F-R-I-E-N-D special

I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately.  I have more people to call friends now than I ever have before.  Even the smattering of friends I used to see and do things with regularly are still friends now, thanks to Facebook.  I still get to see their lives, their kids, their pets, and visit with them.  Even if it's only in short paragraph form.
And here in Mobile, thanks in part to my kids and M's work, I have a gaggle of friends.  And such variety, and I love that.  I've never been popular or had a crowd, but I certainly have a gaggle now!  We do all sorts of fun stuff, too--we walk, we lunch, we work out (only if CiCi REAALLY wants to test me), we volunteer at the school, we have sleepovers, drinks, manicures, spa days (only when I get CiCi to STOP working out), and I really am lucky.
I've got friends from here (unlikely, but true), friends from up north, friends from elsewhere in Alabama.  M's work friends are more serious, and I try to be more formal with them (they may or may not be responsible for tenure, and since I never know who may be and who may not be, I try to behave.)  Funny friends, friends who only laugh politely, girly friends, and no-nonsense friends.  If I were EVER to feel like calling some one, I have a long list where I could start.
I like the way some friends kind of fall away for a while, but can pick up again like I saw them yesterday.   Yesterday, I walked with MK for an hour and though I haven't visited with her in nearly a year, and as it turns out, her calm and measured personality (and very brisk walking tempo!) really brought some sense to my world. 
Thankfully, I don't really have to pretend to be nice to people anymore.  My kids have their own friends, so I don't need to befriend women for their kids.  My peops like/tolerate me as I am.  Crazy as hell, but loyal and honest.  Not the worst combination.
I think about my kids and how sometimes, they'll tell me about their friend Blahblah.  Who's Blahblah I ask them.  My friend from camp on the cruise we took two years ago.  Friend?  A four day friend?  But that kids use the word so freely, "Will you be my friend?" is kind of fantastic.  Their fickleness, despite the pettiness, is kind of amazing, too:  "He's not my friend anymore because he thinks Mario is for babies."  And how they compartmentalize everyone, "my friend from preschool doesn't know my friend from art."  And how anyone can be a friend, "is it ok if we play with the kid of that guy who's at the neighbor's fixing a fence?"
Boys don't have friends for connections, popular or not, if the kid is nice and likes whatever my kids like at the moment, he's golden.  S had a friend over on the weekend, and it was sweet.  "Do you like this Lego ship I built?"  "Yah, I like the windshield,"  "Yah, I thought you'd like that."  It was so straightforward and fun, and what friends should be. Is it because the stakes are lower?  What are the stakes of grown up friendships?  Why do they matter more to some people than others?  Why are some friendships like great jeans, all broken in and comfy, from the get go?  Why do some never evolve past the itchy and stiff stage?
I miss some friends from far away and long ago, WB comes to mind immediately.  Long after our spouses went to bed, we'd stay up and drink and talk about anything, (mainly our spouses).  He's really my best man friend.  I miss some friends nearby and recently.  It's like repellent force fields invisibly sprung up around us, and we can no longer connect.  I'm confident the situation is temporary, but nonetheless, it's sad.  Facebook has helped me (strangely) get to know people I should have been better friends with when we lived near one another, (Arkansas, I'm lookin' at you).  I missed her, and thus some of the potential of our kindred spirits. 
Rambling. Rambling.  It's early, in the day, but late in the essay, and I still have no thesis statement.  Perhaps:  Y'all know who you are.  I love seeing those of you I do nearly every day.  I miss those of you I don't, and before the total insanity of the holidays starts (November 1, traditionally), we all need to take a day to reconnect, ok?

Exercise for the body and mind

Yah. I hear ya. Send all complaints in the form of compliments, and I might respond. If you have no complaints, you're not human.

So, it's been a while. Like 3 weeks. I know. I've been sublimating all of my creative energy into working out. It sounds stupid, but it's not. I have to get up and force my body to do one thing each day...type and be funny OR run like there's a mean dude chasin' me. Lately, the latter.

If only blogging burned more calories. I need jlogging...a healthful combination of blogging and jogging. Can you imagine how fiercely slim I would be if I burned calories being bitchy? Holy cow.

So, in the vein of burning calories, CC invited me to a Pilates class at her studio. CC was actually taking the class as well. But the thing is, CC doesn't understand the TREMENDOUS pressure (for some one like me) involved in going out to exercise.

