Nothing to See Here

I live in a very tight-knit community of about 2,000 homes.  Everybody knows everybody... or they at least 'know of' everybody.  The 'hood is laid out on a 2-mile circle.  We often refer to it as "The Circle".  Catchy, don't you think?  My point, here, is that nothing gets in or out of The Circle without The Circle's media team being alerted.  And with the help of all the high tech social networking like Twitter and Facebook, news travels faster than the speed of light. 

Stay with me.  I AM going somewhere with this vein of thought...

Near The Circle are various shopping venues:  drug stores, grocery stores, Target, Walmart, the mall.  All 2,000+ of us shop at these venues, so of course, we run into each other everywhere.  While this 'close-knit-community' thing is awesome for gossip friendships, partying, helping others in need, emergency situations, etc; the 'close-knit-community' thing is not awesome for discretion, weight gain, public drunkenness, slovenly hygiene habits, and the like.  Running to the store to pick up a few things can be tricky... and very public... 

... Like this one time (at band camp?) after a children's birthday party:  I started my period (There!  I said it!  I am a 39-year old woman who gets her period and I am not ashamed!!).  After the party, I made a mad dash to the local drug store to stock up on the necessary paraphernalia - 1 pallet of super maxi pads, 3 boxes of tampons (w/ varying levels of absorbency - stop the gagging, boys.  If we have to endure it, you can at least know how the mess works!), and 2 boxes of panty liners (1 for full-coverage panties and 1 for thong-style panties).  TMI?  Get over it.  I had to.

You don't have to be a mathematician to figure out the odds of me running into someone I know (2,000+ people in a neighborhood; I know approximately 60% of the 2,000; the drugstore is less than 2 miles away from the neighborhood; which train will arrive first?).   As I make my way to the cash register (conveniently located at the front of the store), my arms overflowing with menstrual management items, I run into a friend - the FATHER of one of the kids from the birthday party WE were just attending.  I couldn't hide that stack of boxes!  And a woman carrying 36 boxes decorated with giant flowers does not blend.  So I made a flash decision to own my womanhood and not be embarrassed by my purchase.  The father (I shall call him Brian... cuz, you know, that's his name) stops to say hi to me.  His eyes never drop below my eyes.  He was clearly making every effort to 'not notice' the giant, flowering tower of pads and rods.  He was such a gentleman as he commented on the birthday party, what he was there to pick up, how fun the party was, blah blah blah.  I stood there, chatting with Brian, as if I was holding a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread.  Nothing to see here.  Just keep moving along.  The encounter at the counter was great for party conversations, tho.  Yes it was. 

Speaking of my period (no, I'm not done with this topic, yet.  I've got a good 10 years till I'm done with this topic), I was recently a little over a week 'late'.  Panic ensued and I ran to the local grocery store to pick up a pregnancy test.  Why the grocery store and not the drug store?  I dunno.  Gun shy, maybe?  But I also needed bananas, milk, and bread.  Remember the word problem I presented earlier?  Same outcome.  I ran into many friends and acquaintances AND the town gossip.  You bet your sweet ass I covered that CLEARLY MARKED box with a bunch of bananas!  "Heeeeey friends and neighbors (and gossip girl)!  Yeah, ran outta bananas and milk!  Yes, yes.  I'm good.  You?  Good?  Good.  Great.  Wellllllll..... gotta go!"

You know what else I catch myself doing?  Heading for the checkout line with a female cashier (preferably an older woman) when I have girlie things in my cart.  My checkout hierarchy goes something like this:  1) older woman; 2) any-aged woman 3) older man 4) any-aged man 5) teenage girl 6) abandon my cart and leave the store 7) teenage boy.  You know, I'm just not in the mood to watch some pimply teenage boy smirk at my cart full of girlie stuff.

While I have you, I have a confession to make (yes, another one).  I have been wanting to try that new his/hers KY liquid stuff (cuz I'm a 39-year old woman who has THE SEX with my husband!  I know!!!  I'm livin' on the edge ovah here).  But for months, I have not dropped it into my cart and purchased it for fear of who I may run into or how far down the checkout chain of command I will get by the time I'm ready to pay.  I've ran the scenarios through my head at all the different stores with all the different checkout person options.  Finally, I decided to own my womanhood (again) and just buy the damned stuff!  Checkout person, friends, and gossip-girl be damned!  I am woman, watch me pay for his and hers lubricant!  (It's still in the box, by the way.  The negative pregnancy test and flowering tower of menstrual items took precedence)

-B(Sting)

Build-A-Blog

Staying true to my (lazy) self, I dropped off the face of the blog Earth, again.  D'oh!  Truth be told, I don't really have anything insightful or funny to write about.  It's not a writer's block, per se... it's a writer's 'nothing-interests-me-enough-to-sit-down-and-write'. This is where you come in.


