Added to the List of Things that Confound and/or Bother Me

While in the ladies' room:

...choosing the stall next to mine when there is another empty stall that is NOT next to mine.
...sighing. I just...  Why?  Why would someone sigh?
...observing, out loud, what you consumed that resulted in this visit to the bathroom.

There are loads of other public restroom etiquette rules that I maintain only in my head (which everyone is still obligated to observe, natch), but this hat trick was achieved by the same person.  So, I thought it deserved special documentation.

It's a Good Thing I Don't Believe in Signs

The last thing I do before heading downstairs and yelling at children to get dressed is to douse myself in a little perfume.  My go-to for about twelve years is 'Romance,' by Ralph Lauren.  My husband gave me my first bottle of it the night before we were married, along with a necklace.

(I gave him the 'Indiana Jones' box set, and the first three 'Harry Potter' novels. Our tastes are different, his and mine.)

I wore both the perfume and the necklace on my wedding day, and then throughout our honeymoon.  Well, and during the ensuing twelve (nearly thirteen!) years of bliss, of course.

My second bottle arrived as a Christmas gift this past year.  Yes, it took me twelve years to go through one bottle of scent.  I know that seems like a long time, but honestly, I do not bathe in perfume.  Two sprays and I'm done for the day And, after each of my three babes were born, I took a year-long break from perfume because I didn't want them to confuse Mama's natural scent with 'Romance,' and then have them try to hug the spray lady at Macy's.

Despite the breaks, I always come back to 'Romance.' It's lovely. Anyway, that second bottle?  As I've only had it for nine months, it was nearly full.

Was. WAS nearly full.

(1.2 fluid ounces doesn't seem like much, does it?)

I fumbled the bottle this morning. You know what doesn't go well together?  If you said plaid and paisley, YOU ARE CORRECT!  A very close second, though, is glass and marble.

See, for some reason, I decided that I really only needed one hand to yank the cap off of the bottle and spray the perfume.  I don't know why I thought I had the dexterity to perform this task, as I have never, ever done it before.  Also?  I don't know why I felt it was vital to keep clutching that pair of socks in my left claw, like, 'if I put these socks down the morning schedule is jacked.  Must maintain rigor mortis-like grasp on socks.' 

But, that is the choice I made, and oops, there goes the bottle and it crashed into the marble top of the sink and I hope that it OH MY GOD IT SPLIT IN TWAIN AND THERE IS PERFUME EVERYWHERE.

So there's me in my bathroom, looking like I'm doing a footwork drill, trying to figure out how to accomplish the twin goals of (a) cleaning up the cascade of perfume before it has a chance to flow onto the carpet below, and (b) save the drops of liquid cowering in the jaggedy bottom of the bottle.

Finally, I put the Dark Crystal-ish shard I was clenching in the bowl of the sink, snatched a rag and mopped up the 'Romance' bleeding from the other half of the bottle. During the clean-up, I managed to lean against a puddle of 'Romance,' and hey, did you know that perfume stains like greasy french fries?  No?  Well, consider knowledge officially DROPPED on you.

The result of all of this is that:

1) I have a smidgen of 'Romance' contained in a generic shampoo travel bottle;
2) I have a shirt that will now be worn only during painting chores;
3) My bathroom and bedroom now smell like a middle-class bordello.

 At least there's something I can put on my Christmas list this year...
 

Grief Punches You in the Gut in the Strangest Ways

I was at the gym today ('cause that's how I roll), and I was about halfway through my elliptical workout when she came in.

Fragile. Avian, almost.  Short. And topped by a baseball cap, that telltale, g*ddamned baseball cap preferred by women who don't like the fakeness of a wig, or the frippery of a patterned scarf.

Like my mother. My mother was one of those women.

We buried her with her cap.

This woman gingerly stepped on the treadmill, settled her bag next to the machine, and pulled her cardigan tight against her slim form.  After hesitatingly poking a few buttons, the treadmill started up, and she walked.  Not briskly, but not slowly either.  Somewhere in-between.

I had a clear view of her because the treadmills are in the first row of machines, and the ellipticals are the second row of machines.  She chose the one directly in front of me.  So there I am, Karmin's 'Brokenhearted' bouncing in the background, staring at the back of this woman's head. It looked so much like my mother's -- soft, gray fuzz peeking through the keyhole in the back of that hat -- that I almost cried.  I just wanted to go hug her, to tell her that I wanted her to win, that I was sorry for what she was going through.

But how do you do that?  I have no problem wishing a stranger well.  But I wasn't sure how to navigate the well-wishing without touching on my own loss.  And instead of offering support, I'd be a harbinger of doom.

'I offer you nothing but empathy and support, because you remind me of my mother, who died of cancer after a brief, but dignified, struggle.'

Not a lot of hope and support to be found in her story, not for someone who is trying to beat cancer.

So I stayed on my treadmill, and silently rooted for her, sending good thoughts and energy her way.  (Yes, I understand how hip-tastic that sounds, but there it is).  I understood why she was there.  Call it intuition (or superimposition, take your pick).  She was there because she couldn't control the population explosion of cannibalistic cells in her body, but THIS, she could do this for herself. She could walk on a treadmill and make her muscles strong.  She could get out of the house, or the hospital, or wherever, and do something healthful, instead of lying back and being pumped full of cancer-killing treatment.