First, there is the outfit. Flattering. (There goes half the closet) Exercise sensible (There goes 49.5% more). Fortunately, my very supportive Valentine bought me workout clothes for the upcoming chocolate fest of a holiday. So, outfit in place.

Hair? Certainly no washing, but it can't look bedraggled. There will be SPRING HILL MOMS THERE! Low pony with headband.

Face? Nice washing and waterproof mascara. I don't want the tears to leave pathetic black smears down my cheeks.

There are people there, man. They might be watching me. I might fart with exertion. I might fall over while standing. I might cry a little. ALL KINDS OF THINGS CAN GO WRONG.

In all, of course, the class was challenging and invigorating and positive, especially since I have been working so hard at home. I could tell a HUGE difference since last summer when I took my first class, and that is after just about a month of work.

Back to CC, though. It's not that she doesn't understand the pressure, it's just that she doesn't relate. So, in order to help my dear friend understand the mental stamina involved in heading to a pilates class in public, I create the following scenario:

Imagine I have invited you to a convention of crossword puzzle afficianados. Now, imagine ALL of them have a New York Times Saturday puzzle in front of them. They all do the puzzle regularly, so they already know words like ORT and RIV and all the other obscure crossword-only words.
Now, they give YOU the puzzle.
And ask you to solve it.
In front of everyone.
In a fat suit.

Which is exactly what going to Pilates class is like. It was good for me. I'm better off for having gone. But for a while, there, I wanted to curl up into a ball and hide, like a nine letter North American Dasypodidae.

Puns and Buns: coping with (non) weight loss

Bathroom scales are like 2 AM phone calls: they are either the wrong number or very very bad news. (TM)

Don't even think of stealing this little Ben Franklin-esque nugget! I've trademarked it, see?!? I plan on plastering it on decorative tiles, coffee mugs, key rings, and other tchatchkes, so that while I may never be thin, I can at least make money to console me.

It'll be sold right next to the current popular axiom, "Friends are like bras: close to your heart and very supportive." (I happen to prefer mine.)

So, if you're wondering if my pithy little truth springs from actual experience, the answer is, yes.

I hopped on the scale this morning, feeling less bloaty and a little leaner. Damn scale put all that to a screeching halt. This is very disappointing to me, considering that I have been exercising regularly, and have improved on the calorie intake front.

The first person who jumps on down to the comment section and posts that muscle weighs more than fat will be personally macheted to death. I don't care if muscle is a lead weight. I used to have muscle AND weigh less than this, and I'm pissed about it. I have gone from forlorn to out and out mad.

At the risk of having my children removed from my home by DFS, I will post yesterday's food journal:

Breakfast: snack sized protein bar, coffee w/ skim milk

Lunch: Bratwurst, sauerkraut, diet coke, coffee w/ skim milk

Dinner: 2 bourbon and Coke Zeros, 1/2 bag of lite popcorn

Exercise: 2 mi. jog

(We went out to lunch, Osman's Midtown yum! So we weren't hungry for dinner.) Don't you think that after that day's worth of food, I should be thinner, or at least not so freaking mad?!?

Doesn't my scale understand that throwing me a little bone would go a long way in psychological terms?!? Would it hurt the little effer to just knock a half pound off the total now and then?!? Just once in a while?!?

M, if not the scale, is supportive: he'll tell me the weight has at least left my third chin, or that my upper arms are less swingy. These are the little tidbits I live for--a glimmer of hope among the Oreos and sweet tea vodkas.

Julie P: Live from the sandbox!

We are all trying to settle in to our new school routine. Things are different, not only from summer, but from last year. Obviously, there is only one carpool now: instead of dropping of E at 7:50 and S at 9 and picking up S at 1 and E at 3, M is taking the boys to school in the morning. Together. I stay home. That's a big change, kissing everyone goodbye and then turning back to pick up the kitchen. I don't have carpool responsibility until 2:15, when I go and sit in line for an hour. And, according to experienced moms from our school, even that is going to improve.

I have lunches to pack now. We are going through A LOT of snack-type food. I have less laundry as uniforms are the order of the day. Lots of small differences, but the biggest is that chunk of time I have to myself (sorta) in the middle of the day.