Help me build a blog.  Give me something to write about.  What do you want to read about?  What makes you laugh?  What pisses you off (besides me begging you to do my work for me)?  Gimme a topic.  Or gimme a title.  Gimme a sentence... or even just  a sentence fragment.  Gimme a reason to live, for the love of God!  Gimme what you got and I'll roll with it.  Let's see where this trick goes.  Throw pieces at me and let's see if I can throw something back.  Ever heard of Odyssey of the Mind?  This could be like Blogyssey of the Mind!  

Who knows.  You and me, we could be starting a new trend in blogging.  OMG!  We are pioneers!  Ready?  GO!!


 -B (Sting)

Hello. My Name is B and I'm a Peanut Butteraholic

I recently read a fitness blog that really made me mad. Then it made me think. Then it made me empowered.  It was a well-written post about personal accountability as it relates to fitness and fitness goals.  In a nutshell, it said (and I'm paraphrasing, here), 'Stop bitching about your weight if you're not going to stop filling your pie hole with bacon double cheeseburgers!'

I don't think any of those actual words were in her post, but that was the message I got.

At first I thought, "What the hell?!  Who do you think you are, calling me out like that?!  Not all of us are super-hero-fitness-icons who can spend countless hours at the gym, little missy!!".

Of course, we don't know each other and she doesn't even know I read her blog because I happened upon it while stalking someone else's FB profile.  But I was pretty sure she was writing TO ME! 

Do you ever get that feeling that an article is written to you?  YOU!  I knew she was addressing me because I complain of every pitfall, sin, and excuse she wrote about. I bitch about working out till my legs snap off at the knees and then lament about why I can't 'seem' to lose this 10 lbs... While I shovel peanut butter in my mouth in a cool, dark, pantry.  I marvel at other people's muscles and physiques and then fail to 'find time' to work my own muscles.  It was as if she's been standing behind me, listening to me cry in my bottle of wine for years!! 

Every sentence she wrote - I queued up a solid, steadfast retort that was sure to justify my actions... Until I read the next sentence she wrote where she shot down my excuse with a more superior rebuttal. "Damn her!  I know she's wrong. Somewhere in here, somehow... She's WRONG!!  I need to step away from this and come up with a doosie!" (Is that how it's spelled?)

So I stepped away. I thought. I dissected. I came up empty-handed. I finally accepted that she was right. It was like a condensed 12-step program. I kinda felt like I needed to apologize to her or something. Isn't that one of the steps? 

She was right about consequences, owning my actions and the reactions, controlling myself, blah blah blah.

But it's sooooooo haaaaaard to doooooo!!!! (Yes, I'm whining!) 

When that peanut butter, cake, or french bread calls to me; it sings so sweetly.  It promises me salvation. The peanut butter whispers in my ear, "It's okay, baby. I'm NATURAL peanut butter. I'm not gonna hurt you."

How do I fight that?  Keep my eye on the prize?  Visualize the attained goal?  Don't buy the shit in the first place? 

Whatever. I feel more empowered as I look my sins in the eyes and 'admit I have a problem'. 

Sometimes I'm successful and walk away from the bad options.

Sometimes Satan the peanut butter, cake, and warmbutterycrunchychewy french bread wins.

So. My response?  She's right. I'm human. I'll keep trying. I'll tone down the whining (somewhat).

Interested in reading her very good blog and then feeling like you've been called out but ultimately knowing she's right?  Here's a link to it. (Hopefully, I'm allowed to link to her blog):  Pride

-B(Sting)

Face Value

"Are you on Facebook?  Me, too.  I'll look you up when I get home and friend you!"

The Facebook frenzy has taken hold and I love it!  My alarm clock goes off at 5:45am, signaling the start of another school day.  But before I can start my day, I reach for the BlackBerry to read the status updates.  I know exactly where I can stop scrolling/reading -  at the last update I read last nite before I fell asleep. Check my notifications, comment where applicable, and I'm ready to swing my legs out of bed and rouse Dot from her slumber. 