She walked for about a half an hour, then packed up to go.  She didn't shuffle, but she tread very carefully, deliberately.

I hope I see her again soon.  I really do.

Public Defender Chic

So, you've heard of shabby chic, hobo chic, and meth chic, right?  (Okay, that last one I made up.  But I have five bucks that says you hear it for real in the next year.)

Apparently, I am public defender chic.

My nonprofit has been sharing the building with a new tenant -- the Public Defenders Office.  It is not staffed by eye  candy like Dylan McDermott, but the folks seem nice enough.  Anyway, they keep very strict hours.  They also keep their front doors locked outside of those strict hours, so clients are often found hovering next to the front doors waiting for the lawyers to open up.

I passed by one such gentleman on my way into work.  Glancing up from his phone for a nano-second, he intoned, "Closed!"

This was intended as an act of kindness, to save me the trouble of jiggling the door handle, I guess.  But I looked down at my rumpled khakis and slightly askew blouse and thought, "Herm.  Perhaps I should re-consider my look if he believes me to be a fellow defendant."

**Cue the landslide of offers to fund a new wardrobe.  What?  I get like eight hits A DAY!  Surely that's worth some paid advertising?**
 

I'm Not the Worst Parent in the Cry Room

My church has a cry room.  Correction.  My church has a cry loft.  I think it must have been where a choir performed once upon a time. So, yeah, amplification.  Which seems counterintuitive to the purpose of a cry room.  It used to have plexiglass to muffle the shenanigans going on among the kids and protect the delicate ears of the rest of the congregation.  Admittedly, I felt like I was in a bit of an infant terrarium, so I'm glad the plexi is gone.  Still, though, I feel compelled to keep my kids on the hush-hush.

Sequestering ourselves here is optional.  Even though it doesn't keep our noise contained, it is an option we gladly exercise because the Little Guy likes to wander around, occasionally roaring, and the older two enjoy being in the balcony-type setting.

This past week, I took the older two to Mass while the Little Guy stayed home with Super Ninja.  We parked ourselves in the last pew in the cry loft, and settled in to listen to the First Reading.  As the lector began to offer up Moses' words, a woman crept into the cry room with an adorable four-year-old girl in tow.  She also had a large shoulder bag slung over her shoulder, as do many of the parents in the cry room.

A few minutes later, another woman, also accompanied by an equally cute little girl, slunk into the room.  They sat next to the first mother-daughter duo, and I thought, "Oh, that's nice. Meeting up with friends at church.  I should do that some time."  The little girls were immediately chatty, and Big Bag Mom reached into said bag.  I thought she might withdraw, say, a coloring book, or a dollie, or possibly even a (silent) video game.

Nope.

She pulled out a round object.  A ball? I thought.

Nope.  Well, yeah.

It was a hamster ball.  With a hamster in it.  For a second, I was convinced that it was a Zsu Zsu pet, but again, no. It was a real, live hamster, rockin' it out in a hamster ball.  In church.

It made me so happy, in an incredibly judgy way.  I have snuck in snacks, books, pens, games, and puzzles.  But who brings a hamster to church?  And lets it run around in a hamster ball?  In the loft?  I kept imagining it going on some cracked out power spin, ramming into the baluster, and popping open the top of the ball.  Result:  airborne rodent.  Double result:  children's tears and a furry splat in the aisle below.

Luckily, Hamtaro stayed locked in his spherical prison, and there were no pet tragedies.  But I seriously would've loved it if the hamster rolled itself up through the communion line.

And Still, None of My Pants Fit

From May 14, 2012 to today, August 23, 2012, I have lost a total of thirty pounds.  Huzzah!  Many nights of exercise, many days of eschewing (HA!) junk food have resulted in a drop to the single digits, size-wise.  Double huzzah!

I began this whole thing because none of my pants were comfortable anymore. The buttons bit into my doughy paunch, the thighs hugged my...well, thighs.  But no more!  These pants o'mine, they would puddle at my feet were it not for my trusty belts.  Which kind of brings me full  circle, no?  Because the pants, they still do not fit. But now, it's in a good way.

'Cause I'm Way Cool

I did it. I bought a box o' wine. It is the equivalent of four bottles of shiraz. And lo, it is good. You may not think it's a classy move, but when is long-lasting, discounted wine not classy? 

Great Car Failure Saga of 2012

I own a 2007 Ford Freestyle.  Right now, it is basically a two-ton paperweight.  That's being unfair, actually.  It starts.  It goes in reverse.  The electrical system is top drawer.  It just doesn't go forward.

Forward, as it turns out, is an incredibly useful feature in a car.

Before taking the car to any shop, I put my nerdy skills, which will not be at all useful in the zombie apocalypse, to work.  Oh, the Googling I did.  And in the Googling, found some interesting stuff.  Such as the hundreds of other people who had the same symptoms our car had:

• Lunging/surging when the car was going less than 5 mph, on hot days, when the A/C is on;
• 'Limping' after you've been stopped at a red light, stop sign, whatever;
• Slowly responding to acceleration (i.e., you press the gas pedal, and the car ponders your request for awhile);

In some cases, the car owners had the transmission replaced, and it worked, and then the transmission died again.  Other folks performed much, much, much, much cheaper repairs, and those worked.  Things like cleaning the throttle body, replacing the throttle body, fixing a cracked motor mount, etc.