People have begun to ask me what I "do." Unfortunately, most of what I do is menial and not so mentally engaging: after the kids leave, I make beds, blog, pick up, run wash. I have been meaning to get on the treadmill for 15 minutes, but the pile o' crap testifies to my inactivity. I go to the grocery for dinner (yes, daily), run an errand while I'm out. Come home, eat a lunch, chop and prep whatever for dinner, pack the cooler for the kids in the car, and go sit in carpool for an hour. I usually take a nap during the carpool wait. I grant you, when someone says she has time for a nap during her day, it's not world's most stressful existence.

But, I think what people mean, is what do I "do" to bring meaning to my life. What do I plan to do now that I have two school-aged children? This is a challenging question. What is my next step? It is an identity crisis for sure. Am I likely to get all into working out and develop a rockin' body and run a marathon? Not so much. (Stop laughing, CC). A lot of my friends have creative or professional careers which have allowed them to go back to work and dictate their own schedule. I do not have a professional degree, and it's really hard to demand a 10 to 1 schedule at the Gap. Plus, I am lucky enough not to HAVE to go back to work just for the salary. If I found something rewarding that would still allow me free afternoons and summers, I'd be curious. But I'm not desperate. And I'm not complaining about that luxury, believe me.

I could become overly involved in my children's lives. I could stay home all day and make homemade pasta and homemade sauce and home baked bread and wear an apron and be chained to the stove. The only one who would appreciate that, though, is M and even he'd be like, "uh, you might wanna go out some more. This is great and all, but you're lookin' pasty." And, the kids STILL wouldn't eat their dinners, and I'd be bitter and fat from tasting.

I could hover around the school all day, and while I sincerely want to be helpful to my kids' teachers as well as to the moms who ARE dedicating themselves to the school, I can't bring myself to do it. I want the kids to have some domain of their own.

I could become a lady who lunches. One of those women who takes like 3 hours to get dressed in the morning and then meets her equally well-coiffed friends for a luncheon (with martini, natch) that takes 2 hours and then goes and gets her kids and does drive thru for dinner because she's "exhausted" read: "drunk." But, while that's a great once in a while activity for me, it's hardly my day-to-day.

This morning, at breakfast, though, I had a glimpse of what could become a career path. First, some background: Sunday night, M and I watched the Comedy Central Roast of David Hasselhoff. Mental note: No matter how much mock-celebrity I attain, I will never allow myself to be roasted. And while the whole thing was amusing, most of the show featured stand-up comics making fun of one another. Destroying each other, really. And while it was funny, M and I had to continually check the doorways for little eavesdroppers. Because funny, yes. Family-friendly, really Really REALLY no.

Back to breakfast: the boys and I were sitting around talking about whatever, and I mentioned it would be funny if Wolverine went on vacation. He'd pack, and then he'd get to the airport, and he'd put the 33 cents change in his pocket in the little tub at the security checkpoint. Then he'd go through the metal detector, which would freak out. He'd take off his belt, and then go through again. The alarm, of course, blaring. Then, he'd be subjected to the manual wand scan. The little wandy thing would start smoking as it moved over his entirely metal skeleton. He'd try to take out the TSA dude, but then there'd be a security breach, and the boys and I would be looking at our gate information and all the flight status would flicker down the screen, Delayed, Delayed, Delayed. Just our luck, we'd be at the same airport as our bezerk Adamantium-boned super hero. And I'd be all, "hey choppy hands. Wanna slice some limes for my margarita? We're gonna be here a while."

The kids LOVED it. They were rolling. So, I'm thinking there's a niche market for a kid-friendly stand up comedian. I could start with birthdays and bar mitzvahs and work my way up to my own prime time (the coveted 5 PM slot) Disney Network special. I mean, I KNOW I'm funny about pubic hair-dos, and martinis. Maybe I could be funny about Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers in a non-ironic way. I could open with some Phineas and Ferb references. Make fun of Grover, a total washed-up Sesame Street Has-Been. Get 'em rolling with my Gru voice. Do a little physical comedy with my "It's so FLUFFY" remix:

I mean Eddie Murphy went from "Raw" to "Dr. Doolittle." And Patton Oswalt does some FILTHY work, but also voiced Remy from "Ratatouille." I could be the next kid crossover star.

Friends with kids who have September birthdays: I will be testing some material and offering free shows through the end of the month. And to my friends, I'll be sampling some stuff with your kids. Tell them to be honest though, because I don't wanna bomb to an audience of 6 year-olds. I'll take on bigger audiences and maybe work the public school circuit during rainy days. Eventually, I'll be doing gigs for those parents who host first birthday parties and bat mitzvahs with $1000 cakes from the Ace of Cakes.

