Rubbed the wrong way

This weekend, CC is in Louisville, KY to support her husband as he participates in a triathlon. Not an Olympic, or "Intermediate" triathlon of 1.5 km swim, 40 km ride, and 10km run; but an unholy trinity of the Ironman triathlon of 3.8 km swim, 180 km ride, and 42.2 km run. I wish him luck.

I was gonna participate this year, but y'know, I'd die.

However, I DO appreciate the efforts towards fitness and healthy living. And, since I'm suffering through an hour-plus long carpool every afternoon, I've run out of excuses why I can't exercise. I can easily park my car, walk for 40 minutes, and return before the line moves an inch.

But my inertia is of Herculean strength. Being of good sense, I decided not to a) rush into anything and b) set reasonable expectations. I am totally one of those people who, in the event of rain and a missed walk, tosses in the towel, claims all is lost, and eats two dozen cookies. My goal is to walk three days a week, which I consider a very modest exercise goal.

Also, being of good sense, I had to do first things first: buy some clothes in which to take my walks. The Spring Hill Walker's Uniform is standard issue to women in the 36608: visor/cap, formfitting v-neck or tank top, black and white running-type shorts, ipod, shoes. Being both anti Spring Hill Women, and not a walker, I had only the ipod and the shoes. I have a cap from when I was at Northwestern. It'll do. I bought a cute walking skort, v-neck shirt, and made the shopping trip Monday's exercise.

Next, I had to actually walk. I parked my car and, indeed, walked for the designated time by myself through the streets surrounding the boys' school. Despite heat rivaling Satan's sauna, things were progressing satisfactorily.

Except. Except for one mortifying detail. My thighs, having not been exercised regularly in the last 35 years or so, rub together. And, in this devil's steam room of a climate, there is substantial sweat. After a brisk walk, my thighs boasted giant strawberries from chaffing. That was nearly it. As I said, it doesn't take much to discourage me. And certainly matching rashes on such delicate skin and so perilously close to my under-manicured nethers, are no small matter. Wednesday was out.

Thursday, on my way to carpool line, I stopped in at the drug store because I'd heard tell of a new product that reduces chaffing. Embarrassingly, I had seen it on TV. I think it's made by Gold Bond and the ad features heavy-set people happily throwing up their arms, skipping, and moving their limbs jauntily, freed from the discomfort of chaffing. Maybe, though I lack significant creases and folds, the anti-chaffing product could work for me.

Unfortunately, drug store did not carry said product. HOWEVER, they did carry a similar product, made by Massengill (?!?) that might suit my needs. The product isn't with athletic products like Icy Hot, or with skin remedies like Caladryl, or even with lotions. It is conveniently located with the feminine hygiene products. So, there I am, scouting past Astroglide, powders, douches, condoms, lube of all varieties, remedies for ewwwww, and lo, there on the bottom shelf. Silky gel to reduce chaffing in the "delicate bikini area." My bikini area cheered with optimism.

I lubed up my thighs and prepared for my walk. In the heat. Alone. But then, I saw SB and LE, and suddenly my lone trek was a laughing, upbeat trio. The walk was less boring, the company enlivening and I was (shh, it'll ruin my rep) having fun! And my lady bits didn't complain at all.

Friday, however, rain prevented me from achieving the hat trick I was aiming for. But I'm not giving up hope. Monday will come again, and I will oil up my thighs and start anew.

Time travel with the Beav

Note to 21st century self: tablecloths, linens, and other merchandise are available online. All the time.

Note to 18th century self: you'd make a shitty bride. You carry no dowry, you can't carry a tune, and you can't sew worth a lick.

I haven't blogged since Sunday for many reasons, but mostly because I have gotten crafty. Sadly, I don't mean Fantastic Mr. Fox crafty; I mean hunkering down and trying to make crap myself crafty.

Project #1: Fix pillows. Annoyingly, I ordered custom pillows when we moved here (Aug 2007?) and they took 6 months to make (economy was better then, EVERYONE had custom pillows). Not long after I got them, the seams split. I mended them. They split again. (See memo to antique self). I finally got tired of stuffing the stuffing back in and repaired them. They're SO FLUFFY now. Check.