Anyway, when we took it to the second service repair shop, my husband explicitly asked them to diagnose the problem, but also to clean the throttle body.  They concurred with the first shop:  we should replace the transmission. The icing on the devastation cake was how they apologetically shrugged when telling us this information.  Like, $6,000, no big deal. Except it IS a big deal. A really gigantically big deal. That's daycare FOR A YEAR. That's groceries FOR A YEAR. That's comic books for TWENTY YEARS.

That last one is especially important.

I did not accept this diagnosis. Couldn't is probably more articulate.  I am not ready to face that reality.  So, more research.  It turns out that our Ford Freestyle's problems are so rampant among all Ford Freestyles that there's a class action lawsuit in California, and the NHTSA has an open investigation into the issue. But, there's no official recall yet.

Herm.

I filed a complaint with the NHTSA because I have an uncanny understanding of bureaucracy, and a recall will never be issued unless the government has substantial numbers of people complaining about the same thing.  Shockingly, I got an incredibly cogent and thoughtful response from NHTSA employee, who supplied me with Ford's technical service bulletin TSB 11-10-21.

What's a technical service bulletin, you ask?

Oh, only the INSTRUCTIONS for how to perform the service required to correct the COMMONLY EXPERIENCED ISSUES.  Turns out, a dealer needs to download an update to the car's computer, and clean the throttle body.  Gee, where have I heard that before?  Oh, right, everywhere on the web.

Once I got my hands on the TSB, I called the service shop, and spoke to the shop supervisor.  I told him about the technical service bulletin, and asked him if he could detail what had been done when we originally took the car to them.  He pulled the file, and it turns out that they didn't really do much. The air filter box was not fastened properly, so they corrected that.  They looked at the throttle body, 'but it didn't really look like it needed to be cleaned.' Never mind that we explicitly asked for that.  I appreciate that maybe they wanted to save us money, and so elected not to perform the service that they didn't think we needed.  But, shouldn't we have gotten a call about that? I mean, if you take your car to get an oil change, they don't say, "Wow, you really don't need to spend this $40.00 with us today."  They do the work as requested, UNLESS it will cause other problems.

Argh.

Lastly, they connected the car's computer to the diagnostic equipment they had, and it gave them a couple of error codes.  They 'didn't write them all down,' but they are 'pretty sure' it gave them  P0735, which is 'Gear 5 incorrect gear ratio.'  Further research indicates that there are all kinds of things that you can try to deal with this.  Checking fluids, replacing solenids, etc., ultimately leading up to replacing the transmission.

It seems like these computers are the auto version of WebMD.  All symptoms on WebMD lead to cancer, right? So I sort of figure that all of these error codes can lead to 'replace the transmission,' 'rebuild the suspension,' or 'just drive the car off of a cliff and claim the insurance.'

Now, I respect that these mechanics are experts, and they are suggesting the course of action that has the highest degree of success, in their experience, for this particular problem.  I am but a college grad who has a scary ability to ferret out information.  And I have a problem with the fact that they didn't:

(a) know about the service bulletin, or if they did, they didn't try the things it suggested;
(b) perform the service the customer actually asked them to do, and
(c) list out a menu of possible things they could try, with replacing the transmission being their strongest recommendation. 

I would've respected that.  Instead, I feel like they went straight for the overkill option, like a doctor telling you that if you really want to treat that pre-cancerous mole on your cheek, you should chop off your head.

So, I asked the shop supervisor to please perform the service listed in the TSB.  He gave me a flat price because we'd already paid for diagnostics, but stated that it probably wouldn't fix the car's problems.  Which was fine by me, actually, because the plan at that point was to do get the dealer to do the software download (those can generally only be done at the dealer), then take the car to my brother & sister-in-law's shop, Complete Auto Repair Service.

I know, I know.  If I have a brother who is a mechanic, why on earth would I go to the dealer, right?  Proximity, basically.  But for this?  For this I am willing to drive from southwestern Baltimore County to Harford County.  If my brother tell me the car needs a new tranny, I will believe him, and it will be a vindication of sorts for the dealers.  But I will be beyond certain that he and his crew actually did the due diligence required to come to that conclusion, rather than simply plugging it into a computer and offering up only the most extreme solution. 

Today's Lesson: Don't Poke a Bear

By the time I opened the car door to ferry my kids to camp this morning, the Girl was wailing.  Now, this is not an unusual circumstance, but it still requires some gentle probing to discover the source of the problem. 

"What's wrong, honey?"

"The Boy called me fat!"  Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.

Wait, I thought we already had this conversation?  I know the Girl well enough to know that a giant dollop of drama was swirled into her mix of sugar and spice and everything nice.  So, I asked the Boy, "Did you call her fat, honey?"

The Boy, brows knit together, answered, "I said her cheeks were fat."

This is undeniably true.  It would have been improper to call the squishy sides of her face 'cheeks' when she was born.  Nay, they were jowels, jowels to rival Alfred Hitchcock's.  I am convinced that her cheeks have never actually grown, but that her head is finally in proportion to them.  This has made for some delectable smooching over the years.

Anyway, I sighed and said, "Buddy, no one likes to have any part of them called fat.  It makes the Girl sad, and we've talked about that before.  Please apologize. And sweetie," I turned to my daughter, "please try not to have such a thin skin."