I live for and through my friends' status updates (and pictures, wall posts, videos, links, etc).  I feel closer to people than I ever did 'in person' because I know them more.  I can read them.  Not just their updates but them! I can learn a lot about a person by how they write and what they write.  It's almost like reading their journals (with their permission, of course).  

My personal Facebook philosophy is such that I friend only those people whom I am interested in stalking.  And let's be very clear about something... if you are my FB friend, I am stalking you (in a non-threatening way).  Don't pretend you don't like it.  I know you do.  I do, too.  You... we... are perfectly normal.  There's a little voyeur in all of us. Which is one of the reasons FB is so popular, in my (unprofessional) opinion.  We want our friends to know us without having to say, "Yo!  I want you to know me!"  And this is why the FB Status Update has gone viral. 

At dinner, tonite, my brother-in-law noted that he didn't have the usual catch-up questions and conversation starters because he already knew from my daily updates how the family is doing, how work is going, and even how the weather has been.  But this wasn't necessarily a bad thing.  We did not all sit at the restaurant in silence and awkwardly stare at each other.  In fact, the updates became the conversation kindling!  I suspect this is the case for many people.

"Did you read Lou's update about..."
"Oh my GOD!  YES!  Did you see what Jane commented???"
"No!  I had to do something more important but less fun get to work!  What did she say?"

And before you know it, you're talking about topics that actually have your undivided attention rather than mundane commentary about the freakish snowfall, wishing Spring would spring, and blah, blah, blah.

Once, a friend posted that she was waiting at the doctor's office.  One of her friends asked if she was pregnant.  BAM!  VIRUS LAUNCHED!  Not a menacing computer trojan virus.  I'm talking about the update/comment virus!  Before she could get back to her Facebook page and catch up, friends were swarming all over the possible pregnancy.  Congratulatory comments were flying.  Comments of surprise flooded the thread.  Her own family was wondering what the hell was going on in that girl's uterus!  And when she did (finally) sign on, she saw the wildfire that she had to put out.  No, she wasn't pregnant.  She was at the pediatrician with her child, waiting to see the doc.  Nothing more. 

Our Facebook words do not get lost in the ether of space.  Not long ago (today), I updated (ranted) about the Face Book Fan Page phenomenon.  I wondered (in writing) what their purpose was, how many fans justify a page, and (most importantly) why didn't I have any fans?  In response, a friend created a fan page for me.  It was a joke, but it was so awesome!  My friends hopped on the fanwagon and posted on the wall and I felt like a celebrity for a few hours!  Soon, however, I realized fan pages do have a purpose for businesses or (real) celebrities with zillions of actual fans.  While I like to pretend I'm a celebrity, the reality is I don't really have a need for a legitimate fan page.  And my 'fans' were already my FB friends with whom I maintain a 2-way dialogue.  I could never handle having fans.  I want to have friends.  So we deleted the page and I got over myself. 

My point is that people are reading what we write, they do care, and our Facebook pages are being taken at face value.  Some have complained (myself included) that FB is a time-waster.  But the more I think about it, the more I feel like it's not a waste of time at all.  It makes us feel good, cheers us up when we need it, makes us laugh, and most importantly... it keeps us connected. 

Do you consider these things time-wasters?

-B(Sting)

Come To My Window

Being a mom has put me in touch with my inner paranoid schizophrenic.  Or maybe just getting older has done this to me?  No matter.  It's done.

Not long ago (or maybe it was long ago, but my obsession keeps this event fresh and new) our house was egged.  Not once... but twice in 1 week.  It terrified my young daughter because she couldn't understand why someone would do that to us.  Did they hate us?  Were they trying to hurt us?  And if so, why with eggs... a healthy source of protein?

When I realized how much she internalized the egging and how much it upset her, it was game on for me.  I was livid.  Of course I knew it was some "punk" showboating for his/her friends, it  wasn't personal (most likely?), and they clearly didn't value the health benefits of eggs.  I was so pissed off that since then, I have developed bionic ears.  I can hear and sense punks a mile away (or so I think).

My bionic ears kicked in at 3am last nite (I know I should say "this morning", here... but it doesn't feel right).  I heard the iron gates of our fenced backyard creak outside my bedroom window.  Remember Jaime Sommers from the Bionic Woman and how she'd push her long blonde hair back, cup her hand around her bionic ear, and lean in a little to hear things miles away?

 
That was me!  I strained to hear the source or some follow-up sounds.  Then I (thought) I heard the gravel shift a little on the path that leads from the gate into the backyard.  "Mother-F'in PUNKS!  I will beat your asses!!!"

