Friday, September 28, 2007

This Week's Featured Pet Peeve:

Spelling errors in a classroom.

How arbitrary are my neurotic vexations? I'll start a sentence with a conjunction, but a homophonous error will make me insane.

Before Brady can walk out of his preschool, he has to go around and individually bid adieu to each classmate. "Bye, Nolan. Buh-bye Sapphire*. Goodbye, other Brayden." As he was making his rounds, I started eyeing the craft shelf to avoid having some kind of Romper Room flashback. Cute little jars sat in a row on the shelf, each one bearing a label indicating their contents, even though the jars were clear. "Damn," I thought to myself, "someone here is a stickler for organization." It seemed a little redundant- a jar of pencils that said "PENCILS", a jar of paper clips that said... you guessed it, "PAPER CLIPS", and then, right there between the "GOOGLEY EYES" and "BEADS" was a jar of sparkly little gems. And it was labeled "SEQUENCE". This is the type of thing that most people either wouldn't notice, or wouldn't dwell on more than a flickering smirk. Not me. No no no no, not Anal Retentive About The Most Arbitrary Things Me. It's not like there was a teacher beating one of the kids or a lice outbreak, but I'll tell you what, I am never, ever thinking of that daycare the same way again. Granted, Bradyn will likely never know that the teacher who was obsessed with labeling everything wasn't so meticulous with her spelling(and it's not just like she transposed a few letters- this is an entirely different word here, people!!!) but it is very, very likely that every time I go to sign Brady out for the rest of his preschool career, I will look at the shelf above the sign-out book obsessive compulsively to see if the error is still there.



*If I had to guess who was Most Likely To Be Caught Playing Doctor Under The Swingset, my vote goes to the kid with the stripper name. Just sayin.

Monday, September 24, 2007

All the spandex in the world can't help me.

Imagine my glee when I stood on the scale at my 6 week postpartum checkup and saw the little metal slider getting nudged farther and farther to the left, until it finally hovered over a number that was within ten pounds of my pre-pregnancy weight. Imagine my smug little face as the nurse recorded the number on my chart with an impressed expression. Imagine my elation when the nurse practitioner- previously referred to as The Pregnancy Diet Nazi- called me "Skinny Minnie!" Imagine me skipping out of the office that day feeling like the Prom Queen.



Imagine my horror when, two weeks later, my go-to baggy pants required an elaborate "shimmy-hop-shimmy-twist" to get over my ass. I should probably also mention that said pants are maternity. Need I mention I almost passed out? (Although, in hindsight, it was probably because the pants were cutting off my circulation.)

The time to work out was nigh.

Believe it or not, I had actually really been anticipating a return to the gym. I'm the last person that anyone would ever call "fit" or "healthy", but about six months before I met my husband, I had been bribed by my roommate to go the gym with her, and I fell in love with it. Immediately I began to see results, and I felt better about myself than I had since before I had kids. It was like a drug.




Along came Chris. The euphoria of falling in love quickly became more addicting than the euphoria of making it through an entire Latin Dance Fusion Aerobics class without wheezing. I traded in dates with the treadmill for dates with Chris... and although he provided me with plenty of cardiovascular activity, he's also a chef. No one but me noticed when a few new pounds stowed away here and there. Like a baby or a cat, I tend to gain weight when I'm happy, so I was ok with it. It was when I went shopping for clothes and had to buy an entire size up that I really gave it a second thought. Hmm... my belly is getting bigger... which is funny because I have felt kinda sick the last week and haven't been able to hold much down... hmm, maybe I'm just PMS'ing. Yeah, that's it. I should be starting any day now... actually, come to think of it, aren't I a bit late? [Smacks palm against forehead...]

I was under no grand illusion that I would shoot out baby numero three and look like a supermodel, but I was pleased with the progress I had made at the six week mark, and confidant that once I was given the OK by the doctor to start working out, the rest of the pounds would fly off. What I didn't take into consideration was that the birth control I begged my doctor for would cause extra weight to flock to me like paparazzi to Beckhams.




Realizing that I needed to go to the gym cancelled out the fact that I wanted to go to the gym. It's like your boss telling you to do something that you were already planning on doing- sure, the task gets done, but not doing it of your own free will takes all the fun out of it.



With a slightly deflated attitude, I suited up for my first day of working out. By the time I had spent a few minutes walking on the treadmill, my heart started beating faster and I could literally feel the endorphins being pumped through my veins. Confident and determined, I reached out to the treadmill's control panel and eagerly starting tapping away at the plus sign. The loop of rubber started cycling faster and faster, and soon I was going from power walk into jog.