Things were calm for the three minute ride to camp, and then the Boy started saying something to the Girl that I could tell would, once again, result in a bawling mess.  (I should mention that thunderstorms woke the Girl in the middle of the night, and she did not, hallelujah, seek comfort from us.  She just put herself back to bed.  Knowing that she had a rough night -- but didn't wake us up to deal with it -- resulted in me understanding why she was an exhausted emotional mess, and giving her a huge, mega pass on her histrionics.)

"Buddy," I slid the door open to let them out.  "Don't poke a bear."

"I don't know what that means."

"When you know that someone is going to get super, unreasonably mad at you for being a little annoying, don't be annoying.  If there was a bear near you, would you poke it with a sharp stick?"

He thought about this for a second, then answered, "It depends on the bear."

"What?" I frowned. "No!  It never depends on the bear!  Never poke a bear.  Even if it's Yogi Bear and he's happy and dancing and making jokes, DON'T POKE A BEAR."

He just shrugged, slipped on his backpack, and jumped out of the car to go meet his friends.  I really, really hope there are no bears in the woods at camp.

Here Comes!

My Little Guy was not fond of the beach last year.  He was but a babe of eighteen months, and was deeply unhappy about the sand that wormed its way into every crack and crevice on his pudgy self.

But this year?

Things were different, my friends.  This year, he thrust his paw at me, beckoning me to walk him closer to the water's edge.  Beckoning is too sedate a word, actually.  It was more grunty and commanding, kind of what you'd expect from Conan the Barbarian.  All he was missing was the toothy fur pelt.  Since I always respect the commands of a barbarian, I took his hand in mine, and we stepped up to the ocean. 

As the surf began to curl in the distance, he'd look up at me, beaming, and announce, "Here comes!"  The waves would break, usually knocking my whippet-thin 8-year-old son and sparkling blond 5-year-old girl helter-skelter.  By the time the water reached us, it just kissed our toes.  At most, it would slink around our ankles.  Either way, Little Guy would thrill and dance and giggle, then tug me closer to the deep.

Next year, I'm going to have to put a leash on him.

My Husband and I Had Very Different Weeks

Many moons ago, a lovely friend of mine invited us to the beach for a week.  She and her husband have a place nestled within the sands of Delaware, and she practically lives there during the summer.  My husband and I love going to the shore, as do our children, so accepting was kind of a no-brainer.  Honestly, this invitation was a godsend because otherwise, we wouldn't have been able to get to the beach for more than a day trip this year (I know, I know, First World problems).

The truth is, money is thin on the ground for us.  Not in a destitution kind of way, but in a we-are-trying-to-live-within-our-means kind of way.  In a we-are-socking-away-as-much-as-we-can-for-retirement way.  In a Jesus-Christ-organic-milk-is-expensive way.  In an oh-God-at-this-rate-the-kids-will-be-able-to-afford-college-textbooks-but-not-tuition way.  I could go on, but what it comes down to is that we've got a decent-sized mortgage, two car payments, and three children, two of whom are in full-time daycare.  Our liquid savings is kind of a trickle.

All this means that a rent-free beach trip is hard to pass up.  My husband, however, did not have much vacation leave banked, so we decided that we would all go to the shore, he'd leave Sunday night to be at home for the work week, and then he'd come back for the second weekend.

The Friday we were to leave, he called me to say that we'd be taking my car because his check engine light came on.  Herm.  He hates my car.  He loves his car.  It must be serious, I thought, if he is proclaiming that we take the Mazda 5 over the Freestyle and all of its luscious elbow room.

We got home, packed up my car, and zipped over to Bethany Beach.  Yay for the beach!  Boo for the cloud of car trouble.  The plan was that he would return on Monday, drop the car at the closest Ford dealer's service shop, then get a ride back to my house to take my car to work.  Easy-peasy.  But then the dealer called.

And started using unfortunate words.

Words like:

• Transmission;
• Not in production anymore;
• New parts only;
• Six thousand dollars.

Gulp.  Urp.

We can barely afford a six hundred dollar repair, much less a six thousand dollar one.  That's more than we owe on the car.  Not by much, but still.  So, my husband drove home, finagled a ride from my friend, then slowly drove the won't-go-more-than-50-mph beloved auto to another dealer for a second opinion.  The second opinion matched the first one.

More gulping and urping.

Now, the plan is to get the car to my brother, who is a mechanic, to see if he might be able to scoop up parts from the junkyard and possibly rebuild the transmission.  That would likely be a bunch cheaper because a brand new transmission is pricey.  My father has loaned us his spare car in the mean time, allowing us to both get to work.  Our choices right now are:

(1) have the dealer replace the transmission (and continue the next 11 car payments);
(2) see if my brother's shop can rebuild the transmission, and hope it's cheaper  (plus the remaining  car payments);
(3) trade in the car, get very little in the way of trade-in value, roll over what we currently owe to a new car payment, but buy a lesser car so that our monthly payment doesn't exceed what it does now.

The problem with the repairs is that there isn't a guarantee that we won't go through this again.  The problem with rolling the payment into a new car is that we were SO CLOSE to being done with car payments on this vehicle.  Seriously, we have less than a year to go.  I hate the idea of extending that another four or five years.  Also, did I mention how much my husband loves his car?  And that they don't make Ford Freestyles (or Taurus X, as they were briefly rechristened) anymore?

I hate problems that don't have a good solution.  Gar.