Project #2: Recover box valances for guest bedroom and S's room. Since I painted and redid these rooms, I thought I'd pick a more unifying fabric for the valances. Besides, S was not going to abide Lightning McQueen much longer. I found great (CHEAP!) fabrics. Unfortunately, I got a stripe for his. Do you have any idea how freaking hard it is to work with stripes? Grrr. The downstairs got a big floral with a cute trim. It's SO FLUFFY! S's went up easily with M's help and we got super cute black roller shades, that cost marginally less than the arm and the leg required for roman shades. His room turned out super. Downstairs will require husband help this weekend. It's almost transformed, that effing bedroom, from usable bedroom to flood zone to storage hellhole, to usable bedroom again. Sheesh. Check.

Project #3: cute tailored tablecloth to cover world's ugliest table. My Columbia friends might recall WUT. It was in in the living room, had a marble-ized top, and 3 fugly goldfish-tattoo-y looking things on the base. I chose a neutral burlap fabric for some texture and started out on my quest to hide the WUT.

For those of you who (wisely) do not craft or sew, here are some lessons learned.

1. Who the hell managed to invent the sewing machine like a hundred years ago? (Actually, prior to that, per Wikipedia. Howe patented his in 1845, and since he's American and that's all that really matters, I'll go with him.) Seriously? It's so freaking complicated, I can barely thread it and run it. In fact, sometimes I can't do that. Bobbin? What kind of sadistic accessory is this? It tangles, unwinds, frays, jams, and just when you think you're sewing, the mother is out of thread.

2. Sewing is tedious, detail oriented business, best reserved for people with patience.

3. Sewing requires math skills. I lack math skills.

4. A seam ripper should be purchased at the same time as any sewing machine purchase. Expected ratio is 3 rips for each seam sewed. But, as you can see from #3, that estimate might be off.

So, one day this week, 21st century me and 21st century friend, MT met for some decidedly mid-20th century activity. She brought her sewing machine, I dragged out mine, and we parked them at opposite ends of my kitchen table. She sewed on Brownie patches for her troop. I wrangled with the effing burlap. MT is incredibly neat, well-organized and patient.
I am not.
I was cursing and sweating, and MT, with the exception of slight frustration of her clear thread, had her machine humming along smoothly. I mean the woman bought CLEAR THREAD, for pete's sake. That way, she wouldn't have to change thread for each patch. Hello? They're Brownies. Use brown thread. Their den leader isn't Martha Stewart is she? Are 8 year-olds going to notice? Care? But, no. MT struggled through her frustration and had 6 or 7 neat little vests with perfectly stitched and tidily arranged little patches on them. Fittingly, all the patches represented all the crafty little skills her daughter's troop had mastered.

I wrangled with the effing burlap. I was not a Brownie.


We ordered pizza and ate and visited. MT ironed her little vests, and for a moment, I swear I was hallucinating in black and white

Annoying. I mean, I am sewing, and ripping and sewing and ripping, and cursing and sweating. And MT is sewing on patches like June Cleaver. Dammit. I nearly broke down and ordered online:

But, I thought, if a 12 year old in Malaysia can make this for $194, then I can make it for $3 a yard. As it turns out, the 12 year old Malaysian would make a hell of a 17th century wife.

Today, two days later, and lots of cursing and starting over, I finished. I'm not photographing mine. It'll have to sit right under this professional photo, and I won't subject myself to feelings of inadequacy and failure. To sum up, I approximated the results for $12 and 16 hours of my time.

MT, I salute you. You make a rockin' wife in any century. Me?



And can't sew a lick.

It's all about perspective

This has NOT been a good week for me, as you know if you have Facebook. There were missed appointments and failed chemistry, over-schedules, under-schedules, nourishment mishaps and general chaos.