I slinked out of the bed and crouched down real low.  Didn't wanna tip em' off that I was on to them, right?!  I was like Hidden Dragon Crouching Tiger... or Crouching Dragon Hidden Tiger... or Crouching Middle-Aged Woman Hidden Mental Issues... whatever!  You get my point.  I was STEALTH!  I slooooooowly pushed the sheer aside and peeeeeered out the side of the window.  My face pressed against the glass, my hands cupped around my eyes to eliminate the glare; and then I heard it....

Nothing.  No "Shhhh!  Shhhhh!  She'll hear you!"  No movement in the shrubbery.  I strained my eyes to activate my super-human night vision.  Still nothing.

Well, I did see something, actually.

I saw the reflection of a pathetic, paranoid woman behaving like Gladys Kravitz, the nosy busy-body neighbor on Bewitched.  "ABNER!  I heard something out there!!!"

Ashamed, I went back to bed.  "Oh my God!  I'm SUCH AN IDIOT!!!  They're not going to LET me see them!"

-B(Sting)

Short and Sweet

No, no.  Not me.  I'm not short and sweet.  I'm tall and more than a little bitter.  I'm referring to websites, this time.  I think I suffer from internet-induced ADD (no 'H', tho.  I'm not hyperactive.  Hyperactivity assumes there is at least activity). 

I feel calm and at peace when I am visiting a website that is fairly linear.  I can start at the top and work my way down.  Then I can look at happy little tabs from left to right.  I don't need a map to get around or a stack of post-it notes to remind me where I was or where I may want to go, next.  If there are too many links and branches, I get lost and over-stimulated and eventually shut down the whole damned computer. 

Does this ever happen to you?

Scene:  You're at your computer, looking at a website or reading an article.  You're calm, relaxed, reading.  And then there is a sentence or a word that is blue and underlined right in the middle of what you're reading.  Oh, you know what that is.  It's A LINK!  The anxiety starts to build a little bit.  What should you do?  What should you do?  Finish reading what you've started?  You know you want to get to the end of what you're reading.  But that blue, underlined text taunts you.  "Click me!  Click me!  Here I am!  Click me!  Click here!!!  Hey!  Hey!  HEEEEEEY!!!!"  You try to ignore that blue, blue text.  You keep reading.  You're old school and you have been trained to finish what you've started.  But that link calls to you.  You're still reading, but you're not really absorbing what you're reading anymore because instead you're OBSESSING about that link.  So you rush to the end.  On your way to the bottom of the page, there is another link.  Oh no!  What are you going to do now?  Now there's TWO links (or more) for you to follow up with.  And you know damn well that each of those links will contain MORE LINKS!  It's gone viral!  You're desperately clicking around, being redirected there, are you sure you want to leave here?  Click here to go back.  Go back where????  Where did you start?  Did you take notes before you clicked away???  Where are you?

You're in Oz, now.  Just Click (your heels) three times to get (redirected) Home.  Wherever the hell that is.

So.  Does that ever happen to you?  No?  It's just me?  I need stronger meds, don't I.  Fair enough.

-B(Sting)

Channeling Mommy Dearest

There was this one time (at band camp?) that I thought I wanted to be a teacher.  I can explain very complex concepts and create all sorts of tips and tricks to help people learn new things.  Thankfully, I did not take myself seriously.  In reality, I can teach adults.  I have patience with adults.  I can connect with adults.  ADULTS.

Now that I have a 5-year old daughter to raise and teach, I see I have truly missed my calling.... as a deranged serial killer. 

In the beginning, I was ready for the challenges that awaited me.  I just had to stick to my guns, be the alpha dog, firm but loving, "be the crane" (fellow SpongeBob aficionados will know what I'm talking about with that last reference). You can stop with that 'knowing' laugh and put your eyebrows down.  I know (now) how wrong I was. 

She became her own little person.  Which turned out to be strikingly similar to the little person that I was... am.  Stubborn, lazy, funny, procrastinator, dilly-dallier extraordinaire, chatty, crowd-worker, people-pleaser. 