So, while he was dealing with all of that, I was mostly making sure that my toddler didn't gt swept out to sea, as he has fallen in love with the ocean.  I had the better week, to be sure.

Diet Math

To lose one pound, you have to burn 3,000 calories.  Did you know that?  I didn't know that.  So, if you learn nothing else from this blog, you've learned that. 

You're welcome.

That is the only fact you'll find here, though.  The rest of this post comprises formulas and interpretations of my own devising.  Don't like math?  Do you tell people that you're 'not a math person'?

Tangent time!

One of my former co-workers said that the only reason that math achievement lags behind literacy rates in the U.S. is because it's socially acceptable to declare oneself 'afraid of math.'  When's the last time you heard a person say, "I'm not really a words person. I don't read that well."

You might hear that in some inspirational flick that is meant to show us the error of willful ignorance. The character arc would be the epiphany that 'tis noble to seek a skill that helps you navigate, nay, enjoy the world.

Anyway, if it was clear that that the reading-challenged person was joking, you would probably erupt with pity, wouldn't you?  You wouldn't say, "Ah, that's okay. You don't really need to know how to read."

Tangent done.

Now, please enjoy my own personal eating/exercise math formulas:

1) Actual body weight = whatever the scale tells you - clothes/shoes weight (duh) - hair weight (substantial for some of us) - breast weight (unless you're a dude).  Breast weight should never count as a problem.  Or so most men will tell you.

2) 40 minutes on the elliptical at level 5 = I can have 2 glasses of Shiraz tonight AND bread.

3) Scissor Sisters' 'Magic Hour' = activates some kind of quantum physics (or magic, take your pick) that makes time go by faster when in the gym.

4) 64 ounces of water = 1 million trips to the ladies' room.

5) An hour of yoga = 4 more muscles I didn't know I had.  How is that possible every time?

Honestly, I use more algebra at the gym now than I did in 1989, when it COUNTED FOR A GRADE. Sorry, Mrs. Saunders, but it's true.  Though, if the sample problems in Algebra II referenced diet and exercise, I probably would've been equally disenchanted.

Thank you for tolerating this; I promise, Gentle Reader, my next post will not have anything to do with diet, exercise, or lists.  It will be something equally, ahem, fascinating, I'm sure.

Birthday Do-Over

I am hereby postponing my birthday.  Which was a few days ago.  I am retroactively post-poning my birthday.

So there, Dr. Who.

Anyway, my birthday mostly stunk on ice.  I am not an immature, 'it's all about me' kind of person on my birthday.  I do not expect that the world will stop turning, or that the birds sing only for my pleasure, just because it is the day of my birth.

Though, that'd be nice.

Mostly, I just want a nice day.  An easy day.  A day where I don't have to twist my brain, body, and schedule around like some Cirque de Soleil ham-and-egger.  I did not get this at the commencement of my 37th year.  Wanna know what I did get?

1) A phone call from my daycare provider.  She had a bad reaction to medication, and her doctors admitted her to the hospital, and planned to keep her for a few days. Ordinarily, I would just take the days off, but I was supposed to be training at a conference every day from 3 p.m. - 7 p.m., and my husband doesn't have any banked leave right now, so he couldn't take days off either.  This meant plotting out alternate work schedules with my husband so that we could tag-team caring for our 2-year-old.  My husband would go into work at dark o'clock in the morning, come home at lunch time, and then I'd be off to the conference.

(I am not an awful shallow person, worried about my job duties when someone's laid up in the hospital.  I was really worried about her.  It was only after she assured us that she was fine that we started figuring out alternate plans.)

2) A self-inflicted flat tire. I took a turn too quickly and surfed a curb with my Mazda 5. Yeah, Mazda 5s are not designed for off-roading shenanigans.  Also, my two-year-old did not enjoy the big bouncy bump and scrape, and started to cry.  Yay for me.  I broke the car AND made my kid cry.

3) I immediately took my car to the tire place, but they didn't have the tire that I needed in stock. They sent me on my way, rockin' a canary-yellow-rimmed donut where my lovely, full-sized tire used to be.

4) Since you're not supposed to drive on those donut tires for long distances or over 50 mph, I borrowed my husband's car for my drive into work.  His check engine light came on, and it was all lurchy when I was parallel parking it at the conference site.

5) The presentation was riddled with technical issues, for which I really only have myself to blame. 

6) About an hour before I left the conference to drive home, there was a punishment-from-God-sized water main break at a major intersection in downtown Baltimore.  Seriously, I think someone released the Kraken.  End result?  A commute that should've taken 15 minutes took an hour and 15 minutes.

7) To celebrate the occasion of my birth, my husband and I ordered sushi after the kids went to bed. I ordered a California roll and a sweet potato roll.  The sweet potato was undercooked.  I am probably the only person in the history of time who has complained that the grub she ordered from the sushi joint was undercooked.

I know, I know, WAH, right?  I've got all the blessings in the world, truly.  I should be able to accept a bad day without a bundle o' grumbling.  There's just something about it all piling up on your birthday, you know?

So, do-over.

Finally, Less of Me

I've been accused of burying the lead before, so:  I've dropped nearly twenty pounds over the past six weeks.  Huzzah!  This doesn't mean that I have a normal BMI yet, but I'm inching closer to it.

My sources (a.k.a., the interwebs) tell me I'm trimming down at a good rate, because if you lose any faster than that, you (a) are probably going to gain it all back, and (b) may end up resembling a deflated balloon. Slack latex is not a trend this year according to Vogue, so I'm trying to avoid that particular look.

