“A friend of mine wrote on Facebook that he was suicidal and thinking about jumping off a bridge. So I poked him.” Tom Rhodes.
This is my way of saying I’m feeling pretty good lately. I’ve been exercising, I’ve been getting out some, and I’m hopeful about the sunny, warm weather promised later this week. If it rains on Easter, I know a meteorologist who will never see Christmas.
In other news, my blog seems to be dying a slow and natural type of death. This is me trying to revive it:
So, Ann Patchett was in town on Friday. Who is Ann Patchett? She’s just about the eighth to tenth greatest American female writer writing today! (If you have not read the novel Bel Canto, please do so yesterday.) I picked up John at work and we ventured to the local community college to hear her speak. I was so excited! I put on lipstick for her.
Ms. Patchett is obviously brilliant. She was funny and thoughtful and seemingly gracious. She name-dropped (I was talking with John Irving…), talked about her hatred of technology (she will never be on Facebook-sigh), and gave us some insight into what it was like to write her most famous novel (that’s an awful day when you kill your characters.)
As I sat listening to her speak, I was pretty sure that Ann was going to by next best friend. It was all so obviously meant to be. I would go up to her and say: Hey… I know a great little bistro. Let’s grab a panini and discuss Thomas Mann.
She would reply: That’d be great! I have such trouble getting people to discuss Thomas Mann with me!
I would say: Why would anyone not want to discuss Thomas Mann?
And she’d say: I know, right? I like you!
This never occurred, mainly because she floored me with her thoughts on a particular subject of interest to me.
I will set the scene for you. A student asked Ms. Patchett what she would have been if she had not been a writer. Ms. Patchett replied that if she could be reincarnated, she would be reincarnated as a woman with eight kids, just to see what that experience would be like. She admitted she has never cared for children.
“I have no interest in children. Not mine, not others,” she said. “Children take up all your time and don’t go away.”
Now, she said this all casually, in a lighthearted manner. She went on to explain that the things she enjoys most, listening to music, reading, and writing, could not be done with a two-year old running around. For her, the choice was obvious: books or children. Since she cared little for children, she chose books.
After she finished speaking on this topic, I turned to John.
“I am floored!” I said. “Simply floored.”
I have no problem with Ann Patchett’s disinterest in childbearing. It doesn’t offend me in the slightest. Two-year olds are noisy. And distracting. And they leave snot all over your cushions.
But I submit that most anything ANY adult enjoys doing best cannot be enjoyed with kids about. If everyone took this into great consideration before acquiring a child, we would have a lot fewer people in the world today.
My problem was her either/or attitude. Instead of saying “children or books” she could have just said, “I just never had an interest in having children.”
Yes, having children makes writing more challenging. When they are awake, I can’t read a page in a book without someone asking me for a cheese stick. (They love cheese sticks.) And no, I can’t run off to the Amazon to research my latest book. I mean, if I had a latest book, which would suggest I had an earlier book, which I don’t. I suppose I’m proving Ms. Patchett’s point here.
I was bewildered by her comments. Her dream was to become a writer. What happens if someone has two dreams, say have children AND be a writer? And what if that person is by nature, quiet? What if her personality is a lot like Ann Patchett’s?
I did a little bit of research. I looked up well-regarded (living) female writers to see how many children they had. Here’s what I found out:
Margaret Atwood-1 daughter
Anne Tyler- 2 daughters
Ann Patchett- 0 children
Anne Lamott- 1 son
Alice Munro- 3 children
Barbara Kingsolver- 2 daughters
Jhumpa Lahiri- 2 daughters
Joyce Carol Oates- 0 children
A.S. Byatt- 4 children
Toni Morrison- 2 kids
Average: 1.5 kids.
My conclusion: If AS Byatt ever comes to town, I’m totally going to hear HER speak.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Glamour. Intrigue. Fruit.
Since this is the blog you turn to for both religion and politics, I know that you have been waiting for me to go ahead and explain the new health care bill that was passed yesterday. Unfortunately, the thing is longer than War and Peace, and I got bored after page 2. (No disrespect to Tolstoy. I’m sure War and Peace is riveting.) I’ll let you know when I figure out what’s going on, which may be a while, because I heard President Obama doesn’t even know what’s going on.
Instead, I would like to tell a tale of New York State politics: one full of glamour, attempted illegal enticement, and a strange but happy ending.
My husband, as I have mentioned, is a lawyer/lobbyist, a combination of words that is considered a cuss in the blue states. As a lawyer/lobbyist (pardon my French), he has to go to a lot of political events: fundraisers, galas, balls, meetings, and a various number of other synonyms for “get-togethers.”
I may have also mentioned my recent gloomy mood. John has been traveling Mon-Wed every week, which is cool (no one to tease me about watching Dancing with the Stars later on) but mostly not cool. The “not cool” part has been especially exacerbated by our recent viewing of the movie Paranormal Activity. I remain convinced that something evil is lurking in our house. Last night, the paranormal activity turned out to be our ice-maker, but DEAR GOD WHAT ABOUT NEXT TIME????
who will protect me?
John, cognizant of my desire for him to return quickly to our beloved homestead, was detained by two “events” after work the other evening. The first event ended at 6:30. He hoped the second event, a dinner held by a local association, clients of his, would require but a quick appearance by him so that he could be home a little after 7:00.
But then the worst thing happened. People were NICE to him. He was invited to sit at the head table. The executive officer of the association spotted John, insisted he stay for dinner, and gave him a long lecture on the importance of eating vegetables. Every day. (This is the "glamour" section of the story.) John acquiesced to eating some green beans, believing he could quickly duck out afterward.
This is the sort of event where people make speeches , which is a cruel practice and should probably be outlawed. It is why I never go to these things. While John was polishing off his green beans, the keynote speaker, a NYS political official, went ahead and did something dumb. He THANKED my lawyer/lobbyist husband for the work he’d done for the association. (John said he would have felt like a boob eating green beans and running after a public display of gratitude.)
So he stayed. And he was privy to a shocking scene.
His client tried to give the NYS political official a token of appreciation for speaking at the event. And not just any token of appreciation. An $80.00 fruit basket.
I’m sure you are aware of Public Officers Law 73 5(a)
5. No statewide elected official, state officer or employee, individual whose name has been submitted by the governor to the senate for confirmation to become a state officer or employee, member of the legislature or legislative employee shall, directly or indirectly:
(a) solicit, accept or receive any gift having more than a nominal value, whether in the form of money, service, loan, travel, lodging, meals, refreshments, entertainment, discount, forbearance or promise, or in any other form, under circumstances in which it could reasonably be inferred that the gift was intended to influence him, or could reasonably be expected to influence him, in the performance of his official duties or was intended as a reward for any official action on his part. No person shall, directly or indirectly, offer or make any such gift to a statewide elected official, or any state officer or employee, member of the legislature or legislative employee under such circumstances.
