Monthly Archives: January 2013

Not to Be Judgy

But here are a few things I may or may not find myself being slightly judgy about.  These are in no particular order.
  • If you are unable to navigate the 4-way-stop in any sort of educated manner, you should probably just stay home.  Or maybe move to an island where bicycles are the major form of transportation.  Also, you might want to reconsider your ability to live on your own in society, because I’m thinking that the 4-way stop is not necessarily one of the more complicated things we find ourselves faced with on a day-to-day basis.  I am becoming increasingly concerned for those who are unable to grasp the 4-way-stop concept.
  • If you are still writing checks at the grocery store, I am likely to resort to violence in order to end this ridiculous waste of time and energy.  Likewise, if you argue with the clerk over a coupon worth less than a dollar, just stop it.  I will give you a dollar to just shut up and move on.  Thank you.  Everyone who has ever stood in line behind you thanks you.
  • Stop doing the Asshole Stroll in front of my car.  I know I am obligated to stop and wait for you to cross the street or parking lot or pasture or whatever land mass we are currently occupying, but for the love of macaroni and cheese, please pick up the flippin’ pace a little bit!  And while we are on the subject, I’m not in the least bit mathy or geometry-ish, BUT I can tell you that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so if you insist on making the longest-assed diagonal that is humanly possible to cross in front of my car, I will scare you.  I will lay down some rubber and kick your damned little pacemaker into overdrive, so chip chop, pick it up.  Pretty please.
  • This next one may not be popular (because all the last ones have totally been based on popular opinion), but why the hell can’t my kids give their friends candy with their valentines?  I have received no less than 20 notices from the school reminding me that, “Valentine’s should not have candy.”  Ahem, first of all, maybe the school should focus more on their grammar and less on the possible caloric intake and allergic reactions of each little student.  If my kid doesn’t need it, I don’t let him have it.  If my kid is allergic, I don’t let him have it.  Easy-peasy.
  • Finally, I understand that some people are social dipshits, but if you are in this category, please realize it and take drastic measures to improve this situation.  I, for example, am a troll, and if I give you a simple social cue that I don’t want to purchase something from you, you should take that cue for what it is—a nice way of telling you no without hurting your feelings.  Don’t stalk me with your wares and make me feel like I have to change my phone number and move out of state to remedy the situation.

 But, totally, not to be judgy.  Also, I have a headache.

The Door and My Big Toe

It’s a really, really good thing to have your foot in the door somewhere.  It’s a great thing to have contacts and know who to talk to and feel like you are making forward progress, especially if you are an immediate-gratification type like I am.  If I don’t see progress, I tend to…hmmm, how you say?…freak the freak out.
It’s one thing to have your foot in the door.  It’s quite another, however, to feel like you barely—just barely—have your big toe lodged (nay, stuck) in the crack of the door.  Am I on my way in?  Or is my toe so stuck that I simply can’t get to another door?  Good question.
Currently, I am just stubborn enough to think I can pry open an entire door with my big toe, so I’m going to continue taking every little centimeter I can get.  And until it gets to the point that I feel like I can’t budge the door any more at all, I will probably keep my toe wedged in it, inching it open ever so slightly.  Those of you who know me know this is absolute torture for me!  I want things to happen quickly—like yesterday.
Lucky for me, I have another foot and another big toe.  I can leave this one wedged in the door and begin working on other doors.  I happen to believe that in the right instances, stubbornness is a virtue, and in certain situations, it may be the only way to make it to the place you want to be.  So if you happen to see me in the near future with all of my toes jammed in doors and trying to pry them open, try not to give me too many funny looks, ok?

Fat Camp

I can’t remember exactly how old I was when I spent the summer there, but I think I was around 13 or so, not that that’s a traumatic or mentally exhausting time in a young girl’s life or anything.  I mean, hey, let’s just toss her into a cult of tubbies in the state that houses possibly the largest population of hot girls in the entire country and see how she fares.  What could possibly go wrong?  Right?
So, Florida in the summer.  A camp full of fat kids and teenagers.  (We’ll go ahead and call it a compound, just without the alien-worshipping, space-ship monitoring hippies.)  No decent food in sight.  A campus full of every sport that has ever shunned us thus far in our young lives.  All a recipe for epic awesomeness, if you ask me.
Here’s what I learned during my summer at fat camp:
  • First and foremost (pay attention to this one!), fat camp did NOT make any one of us thin, skinny, or STRONG.
  • Fat camp made us hungry.  It did not teach us to eat things to feed our bodies correctly.  I also learned that a graham cracker with a  smidge of peanut butter on it is not a damned Nutter Butter, and fake, pretend snacks only mess with your head.  Also, lettuce alone is not a meal.
  • Just because everyone else that got on the diving board was also fat, it does not make you feel any better plopping yourself up on the diving board and plummeting to your near-death 12 feet below (or however far it was).  The splash is just as big.
  • Fat counselors do not make fat kids feel better about themselves.  In fact, pretty much, it just showed me that if I didn’t get my ass in gear, I would have to wear plaid jumpers for the rest of my life like Marge, the “soccer coach.”  Bad idea, fat-camp-planners.  Who the hell came up with that plan?
  • Fat camp counselors are very naïve.  Do NOT trust fat camp kids further than you can throw them.  After feeding me a diet of lettuce and carrots for four straight weeks and then letting me out on a day pass to an amusement park, do not assume that my conscience will steer me clear of the churro booth.  Do I want chocolate sauce with that?  Hell-to-the-yes, I want chocolate sauce!  Hand over the bottle, bee-yatch.
  • Fat camp planners purposely place fat camps directly under the face of the damned sun in order to try to melt fat off of obese and overweight kids.  This does not encourage them at all.  In fact, it makes them look for loopholes and ways to escape.  Medical problems?  Yep!  Heart palpitations?  You bet!
  • If I am not outgoing before losing 10 pounds, I will most likely not be outgoing after losing aforementioned poundage.  If anyone ever makes me sing Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog during a talent show again in my lifetime, I might actually end up in prison.  Somewhere there is video and photographic evidence of this, and if anyone ever finds it, I will disavow any knowledge of our previous friendship.