Anyway, I shifted my intake and exercise on May 14, 2012, the day after Mother's Day. I mean, why would I want responsible menu choices hanging over my head on a day that's all about me? Plus, it would have meant I had to cook, and that's just silly talk.

But the pants... The pants were so tight. Not just my regular pants either. My scary-size pants. My work out pants. My pajama pants. Do you know how ridiculous it is when your pajama pants are tight?  Anyway, I was dangerously close to officially hitting the 'Obese' BMI category, and a number popped up on my scale that I hadn't seen since I was heavily pregnant.

Urk.

I know why I put on weight.  I've never been super-careful about my diet, so I've always carried a few extra pounds. Things ramped up, though, when the Little Guy was six months old, because that's when my mother was diagnosed with terminal brain and lung cancer. 

During the six months of her illness, I chose to stop breastfeeding (enormous stress + much time away from baby = weaning).  So, I wasn't getting rid of a couple of hundred calories a day, effort-free, anymore.  Add to that a whirlwind of hospital visits (where they serve ironically unhealthy food), dinner in the car (i.e., fast food), eating unending comfort food given by neighbors, and ordering in because I was too exhausted too cook. 

And then, she died.  Repeat the above, for another year.  These aren't excuses.  I think everyone asks themselves, "How did I get to this point?" You must do that in order to figure out how to deal with life, and the things about it that can suck, better.

This past spring, I knew things were not good, and that I had to change.  And thus, after a decadent Chinese swan song of kung pao chicken and cream cheese wontons (I know, I know), I decided to cowgirl up and deal with my sponginess.  I'm not doing a program; no Weight Watchers, no Jenny Craig, no South Beach, no Atkins.  None of that.  I mean, that's group work, to an extent, right?  And we all know how I feel about group work.

Basically, I'm doing what every phys. ed. teacher, article in 'Cosmo,' and episode of 'The Biggest Loser' tell you to do:  eat better, move more.

Rocket science, eh?  But it's working. Pants are loosening. Buttons have stopped popping. A hint of a waist is appearing. People at the office have even asked me if I'm losing weight (*pumps fist in air*).

Okay, so, in case you're interested, here are the specifics of what I've been up to:

1. Downloaded the LiveStrong Daily Plate app to track every horrifying thing I was eating. I generally know what's bad and what isn't, and those are the easy things to cut out.  Like, of course I'm not going to get loaded nachos. But yikes, there's a lot of calories and fat in those little Mini Moos that I was liberally dumping into my coffee.  So I brought in my own.  Easy.
2. Regarding the app, the nutrients pie chart the app offers has been especially helpful, because I'd never really paid attention to trying to keep to a balance of 60% carbs, 20% protein, and 20% (good) fat in my diet. Anyway, this has resulted in me swapping out junky for healthy, because, seriously, unless it's nirvanalicious, most pizza is just not worth it.
3. Stopped dining out like I was the Sultan of Brunei.  I couldn't adequately account for what I was eating. Extra bonus is that this saved me some money as well.
4. Cut out most booze.  Not all.  Just most.
5. Hit the gym regularly.  Regularly = more often than the quarterly, "we miss you!" e--mails from the YMCA. Joking aside, I go to the gym or track every day, run for 30 minutes, and then do some weight-training.
6. Committed to drinking water. Lots and lots and lots of water.  Liters.  Seriously, I hit the ladies room every 90 minutes.  Before, I drank lots and lots of coffee.  I made a deal with myself that I would only drink a cup of coffee if I preced it with 20 ounces of water.  This has dramatcially cut down on my coffee intake.

It hasn't been a really big struggle, believe it or not. The toughest parts for me have been balancing the workout regimen with family time, and not appearing rude if I eschew (ha!) the unhealthy items on the menu at a party.  With respect to the former, as wonderfully supportive as my husband is, I don't want to abandon him with the kids every night, so I'll try to go to the gym before he leaves for work at 7:00 a.m., or at night after I put the Little Guy to bed.

Ultimately, it's like anything:  you actually have to want to do this.  Like, if an addict is forced into rehab, most of the time, the clean living doesn't hold.  And I wanted to do this.  I wanted my pants to fit.  I wanted to avoid the kindhearted 'you need to lose weight' pearls of wisdom during my physical.  Forty years down the road, I don't want my children to worry about me because I'm suffering from some ailment that I caused by living like a dope.

But mostly, I wanted my pants to fit.

Are You Ready for the Summer? Are you Ready for the Good Times?

Yesterday was the first day of summer camp for the Boy and the Girl.  Little Guy remains snuggled into his in-home daycare situation, though I'm sure he would be thrilled to splash around in the muddy creek on the campgrounds.  But the starting age is five, so he's out of luck.

Anyway, when my husband picked them up from camp yesterday, the Girl announced, "I think I'm going to love it here!"  The Boy, eyes downcast, lip trembling, mumbled, "Today was the worst day of my life."

And so it goes with these two.

