't felt the need to update my wardrobe. Why? I'm a little cold but not bad. I feel a bit exhilarated at the prospect of fluidly criss-crossing down the hill.  My kids love skiing. Maybe next year, WE will rent a ski house. I bend my knees, lean back a bit and I am off. And then my mind catches up with my body. I don't like going fast. I don't like steep hills. I am petrified of what is in front of me and terrified of what is behind me. What if one of those horrid snow boarders gets out of control and clips me from behind? My thighs are burning. I just want to get off this mountain. It all comes rushing back. I HATE skiing. This is not it. Not my passion. This is just f*&#ing dangerous!

Just to be a good sport and because I paid $59 dollars for a lift ticket and $32 dollars for rentals, I do three or four runs. I don't complain. I smile even though I think my intestines  may be permanently damaged by my ski pants. I get through the day.

Finally we return home, I explode out of my ski pants and in to comfortable leggings. Aaah. So warm. No more terror.

When I walk upstairs, La La Michelle's husband looks at me and says "Man. You really hate skiing. I could just tell by the look on your face. You just wanted to be anywhere but on that slope." Crap. The jig is up. Am I really that transparent? Yes, Yes, I am.

So, I can cross skiing off the list of things that will get me out of bed in the morning. I will consider snowmobiling. If I can get new pants.

Yoga Pants are at the heart of the obesity issue in America

Curse you, stupid yoga pants! Go to hell, leggings! I let you into my life and now you have sabotaged me.

It's true. I have gained 20 lbs. since July. 20 lbs. is a lot! A toddler.  I have gained a toddler. That is ridiculous. It started when the family and I drove out to Chicago. The kids love that disgusting restaurant,  I can't think of the name, it has the gift shop - oh yeah, Cracker Barrel. Have you ever seen a thin person in Cracker Barrel? I know. You are thinking "Well, just make healthy choices.Every restaurant serves a garden salad." Well, F*%# you, Weight Watchers members. I dare you to sit across from your kid's plate of french toast or blueberry pancakes and not take a bite. Then, those backseat brats discovered Bob Evans. They would sit in the back and sing "Bob Evans! Yum!" Guess what? Bob Evans invests heavily in billboards. I could not hide the fact there was a Bob Evans within fifty miles. And there were, like, 20 Bob Evan restaurants within 50 miles. No matter where we were, there IT was. I tried to make healthy choices there. When I got home there was a list of the 20 unhealthiest restaurant breakfasts. 10 of them were from Bob Evans.

So that trip started the tumble. I take full responsibility. I am just disgusted with myself. I could blame the fact that my Dad had two heart attacks, my mom's Parkinson's seems to have accelerated, my daughter is losing her hair, my son started middle school. "I was stress eating." Why don't I stress exercise? What is it in the human brain - ok, MY brain, that picks eating over exercise?

Think about it. When do you feel better - after a big pig out or after a great workout? Workout! Wins hands down every time. But somehow,  I forget. EVERY TIME.  Isn't that the definition of insanity? Doing the same action and expecting different results? So now, I am a fat, insane person. "Ooooohhh, you are not fat!"(Nobody ever says I am not insane.)  I can hear you! You know what? Friends should be honest with each other. But I guess it would be bad if we said to each other "Hey, you're getting a little broad in the beam there. Maybe you should layoff the desserts." Okay, bad idea. Just keep enabling me.  The fact is, Bob and Jillian from the Biggest Loser may not be knocking on my door but I weigh too much for my height. I am not obsessing. I can't fit into my clothes!

Which brings me to why it is my yoga pants' fault that I am fat. Every morning, well, the mornings that I get out of my pajamas (different topic. All in good time, my friends), I look in my closet. There are not many choices in my closet. I am not a shopper. I could reach for my jeans, tuck in a shirt, put on a belt. But then, I hear them calling "We are here. We are here." Soft and comfortable. Easy to move in. You aren't going out today. You might need to bend over. We are your friends. If you put us on, you will probably spontaneously exercise." Yoga pants are like the Sirens that called to Jason and the Argonauts, seducing them off course. "No!" I yell back. "I am going out today. I want to look cute and put together. I will not succumb to you!" "Fine," my yoga pants sing back. They can harmonize because I have at least five pairs. "Let us introduce you to our friends. Oh Leggings...."

