My Real Life

I said goodbye to an old friend, today.

It was surprisingly hard for me to do so, because I’m not a sentimental person.

Real Man has drawers full of cards that the kids and I have given him over the years.

Me?

Let’s just say that if it doesn’t have a handprint or footprint on it, anything is fair game for the trash, once it’s been oohed and aahed over for a few minutes.

But this?

This was hard.

Fourteen years ago, my friends and family held a baby shower to celebrate the impending arrival of our first baby.

At the shower, I received many, many generous items.

Tons of diapers and little, tiny onesies and socks and booties and blankets.

The actual arrival of my 9 pound 15 oz little Monkey Girl created the need to exchange many of the smallest items, but we were thrilled, nonetheless.

When I got to a package from my sister-in-law, she prefaced it with “You know how practical I am. You can’t use it now, but you’ll be happy for it in a few years.”

I opened the package and found the cutest pair of overalls, with an embroidered Winnie-the-Pooh and friends scene.

They were size 2T.

I remember laughing, thinking that I could barely even imagine a time when the little one I was expecting would fit into those overalls, but, eventually, she did

When she turned 18 months, she was already fitting into size 2T clothes, and so we pulled them out of storage and tried them on.

She loved them.

She wore the heck out of those overalls.

They became her favorite thing to wear, and they became my favorite thing to put on her.

And, too quickly, she outgrew them.

And so, we passed them on to my sister-in-law who had given birth seven months after I had.

Her little sweetie wore them, and when she, too, outgrew, she sent them back.

And eventually, Monkey in the Middle wore them, and soon thereafter, Baby Monkey had a turn.

Then, we passed them on again, and they were worn by various other nieces and nephews, and eventually, they made their way back to us.

I remember, last year, when I pulled them out, again, and put them on Tiny.

He loved them.

And so, he wore them until we just couldn’t fasten the clips any longer because he had grown far too tall, no matter how much we adjusted the straps.

Today, I packed them up and passed them on to Kim, for her little guy to wear in the near future.

And while I’m thrilled that they continue to live on and be loved and be worn, I’m sad to know that they won’t be making a return trip to my home.

They’ll move on to one of Kim’s friends or neighbors, and I’ll never see them again.

Because, it would just be weird for me to ask for them back when she’s done with them so I can save them for a grandkid.

Right?

I’m a fairly low maintenance girl.

I get up in the morning, take a quick shower, use a two-in-one shampoo plus conditioner to save time, hop out, run my fingers through my hair, clip in a barrette, throw on a little eye makeup and I’m out.

The whole process probably takes about 10 minutes, from start to finish.

I need to make five lunches, get people up, dressed, and out the door before I leave at 7:00 am, and so the shower is what takes the hit in the time department.

But on Saturday…

On Saturday, I get a real shower.

It may not happen first thing in the morning, but, at some point, on a Saturday, I take some time, just for me.

I pull together the various and random shower gels, lotions, and creams that I’ve acquired over the years, and I get ready for an experience.

I use actual shampoo.

Separate from the conditioner.

And when I actually get to the conditioner, I let it sit and sit and sit, while I exfoliate and shave and indulge in some steamy aromatherapy.

Saturday showers are ME time.

And, if I turn up the music loud enough, I can almost drown out the sounds of the people pounding on the door yelling, “Mom!  You’ve been in there for three minutes already!  What’s TAKING so long???”

After four children, I think it’s safe to say that I’ve read almost every children’s book that’s out there.

Some of them are fantastic.

Some of them are fine, if you read them once or twice, but after thirty-thousand times, even Good Night, Moon gets a little dicey.

Some of them, I’ve written about before.

I wrote about the insane ABC book.

Nicole Leigh Shaw invited me to ride her Character Assassination Carousel, and I wrote about Bert and Ernie and their misadventures with a mop.

After reading to Tiny, last night, and the millionth time having to explain this book to, yet another, child, today, I thought I’d share with you the book Opposites.

The premise is simple enough.

Take a bunch of pictures of things that are opposites, write the words, and teach the kiddies a thing or two.

However, implicit in a children’s book is the understanding that the information will be presented in a way that doesn’t confuse the kids.

I think someone forgot to tell this to this particular author.