I understood the Boy's doldrums, though:

1. Four of his friends are signed up for the same camp, but none of them were there yesterday.  Unfortunate coincidence.
2. Yesterday was indoor-swim day. The Boy does not like to be required to do something.  He prefers to feel that he has a choice in the matter.  I, of course, ignore this and steamroll him often.  Which probably doesn't help things, but hey, you don't always get to pick your activity, you know?  Anyway, they told him he had to swim, and then, because he's one of the youngest in his group, he had to where a life vest.  This doubled-down on his displeasure.
3. It rained yesterday.  Not buckets, but enough to turn the fields into a squelchy mess.  Rain = no fun in the sun.

Today was a little better, though, so p'raps by the end of the week, he'll happily bolt from the car.

I Still Haven't Learned How to Steer This 36-Year-Old Body

Wiping out on perfectly tidy concrete stairs sure makes a girl feel poised and graceful! This I know, as this happened to me on my way into the office this morning.  All I was doing was checking my e-mail on my phone, and ker-flop!  The toe of my very sensible flat caught on the step, and down I went.  I was mostly unscathed (thanks to a fortuitous choice in jeans), but my phone was perilously close to having been lost. 

I let it go during my tumble so that I wouldn't smash my nose against the steps.  Had it been an iPhone, I may not have made that choice, but that's neither here nor there.  Anyway, the phone skittered across the landing and slid into the ivy that rolls down the hill into which the steps are carved. 

Gar. 

I spent the next minute belly-flopped on the concrete, fishing for my phone.  Luckily, it was pretty close to the steps, so my tiny T-Rex arms were able to recover it.

This can only mean good things on the horizon with my work day, yes?

On Radiohead

I'm feeling left out of something.  So, I have to pick on it, because I'm mature like that.

Here it is:  I have a theory that a bunch of the people who say they like Radiohead are fibbing, because they know Radiohead is critically cool.  Obviously, there are people who are truly passionate about them, or there wouldn't be that many nodding heads and glowing cell phones on the live stream from Bonnaroo that I have on in the background.

I don't know, man.  I'm sure a rain of shite (i.e., two comments) will descend on me for declaring my ambivalence toward Radiohead. But it's such a thing among some Gen-Xers. Radiohead = God. Done. No further discussion needed.  Let's all just hang back in our chunky black glasses, confident in our premium vintage of musical entertainment.

But I just can't get on board with the deification of Radiohead.  And if anyone should, it's me.  I mean, good Christ, I was ridiculously plugged into the early '90's music scene, the time when they hit the national (alternative) stage.  This is me from 1989 to 1994:  Reading Rolling Stone cover to cover (and I mean even all of the Top 10 lists in he back, EVEN COUNTRY), going to all-ages shows in dives around Baltimore and DC, HFStivals, DC101 Chili Cook-offs, house parties with live bands, high school jazz band performances...

I should at least be nostalgic for Radiohead, shouldn't I?  Hearken back to my junior year of high school, developing black and white photos in the art department's dark room after school?  I mean, jeez, my musical opinion fomented in the age of 'Creep.' So, really, just for nostalgic reasons, I should freakin' love them, right?  But NO. I don't. I want to cram their fake plastic trees in a recycling bin. I want to tell Kid A that he needs to go to summer school. I want the karma police to arrest them.

I have tried, and tried, and tried again, but either the emperor has no clothes and they are merely meh, or I have really, really missed the boat on something.  I worry that I'm going to be that sniffy 60-something who's all, "I didn't much care for the Beatles.  Herman's Hermits were more my thing."

Ticky

Over the Mermorial Day weekend, my husband and I road tripped to Connecticut -- SANS CHILDRENZ -- to attend the wedding of one of his college roommates.  It was glorious.  You know how, when you were a little kid, you bounded out of bed and greeted every morning with enthusiasm because you could do whatever you wanted?

It was like that.

I didn't even sleep in!  There was just too much me-time to enjoy.  My husband and I were simpatico in this.  For the double-overnighter, he brought like six books.  I brought my laptop and my workout gear. 

Yes, that's right, WORKOUT GEAR. 

I have not spoken of my recent efforts to trim down my Stay Puft Marshmallow Man middle, because, really?  Who wants to hear about caloric restrictions and the new equipment at the gym?  It's like talking about the stock market, or horoscopes, or baseball stats.  At least 78% of the people in the room will yawn and their eyes will roll right out of their head.

Anyway, I pulled on this ancient workout gear and went for a jog around the local high school track.  Okay, jog may be a bit of an oversell.  I jog one lap, walk a half lap, etc., 'til I get to two or three miles. You marathoners can hold back your giggles.  My thumb-sized legs are not designed for long runs.

The track was okay, but the flock of geese hanging out in the shot put pit were clearly deciding if they wanted to start a turf war with me.  They'd marked their territory aplenty.  Those two miles were as much an obstacle course as anything else.

Afterward, I headed back to our palatial room at the Econo-Lodge and hopped in the shower to prep for the wedding.  As I scrubbed the sweat out of my hair, I felt something round and edgy on my scalp.  "Huh," I thought, "is that a scab?"  It is well within your rights to be grossed out by this.  I have made no secret of the enormity of my head, and, since I'm fresh out of curb feelers for my dome, I kind of inadvertently bang it on things. I don't even really notice minor injuries any more.  I may be concussed right now.  So sleepy...

But, it was no scab.  No sir.  It was a TICK.

Blech! Uch!  Yuck!  Ick! 

I just pulled a TICK off of my HEAD.  This does not help my aversion to outdoorsiness, Mother Nature!  I don't even know where I picked this thing up.  I didn't brush up against any trees on my way to and from the track.  I bet it was the geese.