Then, one day, maybe I can host the Kid's Choice Awards. Trot on stage to cheers and applause. Give some gentle, no cursing ribbing to Spongebob. My kids will be all, "that's my mom. She totally wasn't room mom, but she ROCKS it." So, please. Book your birthdays now. When I'm big on national cable TV, I'll thank y'all. The Little People.

Live Long and Prosper?

I had to go to the Dr. to get the girlie bits checked out today. Ugh. Worst. Exams. EVER. But, I survived. I also had ample time to check out all the women who came through the waiting room. There were the super skinny, perfectly coifed Spring Hill Moms. There were some former SHM's turned grannies. There were some women clearly having a harder time of it: raggedy clothes, and damaged teeth. There was a woman in front of me who said she couldn't fill out the registration form--could she not read or write? Had a muscle condition? She was having a rough day, regardless, when they told her she wasn't on the books for today, she began to cry. And I felt fortunate.
And I was trying hard not to touch anything. And reading the brochure on the physician's OTHER partnership--a weight loss clinic. That's gotta be a lucrative market. Then, I was reading Prevention (while trying not to touch it), or some other magazine sitting on the faux Louis XV coffee table, and I was reading about health and humor and longevity and blah blah.
First, I started to wonder if decorator for the doctor's office just Googled "women art" and hung posters of everything that turned up. Then, I wondered if a positive attitude really does affect your health. Then, humor: "laughter heals" the magazine says. A good attitude and sense of humor help you age, cope with disease, and to some extent improve your health. That's great, I think. I'm funny. I should live to be 90!
Then, I realize, that my humor is not positive. It's really a way of living with everything negative and ugly and dumb in the world around me (and in myself, of course). My humor might really be a symptom of a very crappy life outlook. Well, that's not good.
So, I thought about my morning. And how I was a little bit foul with my friend, MT. I made fun of the clerk at the fitness center who was trying to explain her billing policy with bank transfer. First off, there was no way I was going to give this mental giant my bank information. Second, her nose hair was very distracting. Third, she did this REALLY ANNOYING thing that people do: she pointed to a brochure and read it aloud to me. People do this with Powerpoint, displays, presentations, seminars, and informational sessions all the time. I CAN READ. Tell me something that is not on the freaking sheet/screen. She blathered on and on and ON about when I would have to transfer the money for my monthly bill to be paid on time. The sign reads: Transfer on the 25th of each month for bill to be paid by the 5th of the next month's deadline.
Self Explanatory?
NO. Agony ensues. She proceeds to explain thus, "So, let's say on the 25th of August, you needed to pay your monthly dues. So you would have to transfer the money on that day, for it to be paid by..."
Let me guess--the 5th of September? By the time she finished explaining her bank transfer brochure (which was ONE PAGE), MT's three year old looked as bored as I felt. "So," I interrupt. "Do you take credit card?"
Just stop talking.
She asks if we want a tour of the facility (which is one, big, round room.) We promise not to touch and to check it out on our own. At which time, she points to every compass point of the room and tells us what's there. Thanks.
In the end, I decided not to join, not just because of the permanently befuddled front desk nose hair, but because I'd feel guilty paying to use a cardio room when I have a treadmill and the weather's cooling off, and because I'd only go to one class per week.
Long story, short. I was laughing at this woman, which is humor. But being mean, which is NOT a positive outlook. So am I gonna enjoy great health and longevity or not?
Dammit. I'd like to know so I can plan for imminent death. Or make a hair appointment.