This includes fruit baskets.
You will be relieved to know that the NYS political official refused to take the gift. The client kept insisting. The Senator kept refusing, but didn't explain why. And this little dance seemed destined to continue until John stepped in.
“He really can’t accept it. He would be breaking the law if he did.” The client, seemingly astonished that it is illegal to give your keynote speaker fruit if they are serving in government, backed off immediately.
Later that evening, John went over to the same client to say goodnight, weary from another day in the sewer that is NYS politics. Then a wondrous thing happened. The client said,
“Y’know what, John? Why don’t you take this fruit basket home to your wife. I know you really wanted to get home to her this evening.”
Is that not the most heartwarming story you’ve ever read?
And it’s an awesome fruit basket, too. It has, or did have, cheese and sausage and Lindt candies and crackers and gourmet mustard and a lot of fruit. Including kiwi.
I’ve never received a fruit basket before. If this was what life was like for politicians BEFORE Public Officers Law 73 5(a), well, then. I totally understand the allure.
Instead, I would like to tell a tale of New York State politics: one full of glamour, attempted illegal enticement, and a strange but happy ending.
My husband, as I have mentioned, is a lawyer/lobbyist, a combination of words that is considered a cuss in the blue states. As a lawyer/lobbyist (pardon my French), he has to go to a lot of political events: fundraisers, galas, balls, meetings, and a various number of other synonyms for “get-togethers.”
I may have also mentioned my recent gloomy mood. John has been traveling Mon-Wed every week, which is cool (no one to tease me about watching Dancing with the Stars later on) but mostly not cool. The “not cool” part has been especially exacerbated by our recent viewing of the movie Paranormal Activity. I remain convinced that something evil is lurking in our house. Last night, the paranormal activity turned out to be our ice-maker, but DEAR GOD WHAT ABOUT NEXT TIME????
who will protect me?
John, cognizant of my desire for him to return quickly to our beloved homestead, was detained by two “events” after work the other evening. The first event ended at 6:30. He hoped the second event, a dinner held by a local association, clients of his, would require but a quick appearance by him so that he could be home a little after 7:00.
But then the worst thing happened. People were NICE to him. He was invited to sit at the head table. The executive officer of the association spotted John, insisted he stay for dinner, and gave him a long lecture on the importance of eating vegetables. Every day. (This is the "glamour" section of the story.) John acquiesced to eating some green beans, believing he could quickly duck out afterward.
This is the sort of event where people make speeches , which is a cruel practice and should probably be outlawed. It is why I never go to these things. While John was polishing off his green beans, the keynote speaker, a NYS political official, went ahead and did something dumb. He THANKED my lawyer/lobbyist husband for the work he’d done for the association. (John said he would have felt like a boob eating green beans and running after a public display of gratitude.)
So he stayed. And he was privy to a shocking scene.
His client tried to give the NYS political official a token of appreciation for speaking at the event. And not just any token of appreciation. An $80.00 fruit basket.
I’m sure you are aware of Public Officers Law 73 5(a)
5. No statewide elected official, state officer or employee, individual whose name has been submitted by the governor to the senate for confirmation to become a state officer or employee, member of the legislature or legislative employee shall, directly or indirectly:
(a) solicit, accept or receive any gift having more than a nominal value, whether in the form of money, service, loan, travel, lodging, meals, refreshments, entertainment, discount, forbearance or promise, or in any other form, under circumstances in which it could reasonably be inferred that the gift was intended to influence him, or could reasonably be expected to influence him, in the performance of his official duties or was intended as a reward for any official action on his part. No person shall, directly or indirectly, offer or make any such gift to a statewide elected official, or any state officer or employee, member of the legislature or legislative employee under such circumstances.
This includes fruit baskets.
You will be relieved to know that the NYS political official refused to take the gift. The client kept insisting. The Senator kept refusing, but didn't explain why. And this little dance seemed destined to continue until John stepped in.
“He really can’t accept it. He would be breaking the law if he did.” The client, seemingly astonished that it is illegal to give your keynote speaker fruit if they are serving in government, backed off immediately.
Later that evening, John went over to the same client to say goodnight, weary from another day in the sewer that is NYS politics. Then a wondrous thing happened. The client said,
“Y’know what, John? Why don’t you take this fruit basket home to your wife. I know you really wanted to get home to her this evening.”
Is that not the most heartwarming story you’ve ever read?
And it’s an awesome fruit basket, too. It has, or did have, cheese and sausage and Lindt candies and crackers and gourmet mustard and a lot of fruit. Including kiwi.
I’ve never received a fruit basket before. If this was what life was like for politicians BEFORE Public Officers Law 73 5(a), well, then. I totally understand the allure.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
What is Wrong With the School System (in general)
There are so many things wrong with the public school system these days. Today, I’d like discuss a major concern of mine, that of the school district’s adamant insistence on celebrating of every single holiday known to man, big or small.
For instance, recently Caleb celebrated his 100th day of the first grade. Some of the blame for the ridiculous celebration of 100 days of school can definitely be put on children’s books (like Miss Bindergarten Celebrates the 100th Day of Kindergarten by Joseph Slate- if your last name is Bindergarten, I think you are doomed to teach kindergarten, by the way), but mostly I blame the teachers. They come up with the most outlandish celebration ideas. This is the second year that Caleb has been required to glue 100 pieces of macaroni to a piece of paper. Guess who did most of the work? Mommy. Why? Because Mommy didn’t like how Caleb was not gluing his macaroni in even, perpendicular lines, that’s why.
Today, as you probably are aware, is St. Patrick’s Day. I know a little bit about my heritage, though not a ton because my mom is adopted, but I’m guessing (based on my excessively pale skin and my daughter’s temper) that there’s a bit of Irish blood in there. Like any good Irish girl celebrating her heritage, I should have spent last night eating potatoes and watching Disney’s Darby O’Gill and the Little People (which features a young, delectable Sean Connery) while milking a Guinness. You know what I did instead? I printed off shamrock coloring sheets and meticulously colored them in, and then posted them throughout the kitchen. I also made a primitive looking “Welcome Leprechaun” banner. Then, I searched high and low and eventually found my glitter stash so I could leave green “Leprechaun” trails in obvious places, including leading up to the leprechaun trap that Caleb had devised.
Why? Because Caleb’s teacher told them story upon story about how to go about catching leprechauns. And guess what else she said? Leprechauns WILL NOT come if you do not decorate the house appropriately. Also, they would like to eat Irish soda bread. (This is where I put my foot down. I did not make Irish soda bread.)
Caleb became obsessed. He would not shut up about leprechauns. He spent a good hour developing a “leprechaun trap” and making fake gold coins out of paper to lure the leprechaun in. After that, he didn’t have time to make the necessary decorations, so he made me promise to do it. I tried to brush the whole thing off.