GA-JUUUUUUUUUUUNG.
GAAAAA-JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNG.
GA-JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNG.

As soon as I accelerated my gait into something that was of a slightly higher impact, I was absolutely horrified to realize that my ass was jiggling like two jello molds in my gym pants. I was almost afraid that the velocity of my behind bouncing rhythmically up and down would eventually gain enough momentum to catapult me right off the treadmill and careen me into the elliptical machines. Never before has a trip to the gym instilled so much antipathy; not once have I ever said to myself, "I need a sports bra for my ass."


I don't really like focusing on weight as a number, so instead of targeting a specific weight, my goals are:
1.) To get back into wearing actual clothes and not my maternity wardrobe... which is equal parts working out and shopping for clothes that fit me.
2.) To be able to endure a cardio session without
a.) Bouncing off the machine
b.) Wheezing like an asthmatic geriatric
c.) Walking away from the treadmill thinking, "I need a cheeseburger and a cigarette."
3.) To scare the gratuitous belly fat into submission. No, tummy, it is NOT ok to hang like that. Retreat! Return from whence you came!

Does anyone have any gym horror stories, or I am the only one whose ass makes an ass out of them?

Saturday, September 22, 2007

This Week's Featured Pet Peeve:


The Birth Control Patch.

"They" make you think you don't get pregnant because the hormones in the birth control prevent eggs from being released, or prevent fertilized eggs from implanting in your ueterine wall.

BULLSHIT.

I'm convinced that the real reason you don't get pregnant is because you don't have the chance to. The fatigue, moodyness and weight gain are what kills your chance of ever getting action in the first place. Also- try to feel sexy with a week's worth of bandaid adhesive forming a linty square on your stomach.

Soon, we are "upgrading" to something a little more reliable and a little less likely to turn me into a fat hell beast, but in the meantime, I am waging a war with hormones. Because my husband is hotter than hell, and because I'm still suffering PTSD from my lovely pregnancy and labor, I've got to deal with the minor annoyances associated with pumping my body full of extra hormones. Although I may bitch about what a pain-in-the-ass it may be, I'd MUCH rather take on a handful of extra hormones than an extra human being. Because really? That's just a pain-in-something-else.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

L is for Lazy...

I caught this on this very funny blog, and it's pretty much all the blogging I'm in the mood for tonight. Expect something more soon!



A is for age: 27
B is for breakfast: Breakfast was delayed today- by the time we got to IHOP, I was way more interested in a bacon and egg cheeseburger than the origianal strawberry pancake game plan.
C is for career: Stay-at-home mom/wife for the next month.
D is for dog's name: No dogs, although my last one was named Alouicious.
E is for essential item I use everyday: Definitely the computer.
F is for favorite TV show: Sex & The City and Arrested Development- out of shows currently on-air, I'm addicted to LA Ink, Rock of Love, Top Chef, and am waiting (im)patiently for the new season of American Idol.
G is for favorite game: Apples to Apples
H is for hometown: Born in LaMirada, California
I is for instruments I play: Skin Flute and Male Organ.
J is for favorite juice: Grape
K is for kitchen, what color is it?: Red
L is for the last place I ate out: IHOP
M is for Marriage: I am totally obsessed with my husband.
N is for nickname: Nik, Nikki, Coley
O is for overnight hospital stays: 3
P is for people I was with today: Reagan, Bradyn, Madelynn; Husband; Grandparents; Brother
Q is for quote: "We're all of us haunting and haunted." -from Lullaby by Chuck Palahniuk
R is for regret: Smoking
S is for sport: I started getting into Major League Lacrosse this summer!
T is for time I woke up today: 7 am
U is for favorite piece of undergarment: Chris's lucky boxer-briefs (Trust me, I'm the lucky one!)
V is for last vacation I took: 2 days in a swanky hotel in Santa Monica while I was pregnant.
W is is for worst habit: Leaving the dishwasher open. "Honey, have you ever seen 'Garden State'?)
X is for number of xrays: Just dental ones.
Y is for yummy food I ate today: Homemade chili for dinner... with Fritos on top. :) There's only room for one gourmet chef in this family, and it's quite obviously not me.
Z is for zodiac: Leo

And now I tag... well, everyone who's up for it. Meghann? Ashlea? Tiana? Andrea? Who's sneaking around here?

Friday, September 07, 2007

This Week's Featured Pet Peeve:


People who call my baby a boy.