Everything's coming up Julie

(Hallelujah chorus plays in background)
School has started! School has started! Scho-oo-ool has started. Of course, E has developed a life threatening case of coincidental ear ache. So, I am rushing him to the doctor (tomorrow). I am giddy. Beyond giddy. I am thrilled. The prospect of carpool lane is glorious. Who cares about the stupid half hour wait? Small price to pay for an entire morning of sweet freedom. I find myself singing for no reason--then I remember--E's at school and I am singing!
LALALALALA
School for S doesn't start until next week, but he's pretty happy to be by himself for a little while.
Everything is starting to come up Julie again. The house is returning to some sense of normalcy. All I have to do in the bathroom is patch the ceiling and paint it. (Seems small after everything else I've been through...did I mention I found f'in wallpaper on the ceiling? I cried.) I should also seal the grout, but I bought the aerosol kind that takes 2 minutes. The house no longer reeks of some polluting adhesive, I no longer have to balance precariously in the kids' bathtub to shave, and there will be a mirror to style my hair in by Saturday. The cabinet refacer dude is going to come and take my cabinet doors away and refinish them, and all will be well with the world, my bathroom will be all new, and I will be able to go potty in the middle of the night, without having to navigate the obstacle course of Hot Wheels in the hallway.
I am bursting with happiness.
The next time I decide to do a project, somebody, PLEASE stop me. One of you kind readers stop by my house and slap me. No more projects. Although I WAS thinking that the kids' bathroom could use a little updating....
LALALALALALALA
My manicure no longer has grout around the cuticles. My toes no longer have mastik stuck to them. My bed no longer has the crusty dusty crap from the floor in it. My housekeeper is here, and in this glorious post-renovation hell, looks like Jesus.
LALALALALALALA
All my paperwork for crap is done and filed away. All my back to school shopping is done. I have decided to go to a personal trainer 2 days a week once S starts school so that I can work on getting skinny again, so I can feel good about myself. I am going to cook at home more, eat out less, and be healthier for all of us.
LALALALALALALA
My car is cleaned out, vacuumed, and emptied of all swatches, samples, and testers. All summer crap is out of it, and it is filled with story books and entertainment for whichever brother has to sit and wait for the other to finish some activity. We have started soccer for S, E's soccer starts in a month, every one is signed up for music, and I have a new book on my Kindle to amuse me.
LALALALALALALA
The dog is getting groomed this week, and has successfully transitioned out of my bed at night into his kennel. No licking, smacking, scratching, walking, whimpering, snoring canine in my bed!
LALALALALALA
Now, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is Ana going to scream up the Gulf and level my house? Probably.
Oh, well. I'm singing today. Maybe in the rain tomorrow.....
LALALALALA

The Evolution of Style

I once read that for all intents and purposes, our sense of style from high school graduation is the one that stays with us forever. Obviously, this is less true in highly cosmopolitan areas where people are very chic and fashion-conscious. But, by and large, when I look around at people my age, I see a lot of poofy bangs that never grew out. For guys, I think this is a more pervasive issue: the obvious exception being any metrosexual guy out there who happens to subscribe to GQ or Esquire.
I got my hair cut this weekend. I was having issues with multi-grown out layers, weird angles, and goofy sticky-outy parts. Out of frustration, I had a bunch cut off to approximate a bob and to be done with the whole growing out "process." The end result is the same basic cut I had when I graduated from high school.
Now bear with me: since high school, my hair has been partly shaved, auburn, red, very long, very short, dangerously close to a mullet, purple, the "Rachel," heavily layered, not layered at all, with bangs and without bangs, highlighted a little, highlighted a lot.
Looking back on all of these styles, and looking at my reflection NOW, I realize that this is probably the most flattering, easy to maintain 'do I've had in a while. Which means that the last time my mother had any input into my style, she was right.
This is a bad development. What if she was right about other things? What if the last time my mother had any control/input into other parts of my life it was the highlight of those aspects, too?
Let's review: she was clearly right about the hairstyle. She was clearly right about bedtime, too. An early bedtime REALLY is refreshing. Also, Mom may have been right about one of my best friends in high school--she DID kind of turn out to be "promiscuous" (my mother LOVED that word as the most scathing criticism she could offer.) She seems to have been right about make-up as well: less is more, and brown eyeliner DOES make my eyes look more blue. Brown is so much less severe than black. (This applies to mascara as well.) Also, as it turns out, long hippie skirts over jeans with a man's undershirt tee might not have been my fahion apex.
While I am apprehensive about this development, I am reassured that Mom was definitely not right about some other things: matching bra and panties is not necessary. The firemen will not care if I am not wearing clean underwear. Pantyhose are OVER. Black is still the best way to go when it comes to cocktail dresses and daily work wear. A pattern would probably kill me. A ponytail can be stumpy AND cute. It's ok for girls to call boys to ask them out. Otherwise I'd never met M.
So, phew. As it turns out, Mom was not always right. And fashion should evolve, at least some of the time. (Although I REALLY miss those hippie skirts. So practical!) And bangs? Bangs are never EVER the answer.