My instinct was to drop it and let it go to a watery grave down the drain.  Then the rational side of my brain took over, and decided I should keep it to make sure it wasn't a deer tick.  I have a brother with Lyme Disease, and I want no part of it.  My solution was to stab it with the sliver of gratis bath soap.  Once he was firmly affixed to the sudsy bar, I thought, "Perfect!  Get out of THAT, bloodsucker!"

Except, I still needed to shave my legs, and for that, I needed unfettered access to the soap.  Herm.

My follow-up plan was to scrape the tick from the soap using my razor handle.  This took a few minutes.  Did you know that hotel soap is a more powerful binding agent than, say, God?  No?  Well, now you do.  Finally, I plastered the STILL WRIGGLING TERMINATOR TICK to a shelf in the bathroom.  I went about my ablutions, shaken, but determined to be ready on time for lunch and then the wedding ceremony.

After my shower, I did a little web research and identified the bug carcass:  it was a dog tick.  A DOG tick.  Great.  He couldn't tell the difference between me and a dog.  Okay, fine, ticks aren't picky.  But it is still not a thrill to be munched on by a dog tick.

You'd think this tale would be over now, right?  Bug found, dispatched, anxiety about the contraction of a neurological disease dissipated...  Nope.  We went to lunch, came back to the room, I fiddled around with my computer, then, when my locks were dry enough, I flat-ironed my hair.  All told, maybe three hours had passed since the shower?  And at the end of the flat-ironing, I took a peek in the mirror, hoping to see a sleek siren smiling back.  

I did!

But my visage dissolved into confusion, then horror, then grim determinedness.  I sighed, grabbed a tissue, and pinched ANOTHER tick from my neck.  Clearly, this one had somehow survived the shower, but hid out in my hair until the flat iron evicted it. 

I chose not to share this story with the bride and groom.  But, I *did* check them for ticks when I hugged them and congratulated them later.

Goodnight, Mom

My youngest child, Little Guy, is a man of few words.  This was also true for his big brother, so it is not especially worrying.  But, he's starting to express himself more, and the results are hilarious.  Now, at bedtime, I'll pop him in his crib and say, "Good night, pal."

"Goonigh, Mum."  (Yep, he's apparently British in his toddler-hood.)

"Good night, honey."

"Goonigh, Mum."

"Good night, sweetie."

And, repeat about six times.  I can't help feeding into the loop of "good nights."  It's hilarious to me that he'll just keep saying good night until I stop. 

Yesterday Was Just... Weird, Man. Just Weird.

We all sneer at astrology.  Until so many whacked-out things happen, you become CONVINCED that you are not an agent in it.  Instead, it becomes apparent something in the very firmament is skewy, and it is raining it's triune thundersnow upon your head.

Like yesterday.

While waiting for the bus stop, a pair of mating birds nearly FLEW INTO MY HEAD.  Look, I have a big head.  Not ego-wise.  Irish-wise.  But I didn't think it had it's own gravitational pull! As the birdies played the chasey-chasey game, one of them honestly buzzed my head, lifting my hair from my shoulders.  Can you imagine if they'd actually connected with my noggin?  I'd have to get treated for a concussion and rabies.

Stupid young love.

Next, when I tried to drop my daughter off at her Pre-K/daycare on UMBC's campus, there was a note plastered to the door that said, "Campus is on lock-down.  There is a gunman on the loose."

Um, what?

Now, all of you 'The Wire' devotees can just back off.  YES, there is a metric ton of crime in Baltimore.  But I live outside of the city in the suburbiest suburbs you can imagine.  Wisteria Lane?  PSHAW!  So, the idea that the college campus that is located behind my neighborhood has gun-totin' students, well, that was a new one.

So, I kissed my daughter goodbye and wished her godspeed.  NO, of course I didn't do that.  She came home with me until the shenanigans were resolved.  But, it kind of squashed my work-from-home plans.

After I dropped her off (you know, after the gunman was found and carted off to detention or whatever they do with students who stupidly break the law), I went to my son's 2nd grade class picnic.  When I say, 'picnic,' I mean sitting in a patch of dirt with grass whiskers, eating whatever I could cobble together for my son since he doesn't like sandwiches, or lunch meat, or most cheeses. 

This is what I came up with for him: 2 hard boiled eggs, a bucket of cubed watermelon, blueberries, a kosher pickle, string cheese, potato chips, and a juice box.  Yum?  But the weirdness of this rendez-vous was not the food, nor was it the 'games' we played (here's a tip to the teachers coordinating next year's picnic:  give parents the rules for the games we are supposed to lead). 

No, this weirdness was all about one of my son's friends.  For the purposes of this tale, please note that he is not a special-needs child. 

While we were unwrapping our lunches, he declared, "I can suck my toes!"  And proceeded to do that.  While sitting with us on our picnic blanket.  So there I am, munching on some baby carrots, and this kid is really lollipopping his big toe. "You know," I said, "that may seem hilarious now, but if you keep it up, you're going to be the kid in high school that everyone remembers sucked his toes at the 2nd grade picnic."

He did not seem to care.

As if on cue, though, two fourth grade girls at recess walked by, and he again shouts, "I can suck my toes!"  Both girls squealed, "EW!" He paused for a moment, but then jumped right back on that horse.

If he and my son have a play date, I may institute a "shoes stay on" policy.