He started crying.
Apparently, this whole thing is very, very important to him.
This morning, he rushed downstairs and was thrilled to find evidence that a leprechaun had visited. He was disappointed he hadn’t caught the leprechaun, and descended into the basement to see if it had hidden down there. I have no idea why that thought occurred to him, but I let him search.
Needless to say, this whole thing has been a tremendous hassle. And I blame the school district entirely.
On a somewhat related note, I just mailed in our census form. The information about the six of us took up the front side of the form. Apparently, if you have more than four children, numbers five, six, etc. just aren’t as important as the government does not require as much information to be filled out about them. In the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day, I considered adding our friend the leprechaun to the census form, informing the government that the little rapscallion had apparently taken up residence in our basement. Then, I thought better of it. In my experience, people who count for a living don’t have terrific senses of humor.
Having recently counted 100 pieces of elbow macaroni, I completely understand why.
For instance, recently Caleb celebrated his 100th day of the first grade. Some of the blame for the ridiculous celebration of 100 days of school can definitely be put on children’s books (like Miss Bindergarten Celebrates the 100th Day of Kindergarten by Joseph Slate- if your last name is Bindergarten, I think you are doomed to teach kindergarten, by the way), but mostly I blame the teachers. They come up with the most outlandish celebration ideas. This is the second year that Caleb has been required to glue 100 pieces of macaroni to a piece of paper. Guess who did most of the work? Mommy. Why? Because Mommy didn’t like how Caleb was not gluing his macaroni in even, perpendicular lines, that’s why.
Today, as you probably are aware, is St. Patrick’s Day. I know a little bit about my heritage, though not a ton because my mom is adopted, but I’m guessing (based on my excessively pale skin and my daughter’s temper) that there’s a bit of Irish blood in there. Like any good Irish girl celebrating her heritage, I should have spent last night eating potatoes and watching Disney’s Darby O’Gill and the Little People (which features a young, delectable Sean Connery) while milking a Guinness. You know what I did instead? I printed off shamrock coloring sheets and meticulously colored them in, and then posted them throughout the kitchen. I also made a primitive looking “Welcome Leprechaun” banner. Then, I searched high and low and eventually found my glitter stash so I could leave green “Leprechaun” trails in obvious places, including leading up to the leprechaun trap that Caleb had devised.
Why? Because Caleb’s teacher told them story upon story about how to go about catching leprechauns. And guess what else she said? Leprechauns WILL NOT come if you do not decorate the house appropriately. Also, they would like to eat Irish soda bread. (This is where I put my foot down. I did not make Irish soda bread.)
Caleb became obsessed. He would not shut up about leprechauns. He spent a good hour developing a “leprechaun trap” and making fake gold coins out of paper to lure the leprechaun in. After that, he didn’t have time to make the necessary decorations, so he made me promise to do it. I tried to brush the whole thing off.
He started crying.
Apparently, this whole thing is very, very important to him.
This morning, he rushed downstairs and was thrilled to find evidence that a leprechaun had visited. He was disappointed he hadn’t caught the leprechaun, and descended into the basement to see if it had hidden down there. I have no idea why that thought occurred to him, but I let him search.
Needless to say, this whole thing has been a tremendous hassle. And I blame the school district entirely.
On a somewhat related note, I just mailed in our census form. The information about the six of us took up the front side of the form. Apparently, if you have more than four children, numbers five, six, etc. just aren’t as important as the government does not require as much information to be filled out about them. In the spirit of St. Patrick’s Day, I considered adding our friend the leprechaun to the census form, informing the government that the little rapscallion had apparently taken up residence in our basement. Then, I thought better of it. In my experience, people who count for a living don’t have terrific senses of humor.
Having recently counted 100 pieces of elbow macaroni, I completely understand why.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Pray more, eat less, sleep well...
I'm not one who is prone to being overly dramatic, so you will know that I am being completely serious when I tell you that my children are ruining my life.
My life, right now, is all about sleep.
This is a sudden, strange switch. Two weeks ago, I rarely got to sleep before 2am. Now, I could sleep 12-14 hours a day, if my kids would allow me to do so. They won't, however, because they are mean.
I noticed that my sleep habits were changing last weekend. I took a rather long nap Saturday afternoon. I fell asleep promptly after my head hit the pillow later that night, and I did not want to get up the next morning. I spent Sunday afternoon snoozing and Sunday night in a dead coma.
As I type this, it is 9:30 and I am so ready to call it a day. You're probably thinking that the time change has messed me up (as it probably has you), and that is true... but I am generally a night owl who has to be forced to go to bed like a six-year old. Right now, I'm not a night owl or a day owl. (Yes, there are such things as day owls. One example is the burrowing owl, a rather small, long-legged bird found throughout North and South America.) I'm a sloth. I'm in full-fledged hibernation mode.
I discussed the sleepiness with my doctor.
Holly: I'm depressed. All I want to do is sleep.
Doctor: Explain depressed.
Holly: I feel... numb. I have no energy. I don't want to get out of bed in the morning.
Doctor: Describe no energy.
Holly: A general feeling of inertia and a lack of a will to go on.
Doctor: Well, that sounds serious.
Holly: (Sniffling) I know! I don't make these trips out here for non-serious matters. Which reminds me- I'd like to discuss the parking situation later. Yes, it's serious. I think I need more sleep.
Doctor: It sounds like you're getting a lot of sleep. Look, there are several things we can do. Obviously, the medication you are on right now is not working for you. However, it's hard for me to tell whether or not just eliminating some of the stressors in your life will be enough to get you through this slump.
Holly: I can't eliminate my stressors. I took an oath.
Doctor: Well, obviously we can't eliminate THOSE stressors. But we can look into ways of making your life easier.
The conversation went on like this for a bit. And it's true- it's hard to tell if I'm feeling yucky because of external factors: i.e., work, demanding children, lack of exercise, daylight savings time, and my recent diet of Diet Dr. Pepper and jellybeans , or if my worsening depression is making me more prone to falling into bad habits and mismanaging my stress. It's a vicious cycle.
The doctor brought up the "p" word. I am now at the highest dosage of antidepressant he can prescribe me. He wants to send me to a psychiatrist. To which I say, "You go to a psychiatrist. I'm going to Wegmans to buy more jellybeans." Because I am an irrational depressed person.
My plan for the next couple of months: get through the next couple of months. Get a regular exercise routine going. Make contact with the outside world via telephone and occasional visits with friends. Pray more, eat less, sleep well. (That would be a great self-help title for a book.) Learn to be thankful for my little stressors. And for my big ones. Get outside more.
Ultimately, I'd like to get to the point where I don't think sleep is the best thing in my life, because quite frankly, that's no way to live.