Summer Wear

I sometimes feel compelled to offer wisdom, sage advice, and sometimes formal guidelines for moms. I realize that I am not above reproach, and yet, I am very opinionated and superior- feeling about some things. (Look, I know my flaws.) One of the things that I feel strongly about is moms who abuse their purchasing power: they see products available in stores and buy them with senseless disregard for 1) their own dignity 2) our eyes and 3) their age and station in life. I want to qualify everything here by saying that just because we are moms, we do not need to roll over and die in terms of fashion, style, or flair: we just need to pause that extra moment before going in to Forever XXI and realize, that NO. We are not. We are now at least XXXI, and that age carries certain privileges and responsibilities. One of which is to keep on walking, right past Forever XXI.
There are certain things, at my current age, body weight, and familial state, that I simply should not own. Bowing to the necessities of age and waist measurements, I have ceded most of this property to charities and garage sales. But every now and then, something creeps out of my closet, or cupboard, or makeup drawer to remind me that vigilance is required, lest I let down my guard and step out wearing something wildly inappropriate.
The most recent of these incidents happened with a pair of Levi brand "skinny cut" jeans. After a traumatic trying-on attempt, I realize that ANYthing with the word skinny must be purged from my closet. As my mother says about all things mysterious or inappropriate, "it has no business being there." Which is unfortunate, because the skinny jeans with the rolled up cuffs are really cute. But then I have visions of the me in the Saturday Night Live alternate universe and buying MomJeans from JCPenney. Shiver. I'm rather sad to see the "skinny jeans" go: they have the upside of sparing me from actual shorts when cuffed cutely.
Which brings me to the subject of shorts. I am a mom of two with a marginal weight problem. Shorts offer limited options: low waisted patches of fabric that let the top of my buttcheeks show, or Momshorts which are gargantuan when viewed from behind and have a fly 12 inches long. Is there no hope besides capris? Thank God for capris. They are populating my closet like bunnies.
Another thing I would never own, but saw a mom at the beach wearing: string bikini. There are rock star moms who can pull off the string bikini. Confidentially, I say they've all had work done, as even the most fit moms I know complain of that iddy biddy pooch down low on the abdomen that remains after pregnancy. (For me it's neither iddy nor biddy, but stilly poochy)But the mom at the beach was no rock star, and she was tugging and pushing and shoving that suit like she was trying to stuff a pillowcase. She was clearly self conscious and I have no idea why she was wearing it all. I have raved before about the benefits of the Miracle-type suit. The one that makes you ten pounds slimmer the moment you put it on. I have several, and have graduated to the "tankini" a brilliant invention, if a stupid name. Max coverage, easy pee accessibility. It works best for me when paired with a skort, shorts, trunks or some other disguise for my behind. Because if I'm not wearing a substantial pair of bottoms, I have this bizarre nightmare of bending over to build sand castles at the shore and having a whale out at sea glimpse my gigantic butt up in the air and come charging at me, thinking he's found his lifemate. This is my theory to explain those whales who mysteriously beach themselves. I think they saw some mom butt and wanted to mate.
The mom in the string bikini was committing another violation of mom ownership rules: she had that nasty Banana Boat tanning oil. Does she not realize that we will get old and wrinkly and raisin-ish without the "help" of our solar-alien friends, UVA and UVB? This is what that mom is going to look like in 20 years:
Does it not give you the heebie jeebies too? Gadzooks. By the way, if this photo does not get you to post a comment, you are not human.
I think in regards to string bikinis and summer clothes in general, a good rule of thumb is to avoid clothes that require manual tying to stay up. So, if you learned to tie more than 20 years ago, halters, bra tops and swimwear with ties are NOT for you. And they sure as hell are not for me--no sailor in the world knows a knot strong enough to hold this back fat, let me tell ya.
So, now that it is 320 degrees with 92% humidity here in Mobile, and I am pulling out that summer wardrobe (winter clothes are so much more forgiving), I am going to keep this image of silicone granny blazoned in my brain. Because just as these children are staring awestruck at granny and were surely haunted by nightmares after this beach run-in, I worry about wearing a halter top and traumatizing the check-out girl at the supermarket who is frantically scanning my merchandise so that she will get me out of there before that little knot at the back of my halter top fails.
Clothes shouldn't require a prayer to stay up.

Any Club That Would Have Me For A Member...

Deep breath. Deep breath. My first baby went of to Kindergarten today.He was adorable. Got up with his alarm clock, leaped into his clothes, brushed his hair and teeth. He was excited, palpably so. His teacher is about, oh, I dunno, 12 years old? She told us that she was excited to be back to the school she went to 10 years ago. In my head: 8th grade, 10 years ago, she's like 23. Oh God, her mother still remembers sending her off to kindergarten. Ms. F is young and cute, and Ethan will love her by the end of the week.