Leggings have come back into style. Let me say, I loved them the first time around in the early 90's. Remember, I know that you do. We all had the cute oversized denim shirts with the leggings. It was great. Almost like being back in stirrup pants (LOVED THEM!).  So now I  am back in leggings. The dress-up version of f*&#ing yoga pants.

So a month goes by and I have not put on jeans. Then, another month. I had an orthopedic boot on my foot because of an ankle injury due to, get this, overuse because of exercise. Leggings were perfect to wear. Jeans couldn't fit over the boot. Boot comes off - didn't work, by the way. Ankle still hurts. I am exercising a little. What hits me smack in the face? Holidays! That's right. Christmas came around. I think The Claus' may be having marital trouble because I am trying to become Mrs. Claus, the second. I am just Santa's type of woman - round.

Now it is January. Resolution time.  Well, it is the 18th and I have yet to make a move. Ok, I started writing this blog. How many calories do you think I burn typing? Oh, I did take a job which has required me to put on real clothes. Guess what? Nothing fits. How can that be? I get on the scale that I have been avoiding like it is coated with anthrax. Oh, that's why - 20 lbs. heavier. Jeans don't stretch. At least not like yoga pants and leggings.

So, even though this is NOT a diet blog, I may write about my, nope I will not use the word "journey",  endeavors to fit into my jeans.

I leave you now. I have to call the kids to come pull me up off the couch. A toddler! I gained a toddler!

My goals are not necessarily everyone else's top priority. I know, it sucks, right?

 I have been debating about this blog for a while. My writing group and my best friend, La La Michelle (always happy, so annoying to an ornery person like myself),  have been encouraging me. I even quit my job in January 2010 to pursue this writing thing.  Ended up just, kinda, well, sleeping a lot. Not my most productive year.


Well, when I finally sat down and put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard?),  I wanted some feedback before I actually published. I mean, really. I don't really care what people think but there is no need to humiliate myself. So I sent the first three posts to E, my writing coach, and La La Michelle.


E is this wonderful, funny, warm, published author. She is a breast cancer survivor. She always has this bright, cheery, grateful to be alive outlook -  not in a weird way. She is very normal. La La Michelle is also very optimistic and upbeat. She is the Rah Rah to my Blah Blah.  Both of these lovely women were sending me emails and phoning me - write, write, write.


So I sent the three posts. I hear nothing. Every time my phone dinged, I ran to check my email. I was like a teenage girl waiting for a boy to call. Not a peep. After all the nagging, nothing? Then the paranoia set in. "Oh my God, they are having coffee together, trying to decide the best way to tell me I suck." Days go by. Now I talk to La La Michelle almost daily, except on weekends, but I don't hear from her.  Then I move to the next phase. Anger. Well, not real anger, just kind of "What the hell? anger. So I send them a nice, short reminder email that I am waiting for feedback. It said "You are both dead to me."


A few minutes later,  La La Michelle calls. Effective note, right? "Oh, I am so sorry. My mother-in-law is in the hospital and my husband is out of town. My daughter has strep throat. The fund-raiser I am organizing for the poor in Appalachia just got a major donor, etc. I will read it immediately." Ok, I feel kind of badly, sounds like she has a lot going on. But hey, she's going to read it!


Then I get a note from E. Here is what it said

"Dear Amy my dear—you are brilliant! I lOVE it and I’m just wondering why on earth you are not a first-class and NY Times Bestseller with a book—seriously you must think about it because your blog sounds like a Janet Evanovich type of book.

BTW, I may be dead to you, but you are NOT dead to me! No matter how hard I try to be organized, it doesn’t always happen the way I’ve drawn my map."

Crap. Now I just feel like dirt. They couldn't just be busy. No, they had to have major things happening. I really should be taking them meals. (Not really 'cause my cooking is, well, BAD.)  And I told them they were dead to me! 


So I have learned a few lessons. 1). I am not the center of everyone's universe. (I HATE this.)
2). I should have some self-confidence.  They LOVED it. 