My life, right now, is all about sleep.
This is a sudden, strange switch. Two weeks ago, I rarely got to sleep before 2am. Now, I could sleep 12-14 hours a day, if my kids would allow me to do so. They won't, however, because they are mean.
I noticed that my sleep habits were changing last weekend. I took a rather long nap Saturday afternoon. I fell asleep promptly after my head hit the pillow later that night, and I did not want to get up the next morning. I spent Sunday afternoon snoozing and Sunday night in a dead coma.
As I type this, it is 9:30 and I am so ready to call it a day. You're probably thinking that the time change has messed me up (as it probably has you), and that is true... but I am generally a night owl who has to be forced to go to bed like a six-year old. Right now, I'm not a night owl or a day owl. (Yes, there are such things as day owls. One example is the burrowing owl, a rather small, long-legged bird found throughout North and South America.) I'm a sloth. I'm in full-fledged hibernation mode.
I discussed the sleepiness with my doctor.
Holly: I'm depressed. All I want to do is sleep.
Doctor: Explain depressed.
Holly: I feel... numb. I have no energy. I don't want to get out of bed in the morning.
Doctor: Describe no energy.
Holly: A general feeling of inertia and a lack of a will to go on.
Doctor: Well, that sounds serious.
Holly: (Sniffling) I know! I don't make these trips out here for non-serious matters. Which reminds me- I'd like to discuss the parking situation later. Yes, it's serious. I think I need more sleep.
Doctor: It sounds like you're getting a lot of sleep. Look, there are several things we can do. Obviously, the medication you are on right now is not working for you. However, it's hard for me to tell whether or not just eliminating some of the stressors in your life will be enough to get you through this slump.
Holly: I can't eliminate my stressors. I took an oath.
Doctor: Well, obviously we can't eliminate THOSE stressors. But we can look into ways of making your life easier.
The conversation went on like this for a bit. And it's true- it's hard to tell if I'm feeling yucky because of external factors: i.e., work, demanding children, lack of exercise, daylight savings time, and my recent diet of Diet Dr. Pepper and jellybeans , or if my worsening depression is making me more prone to falling into bad habits and mismanaging my stress. It's a vicious cycle.
The doctor brought up the "p" word. I am now at the highest dosage of antidepressant he can prescribe me. He wants to send me to a psychiatrist. To which I say, "You go to a psychiatrist. I'm going to Wegmans to buy more jellybeans." Because I am an irrational depressed person.
My plan for the next couple of months: get through the next couple of months. Get a regular exercise routine going. Make contact with the outside world via telephone and occasional visits with friends. Pray more, eat less, sleep well. (That would be a great self-help title for a book.) Learn to be thankful for my little stressors. And for my big ones. Get outside more.
Ultimately, I'd like to get to the point where I don't think sleep is the best thing in my life, because quite frankly, that's no way to live.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
We are Gazelles
This morning, I found two eggs perched in the middle of the window-seat in the library/dining-room/ room where Holly folds her laundry and then leaves it in piles until the mood to put it away strikes. Which occurs maybe once a week.
As soon as I saw the eggs, I was sure it was going to be a good day. The eggs, which had obviously been retrieved and transported from the refrigerator to the window-seat by twin A or twin B, were fully in tact, not a crack in them. So there was that to be grateful for. Oh- and I was hit with profound inspiration: egg salad for lunch!
This is the way life has seemed, lately- just teetering on the border of total disaster. Like the day the hot-water heater went. I was using the microwave and the stove at the same time, which is a big no-no in our house, when I blew the fuse. After muttering, John went into the basement to switch the power back on and discovered an impending flood. If the fuse had not blown, John would probably not have ventured into the basement that night, and 25 gallons of water would have seeped out of the heater and totally ruined my gift bag collection, which is about eleven years old. It is an enviable gift bag collection, I might add.
The hot-water heater died just a few days after my vacuum went kaput. I knew the vacuum was getting old. It had begun to act ornery, only cleaning one room before it would refuse to work anymore. I would let it rest a half an hour before proceeding. Vacuuming turned into an all-day event. Then one day it wouldn’t start at all. I hope my calling it a petulant bi*%* isn’t the reason why.
Unfortunately, I did not run right out and buy a new vacuum. This is because I am a gazelle. (I'll explain that in a minute.) We decided to really research vacuums and get one that would last more than three years. (Not might be a good time to let you know that if I were you, I would not buy a Hoover.)
I reminded John after the water heater was replaced that we also needed to get a new vacuum. He gave me his “intense look” and said, “Let’s take one thing at a time now.”
Does he really think going without a vacuum is a viable option? And let me tell you what, my “intense looks” rival his any day.
John and I are doing a “Total Money Makeover.” This is based on a book of the same name. We have made a rather strict budget and are committed to getting out of debt. We’re in it for the long-haul, like gazelles, and do not plan to go fast at first only to peter out later, like a cheetah. This is a metaphor. It’s from the book.
In a year, we should be able to refinance our 30-year mortgage into a 15-year mortgage and start making major payments on the loan we took out for the modest house in the Hamptons that we can’t visit as it is inhabited by zombies. By “modest house in the Hamptons” I mean school loans, and by “zombies” I mean loan officers. This is also a metaphor. I made it up myself.
We remain vacuum-less. It’s pretty awful. My broom and I have been getting better acquainted. I guess we’re looking for a great vacuum sale or something because gazelles are smart shoppers.
Speaking of smart, last night my dad asked Caleb who he thought was smarter, his mommy or his daddy. You may think that this is kind of a sick question to ask a kid, which may be true, but we wanted to know.
Caleb, without pause, said, “Oh, my dad.”
“WHAT?” I shrieked. He looked frightened.
“I’m not mad,” I promised. “I just want to know why you think that.”
“Because lots of times I ask you questions and you always say, go ask dad…”
I wanted to tell them that it wasn’t because I’m not smart, but rather, because I am inherently lazy. And since about 80% of Caleb’s questions are either hockey or baseball related, I feel John has a slight edge on the “appearing smart” scale.
Signing off now. Laundry to fold in the library/dining-room/room where Holly folds laundry…
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Day I Ate Mold (Accidentally)
Yesterday, in a moment of solitude and extreme weakness, and in spite of the fact that I had burned off 450 calories at the gym only an hour before, I took it upon myself to consume the last sizable piece of vanilla cake from the twins' birthday party. (It was a corner piece with ample frosting.)
Three bites from the very end of the cake, I happened to pause and saw that there was a bit of green fuzz clinging to the bottom of the piece I was about to put in my mouth. In fact, all three remaining bites had green and grey fuzz. It is more than likely that the entire piece of cake had been decorated similarly.
This is the point where I ran upstairs and googled “I accidentally ate mold.” If google prompts and online forums are any indication, this is a common problem that should probably be discussed in town hall meetings.