Yesterday was the parent orientation. I was not among the blond, ultra thin moms dressed to the nines. Does the peer pressure ever stop? Instead of coming home and thinking about school supplies and sign up sheets and class parties, I was thinking about Botox, hair dye and rhinoplasty. These moms were the cheerleaders of high school and the sorority sisters of college. I thought I was done with all that nonsense. Yesterday, I don't know who was trying to impress whom more...was Ms. F in her rookie year, looking confident, despite her quavering voice trying to assure us with her credentials and earnestness? Or were these wives and moms trying to outdo each other like peacocks? These women weren't entities unto themselves--I'm Mychelle's mom. My husband is a physician. Jewelry, hairdos, heels, teetering on miniature kindergarten chairs. Beneath the make-up was skin glowing from a recent workout with a personal trainer, and taut with chemical/surgical assistance. Ms. F was a baker's decade younger than any mom in her classroom and beaming with the natural beauty of youth. I was fingering the wrinkles in my forehead, wondering if they showed too much. The insincere half smiles of greeting. That is my son. The one in the Polo shirt, shorts, shoes, socks, and underwear. That is my daughter. The one with two names, gingham Mennonite dress, and bow as big as her head.

As I struggled out of the classroom, clumsily juggling purse, calendar, umbrella, and school supplies, I asked why I have to make the trade. Why does committing to my son's education in Mobile involve a mortgaging of my social expectations? I never in my life have played nicely with these women. I have rebelled against and acted out against their cloned superficiality since I can remember. Part of me feels compelled to keep up. To look just so. But then I get so angry that they sucked me into it. So, no Botox for me. I'll just drop my baby off at school in my pjs for the next eight years.

A footnote...S's preschool does not start until the 25th. I need a school directory so I can find out who I need to stab about that.

Diet Fads Come & Go. My Fat is Here to Stay

Ok. I'm obsessed with my weight, and in some act of denial, or perhaps just stark reality, I have yet to take serious action against the flab in the midsection. (Perhaps I should just keep wrangling with slimming swimwear.) I run, yes. But apparently, that agony is required just to maintain the status quo. I gave up cookies, true. But despite the emotional anxiety, the pounds didn't just fly off. Also true with the alcohol. (That was good news, so I am back to a nightly cocktail. Sanity prevails.)
So, I have been studying the popular diets out there. I could quit carbs, which apparently works. I could drink only lemon water with pills, which works until you collapse. Anorexia, it turns out, takes a long time to work--the body just slows its metabolism until it is forced to eat into fat storage. At that point, of course, my body has enough fat stored up to sustain all of Alabama through a nuclear winter. And then, there is my sister's diet of choice. My 5'11", 135 lb. sister's diet of choice. Clearly, it works. Let me explain:
Six days a week, you eat 6 meals of no more than 200 calories each. Each meal includes a protein portion and a carbohydrate portion. One fat portion (i.e., avocado, every other day is allowed). No meals after 6 PM. Water only. Protein bars are ok. Six days per week exercise alternating weight lifting with cardio training. On one day per week, you are permitted to increase your food intake moderately and take the day off working out. Yes, it's true. Even God rested one day.
Let me point out my sister is 29 and has no children.
Now, let me describe my life on said diet. First, so much as fiddle with the foil wrapping on a protein bar and my children come running like Pavlovian pups. Now, I've given them half of my precious 200 calorie meal. Repeat every 3 hours. Next, I endure the trials of my kids' snack time. Cookies, chocolate milk, bananas with peanut butter and chocolate chips, crackers with cheese and apples, summer popsicle treats....The temptations are biblical.
Now weight training, I do that every day: kids carried up the stairs, down the stairs, into car seats. Laundry baskets up the stairs, down the stairs. Groceries. Throwing human cannonballs (over and over) in the pool. Trash. Gardening.
Cardio. I am already running, dammit. Don't expect more.
Now, my sister wakes up at 4:30 to exercise every day. She finishes work at 3 and goes home to a silent house. Imagine it for a moment. A silent house. She can putter in her yard. OR NOT. She can do some wash. OR NOT. She can sit on her butt in the sun and read Shape magazine. OR NOT.
I have no OR NOTs. Well, not true exactly. I can watch my kids and have my house not burn down. OR NOT. I can supervise their art project and have clean walls. OR NOT. I can intervene in an argument and avoid the ER. OR NOT. So, we'll assume my day starts at 6 and is not silent for the next 14 hours. This leaves little motivation for the AbMaster. Not to mention the screaming agony of sitting down to pee after doing a 100 lunges across the gym.
So, I'll take my kids, my 14 hour day, and the 15 pound inner tube around my middle, and go have a drink. When science gets over the whole Cancer, AIDS, heart disease thing, and starts to work on the instant slimmifcator, I'll take it. 'Til then, bon appetit.