One day I will compare what I have learned at CrossFit to what I learned at fat camp.  Believe me, they are VASTLY different, and the impact on my life has been tremendously different.  It took a long time, but I have a long time left to work on the good stuff, so bring on the CrossFit!

It Only Took 40 Years

Well technically, I guess I have to say 41 years now, because I just turned the big 4-1, which means I should be looking at a fast ride down the backside of a dark, shadowy hill.  Right?  (Geez, that sounded only slightly depressing.)
Except!  Guess what?!  Here’s the thing…apparently, I’m a slow learner.  Who’d have guessed?  I had always tricked myself into believing I was fairly quick on the uptake, but there are evidently a few things in this world that I have to be beaten over the head with in order to absorb them into my smallish, carb-loving brain.  It’s a trap, too.  Turns out, it’s the evil CARBS that I love that are making me all slow and sluggish about understanding the pure evil behind all the processed CARBS that I love.  It’s all about as confusing as calculus.  And anyone who knows me knows that my math skills go about as far as, “Tommy had five apples.  Tommy ate two apples.  How many apples does Tommy have left?”
Whew!  But here goes a quick rundown of the gradual awakening.  Enter team sports (a.k.a. trampoline) for my girls, which would then bring us to Coach Carl Neidholdt, who I will henceforth refer to as Extreme Keeper of All Knowledge Regarding Fitness, Diet, CrossFit, and Getting Off Your Ass.  In other words, he’s Yoda, and if you practice bad form when throwing around weights and such, he’s likely to open up a can of galactic whoop-ass up in here.  It has become quite clear that this is what I need.
I have tried everything.  And when I say everything, I mean ‘ev-er-eee-th-uh-innnng’  (with like 6 syllables) when it comes to losing weight, but as it turns out, I was looking at that the wrong way, too.  Again, it’s taken me 41 years to put the stupid scale in the bathroom drawer and focus on getting strong.  It’s taken me my entire life to say, “I don’t give a damn what the scale says.”  What I do care about right now is whether or not I can add another plate to the bar and whether or not I can finish a WOD faster than I did last time.  I care about feeling that sore feeling in my muscles that reminds me that I worked as hard as I could work.  I care about the fact that my clothes are fitting better.  And best of all, I care about the fact that I can run and play with my kids, I can carry them up the stairs, and I can wrestle with them on the floor.  That’s what matters.  Someday, I’ll dust off the scale, but probably just out of curiosity.
Back to everything.  I have tried the cabbage soup diet.  Who hasn’t?  I have tried Weight Watchers.  I have ingested enough SlimFast shakes to drown a well-populated town, and I still ended up starving.  Two words:  Fat Camp.  Oh. My. God.  I have spent an entire summer of my life at fat camp.  Didn’t help.  Well, it did help me hone my criminal skills, because by the end of the summer, I was able to sneak in enough contraband Twinkies and Reese’s to earn quite a good little weekly income.  But my ass was still fat.  And I didn’t get strong.
We’ll go into more later.  Needless to say, along came Coach Carl, and he (somehow) convinced me that I could do CrossFit.  (Yay, CrossFit Cerberus!)  I was pretty sure he was either drunk or delusional (or both) when he told me that, but for whatever reason, I decided to give it a go.  And nothing has ever been the same since.  I owe him a debt of gratitude that I’ll never be able to repay.  I feel better now at 41 than I ever have, and I feel like more of an athlete than I ever have.  (Although I did occasionally have to jog to get those Twinkies and Reese’s into fat camp without being detected.  Don’t judge.)
I have a LONG way to go.  But instead of getting weaker every day, I’m getting stronger.  I need to work on my diet—it needs to be cleaner.  It’s better than it was, but it needs to be better still.  I need to work on my lifts—they need to be smoother and I need to lift heavier, but they will get there.  I need to find a way to work around my kids’ busy schedules and get to the gym even more, but that will get better, too.  I’m on the right path, and looking back, I can see that it’s working.