Me Me Me Me Me.  

Artistic Endeavors

Most of us start off life relatively even. Our brains develop at a certain pace. We draw stick figures for people. Arms and legs shooting directly out of the faceless circle that represents head and body. Eventually we add details – necks, hands, feet, etc. I pretty much stopped at this point. I still draw stick figures – when absolutely necessary. I mean, really, when was the last time I actually had to draw a person? Ok- there was that embarrassingly uncomfortable couples therapy session when my husband and I had to identify our erogenous zones. But other than that, I never really understood shading and perspective. I don’t agonize over which color ecru to paint my walls, I can’t see the difference.  I have friends that paint 1’ x 1’ patches on their walls of different beiges and study them for days. They point out that “This one is too green and that one has too much pink.” My other friends stand around nodding and agreeing, pointing out subtle differences and suggesting that the color may look different at night. I look at a paint chip in the store for 30 seconds, order it and slap it on the walls when I get home. This may explain the grape purple wall I had in the early 90’s and the bright pink baby room that, actually had to be repainted because it cast a scary aura into the hallway. It hurt my eyes to stand in the room. But the grape wall I lived with. I kind of loved it.

I like art. I love the commentary it makes on society, the historical relevance. But unless I have guide or I am pressing buttons on my own personal audio tour, I pretty much miss the point of it all. Once it’s pointed out -  LOVE  IT. On my own, I could probably make my way through the Louvre in record time. 

Here is the strange part. As simple as I am - I am a collector of eclectic friends.  I have tons of friends who are artists. I gravitate toward them. Not traditional artists – is there such a thing? I am talking multi-media artists, garbage into art, "let’s smoke some pot before breakfast", kind of artists. I love them. I am fascinated by them. I am intimidated by them. Half the time I have no clue what they are talking about. I am envious of the freedom and the joy they feel, that need to create, the unconventional paths their lives have taken.  

I have tried. Oh I have tried. Mostly in the 80's and 90's before I had kids. I tried the following: sewing, knitting, sculpting, decoupage, embossing, cross-stitching, painting and creatively wrapping gifts. Martha Stewart has no competition from me. I can't even set a pretty table. 

When I had kids, I provided all the craft supplies. Construction paper, crayons, markers, glitter clue, pom-poms, play-doh, clay, blocks, erector sets, plastic food and kitchen supplies. Anything that would stir the creative process. Their friends loved it. My kids - no interest. 

Anna's New Bed

 I am not sure that this blog thing is a great medium for me. I thrive on the jovial tit-for-tat of Facebook or actual conversation. But I am giving it a go for all my fans (well, the five people that have suggested it).

I spent the entire weekend rearranging the daughter's room. She asked her father a few months ago if he would build her a loft bed with a desk underneath for her birthday. Of course, he replied "yes". Then she said, with tears in her eyes, "You would do that FOR ME?" Like she was shocked. Where has she been? We do everything they want. Right now I am wearing a sweater with several holes in it so the kids could have XBox for Christmas. Okay, I am exaggerating. But really, these kids are very lucky.

Plus, She has recently been diagnosed with alopecia (non-life threatening disease) and has lost a lot of her hair. It's hard as a parent not to give into her every whim when we look at her waif-like face and straggly strands of hair that are still clinging to her head.

Dear husband did not build the loft bed. For one thing, it would take until she went to college. And if you think I am letting my child sleep in something my husband slapped together, you are crazier than I am. We went to IKEA.

We set up the bed, dusted, washed the walls, vacuumed up the thirty-seven dead stink bugs that we will never mention to the daughter for fear that she will never enter the room again.  We turned her twin bed into a "couch" (something I learned from Seventeen magazine during the '70's and always loved).

Bottom line - she loves the room. It is a tween paradise. But when it came time for bed, she got a little nervous. The loft bed is pretty high. And the sheets were in the wash. But she bravely unrolled her sleeping bag and climbed up into her high-rise.

Next night, she comes downstairs and explains "I can't sleep in my loft. Lily (her puppy) just sits there and looks up at me with her big sad eyes."

So, she and Lily slept curled up together on the twin bed couch.

She better take that fricking loft bed to college with her.