The Past Comes Clicking

I knew it was a gamble, but I thought it was controlled. I thought I weighed the odds, and was comfortable with the possible outcomes.
I was wrong.
Today, I looked in my inbox on Facebook. There it was. A name I hadn't seen, heard, or thought of in at least 10 years. PersonFromHighSchool wants to be my friend. Confirm? Ignore?
The cursor of the mouse went back and forth. Confirm? In fact, I do exist. PFHS as my friend? Can't really speculate. Ignore? The button should say Denial. I deny this person exists. I deny that part of my life exists. I deny admitting that I care.
PFHS. It was a jolt. I mean this person had to have sought me out. My maiden name is not listed. My home town is slightly different than the one most frequently listed.
I GET IT. Creating an identity on FB is, in essence a renouncement of my privacy. It's a way of putting myself out there, in the interwebs. But still, I wanted to communicate with the people I wanted to communicate with, not now-strangers. PFHS undoubtedly has grown and changed. She appears to actually have done quite well for herself (she was very smart, gregarious, and so social). I have grown and changed. I feel secure in life (except for aforementioned internist) and have made good choices. I have a beautiful family and a happy life.
So, what's the deal? I can't finger it. The ambivalent feelings that swirl back to me about PFHS herself? High school in general? Is it more the process by which she found me? Do I feel foolish for being out there? Not being private enough? Ambivalent about being found? Will others find me? Is this the first raindrop in a torrential storm of shadowy now-strangers?
I think it's as though I feel spied upon. Like someone saw my photo, weighed the odds, wondered if I were the same person, new name, thought about what I was doing, wondered if I were the same.
I checked out PFHS's profile. I noticed there were like 8 new friends in her feed, most of whom were from high school. Maybe she went on a Facebook binge last night, looking for people. Maybe she was feeling nostalgic. Maybe the intentions are friendly and not nefarious, as I always suspect.
Maybe this is the chance to grow and change, and not be suspicious and cynical.
The cursor moves to Confirm. I click. I hope for the best.

Sunday Evening

Holy crap. It's hot out. Really hot. We scarfed down some pizza for lunch. It has been a long 10 days of house guests and I have consumed more adult beverages than usual. I feel like I need to drink nothing but water for a month.
We went to E's new school this afternoon for a new student social. Why does everyone in Mobile already know each other? Why do all the moms look like they got dressed at the sorority this morning? They all look so young. Their husbands also have the recent frat boy look, though somehow the men look a little softer and paunchier than they presumably did in college. Otherwise, it was a pleasant and short enough exercise. We talked to some friendly people, which is always encouraging. Disappointing, though was the full outline of fundraising activities for the year and no mention of the basics: what day does school start? Is there a way to coordinate carpools based on neighbors? Shouldn't there be a pamphlet to cover the FAQs? Is this the first time you've had new students?
Also, as it turns out, I'm computer illiterate. A side effect of being over 30, no doubt. My knowledge is archaic. I can use the guide words on the top of a dictionary page. I can navigate a card catalog. I can barely set up a facebook account. This is something every third grader in the country can do. It's startling to see your painful unpopularity appear on your screen when you log in. I have 2 "friends." Crap. This whole network of finding people idea is depressing. I had fewer than 2 flesh and blood friends in high school, and I have the grim discovery that the people in high school who had a hundred real world friends still do. So, now here I am, 30 something years old watching all the popular kids socialize again. While I press the refresh button, hoping someone will Pleeeeeeeeeeeease be my friend. Again.
What is the cyberequivalent of low self esteem? I used to eat a whole can of whip cream. Is there a feeling depressed emoticon? A virtual nerd table in a virtual lunchroom? I spent the last fifteen years, a ton of time in therapy, all of college and several boyfriends overcoming the trauma of high school, only to stumble back into the middle of a pile of steaming insecurity by creating a lousy facebook account.
I need some whip cream.