Potty training was good times.  Like that one time when I had her running amok sans diaper thinking she'd realize there was nothing to catch her emissions and she'd use the potty.  Instead she shit in the playroom and just moved herself and her Pretty Little Ponies over a bit, away from what looked like a giant dog pile.  "Really?" I asked her.  "You really don't think there's anything wrong with that????"  Rubbing her nose in it was obviously out of the question.  So after several failed attempts, I abandoned ship and decided I'd let her college friends handle the potty training.  Then about a month later, as I reached for a diaper, she said, "No more diapers, Mama.  Panties."    And that was it.  She never looked back.  She essentially potty trained herself.  I should have known that was the beginning of a pattern and the end of my sanity. 

Same scenario with colors:  "What color is this?"
"PINK!"
"Well, that's the most goth shade of pink I've ever seen.  It's black, baby.  BLACK!"
I gave up and she taught herself her colors.  Including turquoise and chartreuse.  Don't ask me.  I have no idea. 

Now we're in Kindergarten and reading/writing has really brought out the Mommy Dearest in me.  I get so frustrated and have these out of body moments where I can see myself with my hair pulled back, a thick layer of cold cream on my face - but not around my delicate eyes and mouth - hovering over her, "What sound does the letter M make?  What do you mean 'hhhhh'????  The letter EMMMMM!  Do you hear 'hhhh' in the letter EMMMMMM????  REALLY????"  Fortunately, I catch myself before I go off the deep end like that.  While I may abruptly excuse myself, quietly mumbling about needing a cigarette, a bottle of wine, and a Xanax; I do not wield wire hangers... or even use cold cream, for that matter.  And when she does throw me a bone and count to 100 in increments of 5, it's ice cream for EVERYONE!!!  FOREVER!!!!  That child's not dumb.  She's a player.  A mama-playah!  And she learns according to HER agenda, not mine.  Where does she get this from?  (Zip it, smarty pants!  I know the answer.  Her father!  Haha... okay, okay.  It's me.)

Once or twice I've gone to her school.  One hour in that place, and I wanted to scoop my eyeballs out with (sterile) melon ballers. God bless our Kindergarten teachers who basically start at ground-zero with a room-full of wild animals.  It must be like herding squirrels.  They take a group of children with varying levels of knowledge, skills, and self-control and *voila!* by the end of the school year, we have a group of nicely institutionalized members of society. 

And now Dot's writing sentences, doing math, counting money... all because some other super-human teacher did NOT miss their calling!  Thank you, Super Teacher!

You know, I believe Mommy Dearest really did love her children.  Just not the "children" part of them.  ;)

-B(Sting)

Text It and End It!

I am a serial texter.  I do not like the telephone.  If I cannot communicate with you in person, then I will email or text.  Do not call me.  Do not expect a call from me.  And if, by the grace of God, you do get me on the phone; don't expect a warm body to be on the other end of the conversation.  For some reason, I go blank on the phone.  I become a cold, dead fish.  I have nothing to say.  It's just awkward and painful (for me and the other person).

Is it my turn to talk?  No?  It's your turn to talk?  No?  What did you say?  I was still talking.  Okay.  You go.  No.  Me?  So... how 'bout this weather?  Nothing new here.  You?  Okay.  Well, that's all I got.  Can I hang up the phone now?  (that was painful just to read, wasn't it?)

But text or email?  You can't get me to shut the hell up (see the irony here?).  It's sort of like the "No, you hang up first" syndrome.  If you respond, I will respond.  Every. Single. Time.  It's like I can't stop.  Someone will send me a text and I'll respond.  And then they'll respond.  And then I'll respond.  And then they'll respond.  And then I'll respond.  See?  I can't even stop explaining the responding!  I can't seem to find the natural stop point.  I can always think of something more to text.  Even if it's just an expression like, "HA!"  or "Nice!" or "D'oh!".  I'm just trying to tell you that I have not abruptly abandoned you.  I CAN'T STOP! 

I know I need to just text it and end it, but there's always something else I can write.  Maybe because I'm a writer?  Maybe because text and email allows for an acceptable (and non-awkward) pause that gives you time to think of something more to "say".  Sometimes, I'll see a good stop point and will try to not respond.  But then I worry.  I worry that the person with whom I'm texting will think I'm mad or didn't respond because of some sinister reason.  So I'll respond with something like, "Well, I better get back to work" or anything that basically says, "The End"... but in a nice, conversational way.

But wait!  There's more worry!  I worry that my lame 'The End' is too trite and empty.  Like the person KNOWS I don't really have to get back to work, I just want to end the 'convertextsation'  (I just made that word up.  Whaddya think?).  So then I'll text something MORE... something more believable and funny to fix the previously attempted and awkward closing.