Apparently, the type of mold that grows on cake is not generally toxic, so I was temporarily reassured and proceeded with my day. (Sadly, the remainder of the chocolate cake was similarly afflicted and needed to be discarded. Ella discovered the cake in the garbage and kept peering down at it, saying, “Birthday?”)
A little after 3:00pm, Caleb’s school nurse called me at home, which is always distressing. Caleb, she said, was covered in hives. He was not having any trouble breathing or swallowing, so we decided to allow him to come home on the bus since it was the end of school anyway.
He arrived home very itchy. The hives were large, white monstrosities that covered his arms, his legs, his back, and his stomach. One of his knees was swollen to the point where I felt mildly repulsed, so after giving him a dose of Benadryl, I called the pediatrician and talked to a friendly nurse:
Holly: Caleb is covered in hives.
Nurse: Is he having trouble breathing?
Holly: No… they’re very itchy and they look gross.
Nurse: Well, it’s probably just an allergic reaction. Is there anything different going on at school? Any new pets in the classroom?
Holly: Caleb- are there any new pets in your classroom?
Caleb (with serious expression on his face): The worms are gone now.
Holly: No pets. The worms are gone now.
Nurse: Well, people aren’t generally allergic to worms.
Holly: I suppose not.
Nurse: Has he eaten anything unusual? Anything different?
Holly: No…. everything’s the same…. Oh my gosh, he ate MOLD!
Nurse: He ate mold?!?
(I will now note that I have had very little sleep of late, thanks to persistent insomnia and some bed wetting. Not me, my kids.)
Holly: No, wait. Caleb didn’t eat mold. I ate mold.
Nurse: You ate mold?!?
Holly: Well, not on purpose. I didn’t know I was eating mold.
Nurse: You didn’t know you were eating mold?
Holly: Correct. But the point is, Caleb did not eat mold.
After we cleared the whole mold issue up, the nurse told me to give Caleb Benadryl before he went to bed and to just “watch the situation.” The hives were gone twenty minutes later and there has been no recurrence so far.
As for me- I feel fine. I think mold agrees with me.
Three bites from the very end of the cake, I happened to pause and saw that there was a bit of green fuzz clinging to the bottom of the piece I was about to put in my mouth. In fact, all three remaining bites had green and grey fuzz. It is more than likely that the entire piece of cake had been decorated similarly.
This is the point where I ran upstairs and googled “I accidentally ate mold.” If google prompts and online forums are any indication, this is a common problem that should probably be discussed in town hall meetings.
Apparently, the type of mold that grows on cake is not generally toxic, so I was temporarily reassured and proceeded with my day. (Sadly, the remainder of the chocolate cake was similarly afflicted and needed to be discarded. Ella discovered the cake in the garbage and kept peering down at it, saying, “Birthday?”)
A little after 3:00pm, Caleb’s school nurse called me at home, which is always distressing. Caleb, she said, was covered in hives. He was not having any trouble breathing or swallowing, so we decided to allow him to come home on the bus since it was the end of school anyway.
He arrived home very itchy. The hives were large, white monstrosities that covered his arms, his legs, his back, and his stomach. One of his knees was swollen to the point where I felt mildly repulsed, so after giving him a dose of Benadryl, I called the pediatrician and talked to a friendly nurse:
Holly: Caleb is covered in hives.
Nurse: Is he having trouble breathing?
Holly: No… they’re very itchy and they look gross.
Nurse: Well, it’s probably just an allergic reaction. Is there anything different going on at school? Any new pets in the classroom?
Holly: Caleb- are there any new pets in your classroom?
Caleb (with serious expression on his face): The worms are gone now.
Holly: No pets. The worms are gone now.
Nurse: Well, people aren’t generally allergic to worms.
Holly: I suppose not.
Nurse: Has he eaten anything unusual? Anything different?
Holly: No…. everything’s the same…. Oh my gosh, he ate MOLD!
Nurse: He ate mold?!?
(I will now note that I have had very little sleep of late, thanks to persistent insomnia and some bed wetting. Not me, my kids.)
Holly: No, wait. Caleb didn’t eat mold. I ate mold.
Nurse: You ate mold?!?
Holly: Well, not on purpose. I didn’t know I was eating mold.
Nurse: You didn’t know you were eating mold?
Holly: Correct. But the point is, Caleb did not eat mold.
After we cleared the whole mold issue up, the nurse told me to give Caleb Benadryl before he went to bed and to just “watch the situation.” The hives were gone twenty minutes later and there has been no recurrence so far.
As for me- I feel fine. I think mold agrees with me.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Letter I Wrote to Stephen King
WARNING: SPOILER ALERT for the film The Mist
Dear Mr. King,
I'm upset by the ending of the film The Mist. I get the whole distopian (dystopian?) theme you had going there, but really? The father shoots the little boy in the head? My whole week is ruined. Where was the redemption?
(I DID enjoy when Mrs. Carmody got shot in the head. Crazy women out to sacrifice children getting shot in the head= good. Little children getting shot in the head= bad.)
My husband wants me to tell you that Roland is awesome. He is in favor of Christian Bale playing the part of Roland but I think the guy who plays Sawyer on Lost would be good and should be considered.
I am thinking of persistently e-mailing you until I get an apology for ruining my week. You may be hearing from me again.
Respectfully,
Holly
(I'm a big fan.)
Response from one Jordan Hahn, "Webmaster?"
Jordan M. Hahn to me
show details 12:33 AM (11 hours ago)
Stephen did write the novella The Mist, but he did not write the movie. The movie and the novella ended differently.
The Dark Tower series is not being adapted into a film currently.
Mr. Hahn,
That is true. But the director of the film stated that Mr. King said he approved of the ending of the film and wished HE had thought of it first.
But you are right. Perhaps my anger is misdirected. I will now stalk and harass the director and writer of the script until I get the apology I believe I deserve.
Respectfully,
Holly
Dear Mr. King,
I'm upset by the ending of the film The Mist. I get the whole distopian (dystopian?) theme you had going there, but really? The father shoots the little boy in the head? My whole week is ruined. Where was the redemption?
(I DID enjoy when Mrs. Carmody got shot in the head. Crazy women out to sacrifice children getting shot in the head= good. Little children getting shot in the head= bad.)
My husband wants me to tell you that Roland is awesome. He is in favor of Christian Bale playing the part of Roland but I think the guy who plays Sawyer on Lost would be good and should be considered.
I am thinking of persistently e-mailing you until I get an apology for ruining my week. You may be hearing from me again.
Respectfully,
Holly
(I'm a big fan.)
Response from one Jordan Hahn, "Webmaster?"
Jordan M. Hahn to me
show details 12:33 AM (11 hours ago)
Stephen did write the novella The Mist, but he did not write the movie. The movie and the novella ended differently.