In all fairness, most of the book is straightforward.

You have “above.”

And then you have “below.”

You see a kitten that is “awake.”

And then you are shown a kitten that is “asleep.”

But, what about words that may be opposite, but you can’t really find one subject that demonstrates both words?

Just take two things that are completely unrelated and put them together, I guess.

For example;

“Soft”

Aw.

Look at the cute bunny.

Look at the cute, soft bunny.

Don’t you want to pet and kiss that cute soft bunny?

Totally an example of soft.

But how do you use a picture of a bunny to show “hard?”

Take a visit to a taxidermist?

Put it in a leather vest and pop a lit cigarette in it’s mouth?

Serve it, well-done, with a nice bearnaise sauce?

Nope.

My friends, to make a bunny into an example of “hard,” you turn it into…

A Volkswagen Beetle.

I get it…it’s hard to make a bunny look hard.

However, maybe if that’s the case, you pick something else.

Like gum in someone’s mouth and gum under the desk in a classroom.

Or, if it’s too difficult, then skip that set of opposites.

Because, here’s what happens my friends.

When Tiny reads the book (and his sister and brothers before him, I might add) he reads it fine.

“Soft!’

“Hard!”

But, in general conversation, when you say, “Hey Tiny!  What’s the opposite of ‘soft?'” the kid responds with a proud shout, “A car!”

And what about the pictures that are straightforward, but still manage to confuse the tykes?

Pictures for words like “left” and “right.”

Left.

Right.

Okay, I get it and I can see the logic in the example.

However, I’m 42 and feel like I have a pretty strong grasp on the concept of left and right.

Most of the time.

And if I am feeling muddled and confused about it, I simply pretend I’m about to say the Pledge of Allegiance and it clears things right up.

But this picture?

Let me explain.

We turn to this page and Tiny says “Left!’ turns the arrow and says “Right!” and I say, “Yes!”

And then he says (every single time) “This side is left!” and puts his hand over the word ‘left,’ which is actually on the right side of the page.

And I say, “Correct!  Well, no, actually.  That’s the word left, but it’s the right side of the page.”

And he lifts his right hand and says “left!”

And I say, “No, that’s your right hand.”

And he points to the word “left” on the paper and says, “This says ‘left!'” and I say, “Yes!”

And the whole thing starts again.

Maybe we could have just had the word “right” on the right hand side of the page and the word “left” on the left hand side of the page and left it at that.

But, what do I know?

Part of my summer is spent in Professional Development with one group of teachers or another.

Last week, I was with the Language Arts teachers, and the presenter took everyone through an activity to help students come up with topics for writing.

It was called “I Remember” and students were to write as many true sentences as they could that began with the words “I Remember.”

Students would then choose one of those sentences and blow it out into a full writing piece.

In order for us to see the power of the exercise, the presenter led us through the exercise and we created our own lists.

While we didn’t have to blow them out into our own writing pieces, one of the sentences I wrote has been stuck in my mind, and so I finally decided the only way to get it out of there would be to write about it.

The sentence was “I remember secret doors.”

—–

I grew up in an old house that was built in the 1920’s.

It was a modest home with two bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen, dining room and living room, and a huge basement and garage that still had the iron rings on the walls to tie up horses.

It was a house that whispered to me at every turn.

Even the outside of the house called to me to peek under the slate stones that made up our front walk to see if there was a secret staircase below.

To climb the brick chimney and look out over the neighborhood.

But the best thing about that house was the doors.

There were doors throughout that house…some small, some large, and all promised secrets and adventure beyond.

In the basement, the tiny metal door behind the furnace that was the place where the ashes fell from the ash pit in the fireplace, was the perfect location for making up stories about people who had to hide out and take refuge in the basement.

I imagined that behind the little door, the hideaways would find secret messages and food and supplies from the owner of the house while they waited for the signal that the coast was clear.

The original wood and glass door that went from the basement to the garage was a passageway back in time where, once I passed through it, led to those horses actually being tied in the garage, waiting to be brushed and fed by the little grooms girl…me.

My parents bedroom had a small annex that had four small doors, three of which were tiny closets where my mother stored towels and sheets, but the fourth door led to a small storage space where my parents actually did find certificates to prove that a previous owner had purchased land in London on which to build a Jewish hospital in 1911.