Maybe going forward, we should all text "Done" which loosely translates to "I don't have anything more to say or I'm tired or I'm driving or I'm going to go do something else and don't take it personally but I'm done with this text or email string.  Talk to you later.  No I'm not mad or upset.  I'm just done, here.  But I still love/like you very, very much.  And see?  I'm even having a hard time wrapping up what "Done" means.  So.  Done."

Oh dear GOD!  Do you see what's happening here?  I can't even end this blog post with a clean break!  I don't want you to think I'm insensitive about your thoughts or commentary.  I don't want to leave you wondering what happened or if I ran out of things to.... Oh hell!  DONE.




-B(Sting)

Oh (heavy thigh), Woe is Me?

No, I have not developed a blog-lisp.  This post is about the dreaded thigh and other closely connected parts about which women lament.

I was at the gym (shocker, I know) changing after a grueling great 2 1/2 hour workout.  Since I was in the women's locker room, there were other women changing at the same time.  One of which was standing practically in my face (way on the other side of the locker room), bent over, changing her pants and the like.  Of course, I looked.  Her ass was perfect.  It was smooth, round, muscled.  Dammit.  It just pissed me off and ruined my day. 

Don't judge.  And don't pretend you don't look or wouldn't look, too. It's like a knee-jerk reaction.  Something beautiful or ghastly is in your field of vision and you're going to look and assess (HA!  Get it?  ASSess?  Sorry.  Moving on...).  This knee-jerk reaction is why I don't like to change in the locker room.  The sneak-a-peak instinct cannot be denied.  And I know that someone will or has looked at me... but with a different reaction, "Oh dear GOD!  What the hell happened there???  Is that bubble wrap or is that her ass and thighs?"

Of course, it's really not that bad.  Bubble wrap?  No.  Is it?  No.  Don't tell me.

But women tend to think it really is that bad.  Even if they are the owner of the perfect butt that ruined my day, they think their condition is much worse than it really is. What I can't get my head around is why?  Why do we see ourselves in a circus mirror? 

I workout every day, sometimes 2-3 hours/day.  I coat my legs and cheeks in so much over-priced cellulite-reducing cream, it's a wonder I don't slide right off my chair when I sit down.  I'm not too proud to buy those goofy leg-shaping tennis shoes or the uber-tight "massaging" leggings that claim to squeeze the cellulite into submission.  Hell, if I could get the green-light on the expense, I'd go under for liposuction.  But apparently paying the mortgage and putting food on the table is, like, 'priority' or something lame like that (whatEVER).

So I walk around, with my eyes averted just a little bit, sighing, "Woe is me.  Why can't I win this battle?"

But the answer is surprisingly in our faces, isn't it?  We have won the battle.  We're alive and we're loved.  Bubble wrap butt and all.  Loved and alive. 

So no more 'heavy thighing'.  Gimme the smack-down if you hear (or read) me pissing and moaning about my shape.  And I will do the same for you.  Change what you can and just embrace the rest.  Besides, bubble wrap is protective.  Right?


-B (Sting)

Iron Fist

What was your New Year's resolution?  What are you giving up for Lent?  Do you find that these two endeavors tend to support each other?  Lose weight - give up candy/chocoloate/wine; Be a better person - no yelling at the strangers who cut me off in traffic (in front of my kids).  The list(s) go on. 

My NY resolution and Lent sacrifice are also symbiotic.

Blogger's Note:  I'm not Catholic, but my father was Catholic (before he converted to Lutheranism to marry my mom... who will forever be considered "that lascivious Lutheran whore" by his (devoutly Catholic) mom).  So, genetically I'm Catholic, right?  I have Catholic heritage?  Catholic roots?  What do you mean, Catholicism is not a nationality or a race????  I'm claiming this one, so lemme be!

My NY resolution was to stop wasting time on things that aren't important (like shaving my legs in the winter... Matt loves this one; wearing makeup just to sit - alone - at my computer at home; making dinner for my family, etc).  My Lent sacrifice fully supports my NY resolution:  no ironing of the sheets!

Now don't start jumping to conclusions and assuming that this is no sacrifice, at all.  I assure you, it is a giant sacrifice for me.  Several years ago, a pair of sheets emerged from the dryer in a horrible state of wrinkliness, so I ironed the pillow case hems.  But once I saw how lovely that pressed hem looked, I ironed the whole pillowcase.  But I couldn't have neatly pressed pillowcases and a shabby, wrinkled top sheet!  So I ironed just the edges of the top sheet.  Do you see where this eventually went?  Before I knew it, the entire set was pressed with beautiful crease marks at the folds.  And what do you think happened on 'clean sheet nite'?  The angels sang when we pulled back the comforter to reveal crisp, perfectly pressed linens!  Oh dear God, it was heaven in the form of 1000 thread count...