The Dark Tower series is not being adapted into a film currently.
Mr. Hahn,
That is true. But the director of the film stated that Mr. King said he approved of the ending of the film and wished HE had thought of it first.
But you are right. Perhaps my anger is misdirected. I will now stalk and harass the director and writer of the script until I get the apology I believe I deserve.
Respectfully,
Holly
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Down with Disney
There are a lot of bad things being taught to our children, especially our daughters, and these bad things are coming to us straight from the Disney Vault, which mysteriously opens and closes at random times. I’d like to see this vault one day. I bet it’s all gold and shiny.
I have listed just a few of the incredibly horrific aspects of certain films that we have subjected our kids to. Please take the time to read this. After all, our children are the future.
Beauty and the Beast: This is what we should be teaching our daughters: Sweetheart, if you’re living with a guy and he won’t let you leave the castle, throws things in anger, and growls at you- if you tremble when he walks in the room out of fear- this is not a good relationship. He is probably not going to soften up and turn into a strapping young man who cherishes you.
I have listed just a few of the incredibly horrific aspects of certain films that we have subjected our kids to. Please take the time to read this. After all, our children are the future.
Beauty and the Beast: This is what we should be teaching our daughters: Sweetheart, if you’re living with a guy and he won’t let you leave the castle, throws things in anger, and growls at you- if you tremble when he walks in the room out of fear- this is not a good relationship. He is probably not going to soften up and turn into a strapping young man who cherishes you.
Beauty and the Beast goes against everything the feminist movement taught us. It is a very, very bad messed up message to send to our daughters.
The Little Mermaid: This movie stereotypes Jamaicans. Note Sebastian the Jamaican Crab’s little ditty:
Up on the shore they work all day
Out in the sun they slave away
While we devotin'
Full time to floatin'
Under the sea!
Jamaicans are not listless, free-loading beach bums! At least, I don’t think they are! I’ve never actually been to Jamaica, but I’ve heard good things. The bob-sled team won the Olympic gold medal one year! Remember? They made a movie out of it. The Jamaicans seem like a hardworking lot. Bob Marley worked hard and look at all he accomplished! I like that song, “One Love.”
Also, The Little Mermaid promotes witchcraft and bestiality. I don’t think, as parents, we should promote mermaid/ human relations. I’m also banning Splash from my household and you probably should too.
Snow White: My greatest beef with this movie is its wrongful stereotyping of the apple. The idea that apples are “bad” or “poisonous” began in the biblical book of Genesis. The myth that apples are intrinsically evil has been perpetuated over the years. Thanks to Disney, apples continue to get a bad rep. In fact, apples are full of antioxidants, clean teeth and gums, are full of fiber, and they also lower cholesterol. Children should not be taught to be afraid of apples. We should shove those suckers down their throats every day.
Don’t even get me started on the seven dwarves.
Sleeping Beauty: This film promotes slothfulness. We should teach our daughters to be proactive. Sleeping the day away waiting for your prince to come is just not the American way. Women will never get ahead with this kind of attitude.
The Little Mermaid: This movie stereotypes Jamaicans. Note Sebastian the Jamaican Crab’s little ditty:
Up on the shore they work all day
Out in the sun they slave away
While we devotin'
Full time to floatin'
Under the sea!
Jamaicans are not listless, free-loading beach bums! At least, I don’t think they are! I’ve never actually been to Jamaica, but I’ve heard good things. The bob-sled team won the Olympic gold medal one year! Remember? They made a movie out of it. The Jamaicans seem like a hardworking lot. Bob Marley worked hard and look at all he accomplished! I like that song, “One Love.”
Also, The Little Mermaid promotes witchcraft and bestiality. I don’t think, as parents, we should promote mermaid/ human relations. I’m also banning Splash from my household and you probably should too.
Snow White: My greatest beef with this movie is its wrongful stereotyping of the apple. The idea that apples are “bad” or “poisonous” began in the biblical book of Genesis. The myth that apples are intrinsically evil has been perpetuated over the years. Thanks to Disney, apples continue to get a bad rep. In fact, apples are full of antioxidants, clean teeth and gums, are full of fiber, and they also lower cholesterol. Children should not be taught to be afraid of apples. We should shove those suckers down their throats every day.
Don’t even get me started on the seven dwarves.
Sleeping Beauty: This film promotes slothfulness. We should teach our daughters to be proactive. Sleeping the day away waiting for your prince to come is just not the American way. Women will never get ahead with this kind of attitude.
Also, I don't condone frolicking with strange boys in the woods. It's not smart. Do you know how many rapes occur in the woods each year? Alarmingly, quite a few. Prince Philip, my eye. Men will say ANYTHING to have their way with you.
Cinderella: No matter what this movie suggests, large feet are not indicative of nasty people. Think of how many little girls with gigantic feet felt horrible after witnessing Cinderella stick her tiny foot into the glass slipper.
Also, I’m in favor of cats chasing and killing mice in the house. The villainization of cats is a common, disturbing theme in Disney films like Lady and the Tramp, Tom and Jerry, and the Fievel movies. Okay, so the last two examples aren’t Disney, but you get the picture, and it isn’t pretty.
Pooh’s Heffalump Movie: This is a great movie. You should probably get it.
This post is entirely the opinion of the writer of this blog. It is also completely facetious. It is a response to the continued objection of a certain husband to this blogger’s wish to join the Disney Movie Club, which offers four movies at only 1.99 a pop- even Lindsay Lohan films- plus two bonus films at discounted prices. Then, you have to buy like 50 more for 30.00 a dvd, but it’s probably still a good deal and I feel I am being unfairly treated. After all, I am a princess who deserves anything I want. At least, that’s what Disney taught me.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Three Years
The twins turned 3 on Saturday. We had a low-key hoopla sans balloons but with cake and ice cream and pizza. My favorite part of the day was when Daniel opened a Lightning McQueen remote controlled car and gasped. 3-year old gasps of utter joy are fantastic.
I have posted lots of pics chronicling their growth over the past 3 years. I am not a photographer. I got my second lowest grade in college during photography. These pics are not edited because I am lazy. I think I'm trying to make a kind of apology for my lack of artistic ability and my laziness.
Before we gaze upon the wonders that are my twins, here are some facts about their early, early years.
When the OB found Twin B on the ultrasound, I had a (smallish) panic attack. The doctor assured me he was more than capable of monitoring my pregnancy and delivering my twins because he had a lot of experience doing so. His office is strategically located right across the hall from a fertility clinic, and patients carrying twins just sort of drift in.
Daniel was born first, which was good, because his head was facing down. Ella came out second, feet first.
Ella weighed 3 lbs 8 oz and Daniel weight 7 lbs 15 oz.
Daniel had fluid in his lungs and they whisked him away immediately. He didn't cry. They wanted me to push to deliver Ella. It was a very bad couple of moments. It seemed like forever until I heard him cry.