In the above picture, the only thing I’ve been lifting is maybe a box of Ding Dongs and a package of Oreos, neither of which helped me do anything except maybe add to my bulging butt or the hidden BINGO flaps on the undersides of my arms.  Not cool.
In this second photo, I am in the middle of a lift during my very first CrossFit competition.  Coach Carl convinced me I was ready for this as well.  (He’s very persuasive.)  Although I almost vomited and I thought I might die right in the middle of Round 3, I completed the WOD, and it was one of the coolest things ever!  There will be more of these.  There is still work to be done, but I’d rather be lifting weights than Oreos any ol’ day.

Doing Laundry

Five-year-olds are entirely too smart.  That’s all there is to it.  And here’s how I came to this amazing revelation.
Sometimes, after bedtime, mommies and daddies like to have a little alone time.  This becomes increasingly difficult as you add children to your household.  (Trust me on this one.)
For example, 5 gazillion children = .23413 second of alone time per day.  This is a scientific fact—don’t try to disprove it.  It is true.
Given the above-mentioned figure, it stands to reason that desperate adults might come up with stories—little white lies, if you will—about why they need the kids to go to bed, stay in bed, and leave them alone.  Fairly harmless really.
And so it went.  Last night, after tucking in the kids and promising them a few minutes of precious TV time in their room, we let them know that Mommy and Daddy needed to finish “folding laundry.”  Then we would be right along to tuck them in.  This was code for, “Stay where you are kids—this could scar you for life.”
Did they listen?  Well, partially.  But we are talking about 5-year-olds.
As we were “folding laundry” in the dark, a startling knock came at the bedroom door.  In a spectacular feat of gymnastic speed and flexibility, the (ahem) laundry participants dove for the floor, but alas, the door held firm.  (Thank goodness!)
Instead, we heard a little voice at the door.  “I know you aren’t folding clothes.  I can see that the light is off!”
Fabulous.  “Why, yes, yes it is.  Light burned out!”  God, we are terrible liars.
“Did you forget I want to sleep on your floor?”  Jadon was persistent, and his brother wasn’t far behind him.
“Nope.  Just a minute.”  How could we possibly forget?!  We knew we were missing the Dream Light and the Light Saber nightlight to make our room feel cozy.
And then came the finale.  “Okay.  Sorry to bother you.”  And he left.  And we burst into laughter, laughter than can only be understood by parents with little ones running amok throughout the halls.
Apparently, we need to come up with a list of more believable activities in which to participate in the dark.  The 5-year-olds are not fooled.

How to Know if Your Kid Is STILL an Asshole

Some of you may recognize this theme from an earlier post of mine ( in which I outlined how you might be able to ascertain whether or not your kid might be an asshole.  Well, welcome to Part Deux.
Your kid might STILL be an asshole if you recognize any of the following traits or behaviors:
  • Your kid pretends to be my kid’s friend for several months before announcing to her (in front of several other people) that she has better things to do now and she doesn’t think they should be friends anymore.  This is mostly because your kid made it onto a national sport team and mine did not, so now your kid will only hang out with other people who also made it through the rigorous testing.  This makes your kid a complete assclown.
  • Your kid insists on insulting my kid at every practice.  She constantly makes her feel like she can’t perform any of the skills as good as, as high as, as fast as (blah, blah, blah)…guess who?  Yep, your amazing kid!
  • Your kid acts like a total spaz and ends up getting the entire group/team in trouble because she has certain personality “challenges.”  Apparently, this is also why she is mean to others.  That’s all fine and dandy, except at no time did I ever learn that any kind of personality “challenge” makes it okay to bully and belittle others.  This is not a “challenge.”  This is nothing but asshol-ery.
  • Your kid enlists others to do her dirty work to make others feel bad.  This is known as being the Queen of the Bullies, and it’s really starting to piss me off.  If a bully isn’t brave enough to do her own dirty work, then I don’t think she even deserves the moniker of ‘bully.’  I believe previously used terms fit her much better.
  • Your kid pretends to be angelic in front of authority figures and only unleashes her venom when said authority figures are not looking.  This leaves her with a mostly clean slate while still allowing her to successfully send my kid home in tears.

 If you notice any of the above-mentioned symptoms, you might want to consider the following:
  • Take a moment.  Take a deep breath.  Talk some sense into your beastly little human.  Oh yeah, and maybe take enough notice of what she’s doing to others to…oh, I dunno, say PARENT her for a few minutes and turn her into a nice little person.

 Also, as my daughter was in outright tears the other day, she did mention that she has one true-blue friend on her team that would never be mean.  So, thank you D for being who you are and for being a friend.  And thank you D’s mom for raising such a nice person.
Also, happy new year.