... and I was hooked.

Eventually, I ruled the whole house with an iron fist... literally... a gnarled, arthritic fist clutching a heavy, hot iron. 

Soon, it became an obsession and a burden.  I couldn't keep up!  I was staying up till 2 or 3am to get the sheets ironed before the cleaning lady would come at 8am and change the beds.  And let me just tell you, Hell hath no fury like a woman whose cleaning lady pulled WRINKLED sheets from the dryer and put those on the bed instead of the NEATLY PRESSED linens from the linen closet!!!!  WHO THE HELL DOES THAT???  WHO???  WHO???  TELL ME!!!!

It was recommended to me (by everyone with an ounce of sanity) that perhaps this was not the best use of my time.  So here I am, overcoming my ironing addiction for Lent. 

I just pulled 2 sets from the dryer.  I was shaking in a cold sweat as I folded them.  I snapped those bastards as hard as I could to try to release the wrinkles into submission.  I smoothed my hand across the seams so swiftly, I think I have sheet burns on my palms.  And do you know that I actually considered plugging in the iron and "just swiping it across the hems of the pillowcases"???  "Just the hems", I muttered to myself, swaying back and forth slightly while clutching the pillowcase in my sweaty, burned hands.  "Just the hems.  Just the hems.  Justthehemsjustthejustthejustthe...".

I didn't do it.  I crammed them into the linen closet and came right here, to you, for support.  To confess my near-sins and purge my soul.  My Lenten sacrifice has been laid out on the table for you to hold me accountable. 

Now, if you will excuse me while I say the rosary and hover over the bed.... sheets...

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...

-B

Stomach Blog

You read that right.  Stomach BLOG... but it is about stomach bugs.  I just couldn't think of a catchier title  so I rolled with it.  In keeping with the theme, this blog will roll like a bug.  Once it starts, you can't stop it and there's no relief except to get to the other end...

Dot (which, henceforth, is how I shall refer to The Daughter) is in elementary school.  The elementary school is an incubator - Bioterror Central.  One kid is released into gen-pop with some sort of ailment and within minutes, the tri-county area is dropping like dead, putrid flies. 

This is the case, most recently, in our area.  Some sort of wicked stomach bug has been making the rounds.  This thing is Satan-spawn, turning our loved ones into Reagan from the Exorcist - hurling gallons of frothy puke from gray, crusty faces.   Nothing scares me more than a stomach bug.  Bring on the H1N1.  I laugh at Strep.  Screw you, ear infections!!  You can take a pill or an elixir to ease the symptoms of nearly any other school-borne illness.  But you're shit outta luck if you contract a lower GI "thing" (pun fully intended).  If I just READ about the stomach bug, I swear I start to feel the symptoms immediately.  It's like a self-fulfilling prophecy.  And then the barrage of Facebook updates begin:  Vomit on the bus, vomit while disembarking the bus, vomit in the lunchroom, nurse's office flooded with vomit, vomit in the hallways.  It reads like a terrifying headline, "Hartsfield Jackson International Airport Shuts Down as Train Fills With Vomit, Trapping Passengers".

I can't get away from it!  Then... it's IN MY HOUSE!!!!  The husband has it and is expelling it, repeatedly, from every possible escape route.  I break out into a cold sweat.  "Oh God!  It's here.  Did I drink from his cup?  When did I kiss him last?  Has he shared food with Dot???"  I alert the appropriate authorities (Facebook, Twitter, my parents, his personal trainer) and then go about the business of retracing his steps throughout the house while spraying every possible surface with Lysol, rubbing alcohol, and Clorox.  I briefly consider setting the bed on fire, but he's still in it... and it's a descent bed (a Sleep Number).  I settle on bleaching the sheets, instead.  Then I watch Dot like a hawk and pray.  A LOT. 

Every time Dot goes to the bathroom, I appear from around the corner, "Do you have diarrhea?  ANSWER ME!  DO YOU????" 

When she's done eating, "WHY?  How's your belly?  Do you feel like you're going to throw up???" 

If my own belly stirs ever so slightly, I think, "Game on."