Ella had three skin tags on her face, which John called her "floppies." This was a clue that something might be up with her kidneys. Two of the skin tags were by her ears, and the ears and the kidneys develop at the same time. Weird.
Ella had plastic surgery at six months to remove her floppies. The surgery left a dimple in her right cheek.
I named Ella and John named Daniel. When we were finally able to hold Daniel in the hospital, John gazed down at him and said, "Dan. Dan the man." It was then that I realized he had named our son after Dan Marino. (John is a Dolphins fan.)
I breastfed Ella and Daniel for over a year. Not because I'm a boob nazi, but because buying formula for twins would have bankrupt us.
Before Ella was allowed to go home, she had to pass a stress test. They put her in her carseat atop of a vibrating table and monitored her heartrate. I walked halfway into the NICU to take her home and saw the carseat across the room on the table. But Ella wasn't in it.
"She's not in there," I told the nurse. The nurse panicked.
"What do you mean? I just put her in there!" We walked up to the carseat. Ella was indeed there, her tiny dark blue eyes staring bright and wide at the lights above her. She was so small that the carseat had completely engulfed her, making her invisible unless you were about three feet away.
Daniel and Ella slept next to one another for the first two months of their life.
They slept most of the time.
The preemie clothes were too big for Ella.
I know. The cuteness is a little overwhelming.
First vacation August '07
First trip to see Gigi, my cantankerous grandma in Schroon Lake.
First Halloween.
Fall '07
Valentine's Day '08
Summer '08
Second Halloween
This happens a lot.
Daniel loves gowacks.
4th of July '09
You have no idea what a pain it is to get them down from up there.
First haircut at 2 1/2
I'm a very trusting mother.
3 at last. My friend Katie made the cakes. Ella wouldn't get off her cell phone.
I mean, really. That is so rude.
I have posted lots of pics chronicling their growth over the past 3 years. I am not a photographer. I got my second lowest grade in college during photography. These pics are not edited because I am lazy. I think I'm trying to make a kind of apology for my lack of artistic ability and my laziness.
Before we gaze upon the wonders that are my twins, here are some facts about their early, early years.
When the OB found Twin B on the ultrasound, I had a (smallish) panic attack. The doctor assured me he was more than capable of monitoring my pregnancy and delivering my twins because he had a lot of experience doing so. His office is strategically located right across the hall from a fertility clinic, and patients carrying twins just sort of drift in.
Daniel was born first, which was good, because his head was facing down. Ella came out second, feet first.
Ella weighed 3 lbs 8 oz and Daniel weight 7 lbs 15 oz.
Daniel had fluid in his lungs and they whisked him away immediately. He didn't cry. They wanted me to push to deliver Ella. It was a very bad couple of moments. It seemed like forever until I heard him cry.
Ella had three skin tags on her face, which John called her "floppies." This was a clue that something might be up with her kidneys. Two of the skin tags were by her ears, and the ears and the kidneys develop at the same time. Weird.
Ella had plastic surgery at six months to remove her floppies. The surgery left a dimple in her right cheek.
I named Ella and John named Daniel. When we were finally able to hold Daniel in the hospital, John gazed down at him and said, "Dan. Dan the man." It was then that I realized he had named our son after Dan Marino. (John is a Dolphins fan.)
I breastfed Ella and Daniel for over a year. Not because I'm a boob nazi, but because buying formula for twins would have bankrupt us.
Before Ella was allowed to go home, she had to pass a stress test. They put her in her carseat atop of a vibrating table and monitored her heartrate. I walked halfway into the NICU to take her home and saw the carseat across the room on the table. But Ella wasn't in it.
"She's not in there," I told the nurse. The nurse panicked.
"What do you mean? I just put her in there!" We walked up to the carseat. Ella was indeed there, her tiny dark blue eyes staring bright and wide at the lights above her. She was so small that the carseat had completely engulfed her, making her invisible unless you were about three feet away.
Daniel and Ella slept next to one another for the first two months of their life. 
They slept most of the time.
The preemie clothes were too big for Ella.
I know. The cuteness is a little overwhelming.
First vacation August '07
First trip to see Gigi, my cantankerous grandma in Schroon Lake.
First Halloween.
Fall '07
Valentine's Day '08
Summer '08
Second Halloween
This happens a lot.
Daniel loves gowacks.
4th of July '09
You have no idea what a pain it is to get them down from up there.
First haircut at 2 1/2
I'm a very trusting mother.
3 at last. My friend Katie made the cakes. Ella wouldn't get off her cell phone.
I mean, really. That is so rude.Saturday, February 13, 2010
Last Romance
“Men always want to be a woman’s first love. Women have a more subtle instinct: What they like is to be a man’s last romance.”
~Oscar Wilde
John proposed to me on Valentine’s Day. The day has extra significance to us- it’s not just another sappy holiday like it is to the rest of you schlubs. We do something extra special, like order in Italian food and watch DVRed episodes of 30 Rock on the TV.
John had big plans on that Valentine’s Day. He had procured reservations at a restaurant on picturesque shores of Lake Ontario, where he was going to pop the question and then fill me full of chicken marsala. (Yum.) He had tickets to a local show at Geva Theater, where we were to cuddle and not actually pay attention to the performance because we would be duly intoxicated by the presence of one another and therefore unable to focus on anything else.
The ring had been burning a hole in his pocket for a good week, I believe.
I ruined his plans by coming down with strep throat and the most horrific sinus infection I have ever had. I spent that February break from college in a feverish daze on my mother’s couch, probably causing my family members more pain than I was actually in.
John couldn’t wait. He threw out his initial plans, sent my family out of the house, knelt down next to the couch and asked a make-up free, pathetic excuse for a girl who could no longer breathe through her nose to marry him.
She said yes.
I made a valiant effort to revive myself by ingesting Advil and insisting that John take me to the restaurant on the lake. I ate about two bites of chicken. I recall that it was an extremely painful two bites of chicken. We left rather quickly and went back to the couch and watched a cheesy movie.
I spent the rest of the week on that couch, sick as a dog, staring at the diamond on my hand and smiling stupidly.
(Best Valentine’s Day ever.)
~Oscar Wilde
John proposed to me on Valentine’s Day. The day has extra significance to us- it’s not just another sappy holiday like it is to the rest of you schlubs. We do something extra special, like order in Italian food and watch DVRed episodes of 30 Rock on the TV.
John had big plans on that Valentine’s Day. He had procured reservations at a restaurant on picturesque shores of Lake Ontario, where he was going to pop the question and then fill me full of chicken marsala. (Yum.) He had tickets to a local show at Geva Theater, where we were to cuddle and not actually pay attention to the performance because we would be duly intoxicated by the presence of one another and therefore unable to focus on anything else.