By Saturday, I was nearly fetal, rocking in the laundry room, wondering what the hell had happened. The week started off okay. Boys went to school, things were good. And by Saturday, the laundry had clearly embarked on a breeding program that pandas should learn from, the domestic Lego factory has exploded, S is drawing on walls, and my brain chemistry is about as stable as Chernobyl.

Getting to total insanity isn't an instantaneous leap. It's a journey. Wednesday certainly represented stop 1. At that point, it finally became clear that E needed a haircut. Unlike S, whose hair is fine and wispy and curls only at the ends in a most charming 1970s, Greg Brady sort of way:

E's end-of-summer hair is all thick and unruly and not so much attractive, and may have some sort of avian nesting in it, a la high school Greg.
I always cut the boys' hair. Usually, everything turns out ok. But, I think because the cut involved a total reshaping of their hair, things got out of control. In a hurry. The boys look like they encountered a strung-out Flowbee in a back alley.

Flowbee 1, Boys 0.

Unfortunately, the bad haircut epidemic spread like Swine Flu. M's normal easy-peasy clipper 'do looked more like Wrigley Field's checkerboard outfield than hair. While a groundskeeper would have been proud, M is not terribly fond of the effect for the first day of classes.

In the end, they'll have to do what everyone with a bad haircut has to do: wait. Wait. WAIT for it to grow.

At least I learned my lesson for the week. I pretty much gave up after that. I started no projects, undertook no crafts. Because, apparently, when you're off, you're really OFF. The bad news for E is that I didn't figure it out until his hair looked like a cross between Adam Lambert and Calvin.

Yup. That's about it. Poor thing. Oh, well, I don't feel TOO bad about it. And this probably makes me the worst woman, mom, human in history (well, maybe not worse than Hitler, or Attila the Hun, or whoever invented reality TV) but It's not my hair, after all.

If it were MY hair, this would be a MAJOR EFFING TRAGEDY.

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.

A lesson on appreciating what you don't have until you have it

Stop me if you've heard this one before....2 kids walk into their bedrooms....

(Drum Roll)

...And don't sleep!

Last night, I slept so hard, and so thoroughly, that at one point I had to pee, and did so without completely waking up. My dreams were epic-length, and good (for a change) involving Hawaii and mai tais. When the alarm went off this morning, I felt stoned, deep in sleep.

All of this, of course, is refreshing. But it only happened because of the hellish night before:

At around midnight, I hear S coming down the hall. He is pulling his gigantic down comforter across the floor. I can hear him dragging it, not because goose down is especially noisy, but because it is laden with Lego pieces and it is slowly shedding them on the hardwood. I hear S awkwardly open my door knob (door knobs are tricky when you should be asleep) and proceed into my room, thumping down on to the floor by my bed. I hear Clooney sigh in confusion? annoyance? fatigue as S tackles him, reels him in and grasps him in a headlock.

Silence returns.

Moments later, I hear E's door open, E's "stealthy" footfalls on the floor, traipsing into my room, attempting to climb over his brother, and into my bed. I whisper-yell him onto the floor, "down there, with your brother. No room up here." The Clooney sighs again, S scoots to a side, E tucks in under the comforter.

Silence returns.

Clooney begins to whimper and cry. He is hot. He hates being stifled under a giant dead goose, and wants to be set free. I whisper-yell to S to set the dog free. His paws click click click over the hardwood, mute as he travels over the rug, and click click click again as he looks for a cool place to stretch out.

Silence returns.

I have to pee. Navigating the bodies on my floor, I proceed to the bathroom, slam my shin into an open drawer, and stare confusedly at the empty toilet paper dispenser. Half-sleep is no time to be looking for refills. Kleenex it is, then.

Silence.

S wakes up and panics when Clooney is no longer in the broiling death grip. He rises, and searches the room for his furry sidekick. His whisper calls to the dog increase in pitch as he begins to panic, and whisper-yells at me: "Clooney's gone. He ran away."

While I am too befuddled to explain that Clooney lacks apposable thumbs and therefore is unlikely to have escaped from a house where the only exits have door knobs, I stammer through a guarantee that in fact, the dog surely must be home.