I (sort of) recognize my neurosis, but I can't explain why it sends me running for a sealed room at the CDC.  Am I the only one like this?  Do you just ignore the reports and then weather the storm?  Or will I have to trip you to get to the sealed room before you?


I would like to take this opportunity to make a Public Service Announcement:  If your child has a fever (even if only low-grade), yakked, or spewed liquid from their butt with the last 24 hours; it is NOT acceptable to cram an ibuprofen chewable down their gullet, tape the orifices closed, and send them trotting into school!  If I ever learn that you did that; I will knock on your front door, vomit into your foyer, and walk away.  You have been forewarned.  

Small Doses

Sometimes, friends will say "We should get together more often".  Especially the newer friends will say this; the ones that don't know yet.  And I'll say, "We totally should!".  But what I'm thinking is, "No.  No we shouldn't.  Save yourself now." 

For those of you who don't know me... I mean KNOW me... I'm a strong personality.  I say what I want; I write what I think; and think as I write.  I don't 'dumb it down' or 'soften it up'.  This style of communication often results in disjointed thoughts, random f-bombs, and offended people.  After 38 years of pissing people off, you'd think I'd learn.  But alas... I have not.

This personality trait actually causes me a lot of anxiety.  I feel like Sybil, sometimes, as my brain duels itself.  "Don't say/write that!  That's too harsh!  You want people to like you, don't you???" 

"Screw them!  It needs to be said/written!  Why do I have to hold back so the weaker people don't get all offended??"

"OMG!  You are such a bitch!  Do you really think people like that about you???"

"Yes!  No.  Maybe?  Oh hell... I did it again, didn't I?"

"Yes.  Dumbass!"

And that's the general conversation in my head.  There are different variations, but they're all about the same thing.  Because of my tendency to realize I've been an ass after I've already been an ass, I try to limit my exposure to my friends (and even strangers).  I feel like if I limit my friends to small doses of me, they'll remain my friends.  If they experience Total Beth Saturation, they may go into renal shutdown and then cut me off.  I can't handle the rejection after their realization.  So I'm proactive.  I self-limit. 

The self-limiting can even be a little stressful.  When a friend wants to get together, I have to assess the situation:  When was the last time we hung out?  Did I say or do something stupid?  Probably.  Do I have some cleaning up or apologizing to do?  Most likely.  Are they ready for another dose?  Is this person starting to develop Beth Resistance?  Hopefully.

So I guess the dieting rule of thumb applies to me, as well.  Everything - in moderation - is okay. 

Does anyone else experience this?  Or do I need to see a specialist?

-B

I'm Back.... Again

Hi, honey. I'm home. Did you miss me? Whaddya mean, "No"??? Can you try to fake it? You know, I give... and I give...

Sorry for the pregnant pause (again). No... I was not pregnant. But I am back. And I hereby promise to post on a regular basis for my 3 loyal fans (me being one of the 3).

Last I wrote, I was heavily into spin (cycle) classes and general working out. I have since become an actual fitness instructor. I know. I can't believe it either. I teach spin and some body sculpting classes. I just know my class attendees are asking themselves, "Say.... shouldn't she be in better shape? She's leading this Guts & Butts class and yet her butt is sagging halfway down her legs?!?". Look, I can't explain it either. Gravity (and carbs) have not been good to me. And the holidays. The holidays have not been good to me. Cake, too. Cake has not been good to me.

I'm not sure how I managed it, but I have been fairly successful at gaining 20 pounds since I last posted on this here blog. And you don't need to be a smarty-pants and refer me back to the cake comment. I am aware. I am very, very aware. Just let me have this one, okay?

One of the common threads in this blog will be me chronicling (whining) about the weight loss effort (methods, successes, steps backwards, exercise, cake, peanut butter sabotages, and the like). Of course, I'll still write about the humorous atrocities I see in every day life. And motherhood. Basically, I'll write about anything that strikes me. Scared yet?

Let me begin by confessing my sins. I am having a secret love affair with peanut butter. I'm genetically lazy. Cake seductively calls out to me. A life without carbs is like a life without oxygen. This should be interesting.

So of course, I will start by seeking the easy way out (did I mention the laziness?). There is a product by Bliss called FatGirl Slim. It's like this magical cream was created for ME! It professes to firm ones legs, reduce the appearance of cellulite, blah blah blah. I'm gonna try it. I'm willing to sit in a vat of the stuff, if I must. I'm goin' in. I'll keep you posted...

-B (Sting)