The ring had been burning a hole in his pocket for a good week, I believe.
I ruined his plans by coming down with strep throat and the most horrific sinus infection I have ever had. I spent that February break from college in a feverish daze on my mother’s couch, probably causing my family members more pain than I was actually in.
John couldn’t wait. He threw out his initial plans, sent my family out of the house, knelt down next to the couch and asked a make-up free, pathetic excuse for a girl who could no longer breathe through her nose to marry him.
She said yes.
I made a valiant effort to revive myself by ingesting Advil and insisting that John take me to the restaurant on the lake. I ate about two bites of chicken. I recall that it was an extremely painful two bites of chicken. We left rather quickly and went back to the couch and watched a cheesy movie.
I spent the rest of the week on that couch, sick as a dog, staring at the diamond on my hand and smiling stupidly.
(Best Valentine’s Day ever.)
Monday, February 8, 2010
Weight lost, weight gained
As I lay writhing in pain on the hospital bed, a nurse leaned over and listened to my heart. She looked at me quizzically and said,
“Do you workout?” My friend, who had driven me to the ER, responded.
“Yes, she does work out. Quite a bit, actually.”
“I can tell,” said the nurse. “You have a very strong, low heart rate.”
Through the intense pain, which easily rivaled labor pains but without the in-between contraction reprieve, I felt a glimmer of pride. I was an exerciser. I was lean. I could run three miles without breaking a sweat. I looked better-than-average in my one-piece Lands End bathing suit with swim skirt. I weighed almost as much as I did when I was first married, ten years and four children ago.
After they sliced me open and took out my gallbladder, I couldn’t go back to the gym for six weeks. (Something about my stitches ripping open or me hurting myself or some other such post-operation silliness.) Six weeks went by. I got the okay to resume my routine. Eight weeks went by. Ten weeks. Three months. Six months.
I feel like I now finally understand Einstein’s law of energy: matter can neither be created nor destroyed. The pounds I lost slowly came wandering back from their vacations in cool places like Thailand and Hawaii and re-adhered themselves to my stomach and upper-arms. It’s like they never even left. They were perturbed, however, when I tried to squeeze them into the new size four pants I had purchased last March in their absence. They require more room than that. A lot more room.
Last night, things got bad. We had a Super Bowl party and for about an hour, I posted myself right next to the bean dip. During the course of the evening, I ate guacamole, buffalo chicken wing dip, pizza, cake, brownies, and munched on one piece of celery. Just one.
I don’t even know who won the stupid game.
It is time to get my increasingly rotund derriere back to the gym.
This February, I am committed to getting back into a workout routine. I am also committed to giving up oatmeal cream pies for breakfast and my kids’ leftover peanut butter and jellies for lunch. I am committed to discontinuing the use of my treadmill as a storage rack and repurposing it as an exercise machine. I did it once; I can do it again. Finally, I am committed to making sure those pounds stay overseas this time.
(I don’t even want a postcard.)
“Do you workout?” My friend, who had driven me to the ER, responded.
“Yes, she does work out. Quite a bit, actually.”
“I can tell,” said the nurse. “You have a very strong, low heart rate.”
Through the intense pain, which easily rivaled labor pains but without the in-between contraction reprieve, I felt a glimmer of pride. I was an exerciser. I was lean. I could run three miles without breaking a sweat. I looked better-than-average in my one-piece Lands End bathing suit with swim skirt. I weighed almost as much as I did when I was first married, ten years and four children ago.
After they sliced me open and took out my gallbladder, I couldn’t go back to the gym for six weeks. (Something about my stitches ripping open or me hurting myself or some other such post-operation silliness.) Six weeks went by. I got the okay to resume my routine. Eight weeks went by. Ten weeks. Three months. Six months.
I feel like I now finally understand Einstein’s law of energy: matter can neither be created nor destroyed. The pounds I lost slowly came wandering back from their vacations in cool places like Thailand and Hawaii and re-adhered themselves to my stomach and upper-arms. It’s like they never even left. They were perturbed, however, when I tried to squeeze them into the new size four pants I had purchased last March in their absence. They require more room than that. A lot more room.
Last night, things got bad. We had a Super Bowl party and for about an hour, I posted myself right next to the bean dip. During the course of the evening, I ate guacamole, buffalo chicken wing dip, pizza, cake, brownies, and munched on one piece of celery. Just one.
I don’t even know who won the stupid game.
It is time to get my increasingly rotund derriere back to the gym.
This February, I am committed to getting back into a workout routine. I am also committed to giving up oatmeal cream pies for breakfast and my kids’ leftover peanut butter and jellies for lunch. I am committed to discontinuing the use of my treadmill as a storage rack and repurposing it as an exercise machine. I did it once; I can do it again. Finally, I am committed to making sure those pounds stay overseas this time.
(I don’t even want a postcard.)
Friday, February 5, 2010
Winter Songs
It is still winter.
This is how depressed I am: I have been teaching myself Jeff Buckley’s morose song “Hallelujah” on the guitar. Or rather, I was.
It was going swimmingly. I was strumming and singing along, probably as well as KD Lang, when suddenly, at the end of the third verse, the A-string broke during “it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.”
Irony is never lost on me.
John came home to find me playing and singing- I had shifted from guitar to still out-of-tune piano- while the kids ran amuck in the kitchen.
John knew it had been a rotten week for me. (When it’s a good week, he finds me playing rousing Friday-evening tunes like “The Phantom of the Opera,” the theme to Tommy, or “Joy to the World” by 3-Dog Night.) He offered to go out and get new guitar strings THIS VERY NIGHT if that would make me happy.
I responded by crooning the words to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.”
(I guess I’m not THAT depressed. When it gets really bad, I sniff at John while singing “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers”… both the Neil Diamond and Barbara Streisand parts. Still, I’m really, really looking forward to spring.)
This is how depressed I am: I have been teaching myself Jeff Buckley’s morose song “Hallelujah” on the guitar. Or rather, I was.
It was going swimmingly. I was strumming and singing along, probably as well as KD Lang, when suddenly, at the end of the third verse, the A-string broke during “it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.”
Irony is never lost on me.
John came home to find me playing and singing- I had shifted from guitar to still out-of-tune piano- while the kids ran amuck in the kitchen.
John knew it had been a rotten week for me. (When it’s a good week, he finds me playing rousing Friday-evening tunes like “The Phantom of the Opera,” the theme to Tommy, or “Joy to the World” by 3-Dog Night.) He offered to go out and get new guitar strings THIS VERY NIGHT if that would make me happy.
I responded by crooning the words to “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.”
(I guess I’m not THAT depressed. When it gets really bad, I sniff at John while singing “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers”… both the Neil Diamond and Barbara Streisand parts. Still, I’m really, really looking forward to spring.)
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