Stumbling. Searching. More looking for the dog. "HERE HE IS." As expected. I hear, in the dark, Clooney's put-out sigh as he is again captured and returned to his own personal sauna.

4 AM. Suddenly, I am awake. Very awake. I remain this way for 35 minutes before dozing off again.

6 AM. Alarm. My sleep, awkward, interrupted and shallow, is over. I round up dopey children to start another day. Another in a seven-year-long string of cranky days caused by irregular, unreliable sleep.

The children are difficult to rouse. There is a Hansel and Gretel trail of Legos leading from the floor-comforter back to S's bed. The night of musical chairs has taken its toll. Perhaps, but not necessarily the most annoying thing happens as M rises:

M goes into E's room and calls, "E must have slept in S's bed last night." M's footfalls proceed down the hall to S's room: "Wait. There's nobody in here, either. Where is everyone?"

Not only had he not heard the night's busy goings-on, he managed to walk by the little bodies on his way to rouse them. While I can't quite put my finger on why, that seems unfair.

What's your style?

I don't venture into this territory often, but it seems to have come up a lot in conversation lately. When you start reading this, you're gonna be like, what the hell conversations have you been in lately?!? I'm thinking this might be a poll, which I haven't had in a long time, either and that's fun. Finally, I know my parents read this. And worse, M's family reads this. So, ew. Anyway.

I was watching Wanda Sykes' HBO special, which by the way, I LOVED. She does a shtick where she describes a trip to a day spa. And the cosmetologist gives her a bikini wax. And Wanda describes in great detail the process of the bikini wax, and how the pain was so intense as the woman ripped off the paper, she reflexively smacked her hard.
So, this gets me thinking. I've never had a professional bikini wax. Odd? True. Not to say that I don't think personal grooming is important, just can't imagine a stranger ripping out my pubic hair.
Then, on HBO's Entourage (perhaps HBO is a bad influence), Turtle is attempting to hook up with a woman, sees that her nethers are shorn like a summer sheep and balks. At our house, the completely shorn nethers are known as a butterball, because of their similarity to a raw, plucked turkey. Turtle explains that he's familiar with the landing strip, and the Hitler, but not the butterball. Johnny Drama then informs us that the landing strip is SO 1990s. The butterball is now.
I am of two minds when it comes to crotchscaping: the 1970s porn afro is surely out. But, it's easy maintenance. The butterball requires daily upkeep with razor or frequent upkeep with wax. Ugh. Plus, there's always the possibility that the tacit message of the 1970s porn afro is, "look baby, if I don't have time to take groom myself, trust me, I don't have the effort for whatever you're after." Which sometimes, after packing lunches, running errands, cooking dinner, bathing kids, cleaning up dinner, all with a headcold/allergies/PMS is really the message you really want to be sending anyway, so it's convenient that the message requires no prep time.
Don't get me wrong. Before I had kids, I did the bikini wax thing. Not a professional one, as I mentioned earlier. I enlisted M's help. And in retrospect, I think that maybe the only thing worse than having a stranger rip out your pubic hair is having your husband do it. I would put on the wax, no problem. But, I, not being a masochist, couldn't bring myself to rip off the paper. M would stand behind me, grip the paper in each hand and RRRRRRRRRRIP. This is the ultimate relationship test. If you can allow your husband to inflict physical pain in your nethers and then invite him back for a social visit, then truly, you are meant to be.
But then, there's summer and swimsuit season. NOBODY, but NOBODY wants to see your razor burn, or the alternative. I, myself, take to the swimdress in part for this reason, but others feel compelled to trim for this outfit. Because, no matter the tropical atmosphere, dreadlocks are not appropriate.
In informal surveys of my friends, I have found the full spectrum of bodily coifs. From the hirsute to the follicly challenge, I've got them all. And it's not always who you'd think. Very upright, conservative friends have gone ahead with the full monty, and other single, (and I'm not judging here) loose women have cultivated a more natural landscape.
So, there's a poll here. Go ahead, spill the beans. It's anonymous.

SWAGGER WAGON

On a more realistic note, I find this funny.