At five weeks old, I'm willing to concede the fact that my daughter still looks completely like... a baby- a deliciously plump, happy, androgynous baby. Well, usually she's happy- in the photo, she looks disappointed in mankind, or severly annoyed, just like her mama.

I've always thought that newborns all looked like wrinkled little old men, aliens, Elmer Fudd, or Yoda. All of them, even my own. It doesn't bother me that other people think that as well. What does bother me is when strangers assume the gender of my baby, although I suppose it only bothers me when they get it wrong. Baby faces are baby faces, granted, but do people really not notice all the hints I'm giving them? She's dressed in a pink onesie. With flower booties. In a pink blanket. In her pink stroller. Either I'm doing my best to subltly suggest to the public that she's female, or it's a boy, and the cast of Queer Eye For The Metrosexual Infant threw my baby shower.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Proof that I am a spoiled American:

From a MySpace bulletin I sent out today:
All summer long, our house has been a chilly 72 degrees. Partly, this is due to the fact that when I was pregnant, anything over 72 degrees felt like I was boiling in a vat of my own fat. Partly, I wanted to overcompensate for the fact that Chris works with fire all day long... the least I could do was have a nice, cool, house for him to come home to! (Notice I didn't say clean...) I'd be the first to say, whenever the topic of weather came up, that actually, it didn't feel too hot this summer! It was actually quite pleasant! To which Chris would slowly, slowly turn to look at me, and I could see the little thought bubble above his head full of this stuff- &%@#$%&!!!!!!- because my summer? My summer consisted of laying on my couch like a beached whale, drinking caffeine free iced tea and watching Rachael Ray with the AC blasting so hard that I was actually cuddled up underneath my favorite down comforter.

I'm sure that's probably the cause of the problem I'm faced with now. One of our AC units went out yesterday. Last night I was in denial. Today, I am in agony. Agony and lots of deodorant. I am forced to hang out in Maddy's room all night, because the only parts of the house that don't feel like you're in the stomach of a cow are the kid's rooms.

Which brings me to my point- and you thought I didn't have one!!!


DOES ANYONE KNOW A GOOD LOCAL AIR CONDITIONING COMPANY???

(Preferably one that accepts salami sandwiches and watercolor paintings of indecipherable animals as payments, but as they say, beggars can't be choosers.)


Two weeks ago, my beloved TV started to show signs of aging.
Last week, I left my cell phone outside and it's been dead since.
Yesterday, the AC.

I was sitting there thinking "Wah-wah-wah what's going to break next?" when I realized how petty it was to complain about losing some of my luxuries, I laughed out loud. I am so stupid, so petty, so damn lucky to even have these problems at all. But for the record:

Please God, don't take my Internet.

What Santa is bringing this year...

I want to get the munchkeroos these!

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

By my calculations, I'd be in 22nd grade this fall. (But don't trust my calculations, I didn't make it through college.)

In the same way that Christmas and Halloween have become less about me and more about the experience I create for my children, The First Day of School has been a spectator sport. I get to channel my inner geek with a romantic stroll down the school supply aisle, where, in my imagination, protracters and glue sticks follow me like I'm Snow White, where I am serenaded by the pencil sharpener that just flew by and landed on my shoulder.

Happy First Day of second grade to Madelynn!
In the grand tradition of Maddy, me, and first days of school, I fought back tears after I waved goodbye and walked out to the car. She was excited to go this year, fully because she had been suffering a mean case of withdrawal from those three months without Monkey Bars. She worried all summer about second grade, but I don't worry about her. Madelynn may be shy at first, but people adore her. (And even if they don't, she doesn't really give a shit. Sweet.)

She sat at her desk, hands folded, and looked like she was afraid it was going to swallow her up. I watched her through the big classroom window for a few minutes while I was chatting with the other Moms, and I saw her straighten her pencil box in the center of her desk, and then move it to the side, and then the middle again. And then I noticed that even though I got the exact pencil box the teacher specified, most of the other kids had a different brand. Knowing this as I walked back to my car burdened me with some bizarre surrogate social anxiety. Is that weird?

Speaking of surrogacy, I emailed the four girls I know who are still in high school, and asked how their first days went. And then I begged them to tell me what they wore, because that's pretty much what the first day of school is really all about. My daughter has to wear a uniform, which, although a godsend on every other day of the year, kinda takes all the fun out of the first day. I reconciled myself with this by harassing my sister and her friends to tell me what they wore... and by reminding myself that there is Free Dress on Picture Day.