Aside from the total coolness factor of that find, it spurred me on to further dream about what might be behind those doors.

And then there was my room.

In my room, there was a closet, and in my closet was another door.

That door led to small, extra closet/storage space.

That extra door was the center of so many of my dreams as a child.

It was my wardrobe to Narnia.

My gate to the Secret Garden.

I dream about that door, still.

I dream about other doors, as well.

I also dream about the other doors in that house, and I dream about doors that never existed.

I’m not sure what it all means, if anything.

What I do know is that I firmly believe that those doors led me to develop my imagination, and for that, I am grateful.

Real Man lost 80 pounds over the past 12 months.

Let me say that again.

Since September, Real Man has lost 80 pounds.

The weight loss, itself, is not exactly what this post is about, but I’ll go ahead and answer the first question that everyone has when I tell them about it.

He did it through hard work.

He started with the Couch 2 5K app and could only manage to run 30 seconds at a time.

At first, it was difficult.

Really difficult.

But, if you know Real Man, you know that he doesn’t do anything halfway, and now my husband is a member of the running club at his work and is running in 5K’s once a month (in 21 minutes, no less) and runs 4-5 days a week, before work.

He has spreadsheets and websites and clocks his times and routes and pace and is, quite frankly, kicking ass.

He stopped eating in between meals, cut out soda, and makes good choices when he does eat.

So, again, I say, he did it through hard work.

Now that that is out of the way, let me tell you a story.

Like I said, he’s down 80 pounds.

He started at 260 and is now at 180.

Some people mention it, some people don’t.

But some of the people who do are starting to say things to him like, “Okay…that’s enough now.  I think you should stop.”

They say “You really shouldn’t lose any more weight.”

Or, “Any skinnier and you are going to look sick.”

The other night, Real Man was sharing one of these conversations with me and he said, “If everyone is so concerned about my health, why the hell didn’t they say ‘enough’ when I was 260?  Why wasn’t anyone telling me ‘I think you should stop’ when I was busting out of my clothes?  Where was everyone’s concern for my health then?”

He didn’t say this angrily.

He’s obviously appreciative of the friendlier comments.

However…

Now, let’s be honest…

If someone had actually said that to him, he’d probably have been furious and deeply offended.

However, he has a point.

It’s a bad idea, in general, to ever comment on anyone’s weight.

Too heavy?  No one is going to say “Hey…slow down there, buddy.  You are heading toward a heart attack!”

Lost weight?  Many people would be reluctant to say “Hey!  You look great!” because they are afraid that there is the possibility that you’ve been struck with some type of awful disease.

And yet, maybe those are the things that we need to say to each other.

But maybe we need to say them a little differently.

“I see you.”

“I notice you.”

“I love you, but you don’t look like you are loving yourself.”

These are things that many of us desperately need to hear, but the rest of us just don’t know how to say.

But maybe it’s time we started trying.

When I was a kid, my favorite book was Harriet the Spy.

I read that book so many times, I could probably have recited pages from it, on demand.

I owned an almost complete series of original, hardcover, Nancy Drews, that, to this day, I bitterly regret trading in for a complete set of Sweet Valley Highs.

I was glued to Scooby Doo, and was proud to solve the mystery as soon as the bad guy graced the screen, and Shawn Cassidy and Parker Stevenson, as Frank and Joe Hardy were my idea of perfection.

I dominated at the game Clue.

As an adult, I continued to gravitate toward mystery novels, loved trying to beat the cops in solving the crime on Law and Order, and was on the edge of my seat at every whodunnit thriller to grace the silver screen.

So, imagine my surprise when I was looking through Amazon Prime Instant Video, a few weeks ago, and stumbled across a show about a detective I hadn’t seen before.

I’ve got a bit of a “thing” for tv, particularly for tv shows that are geared for people in high school.

Can’t help myself.

So, my surprise was made greater when I realized it was about a girl, teenage detective.

Veronica Mars.

I started streaming it while on the treadmill and found that I lost track of time, (which was not a bad thing), completely caught up in the show.

The show began to dominate my thoughts.

I was/am addicted.

I even decided I needed to own a canvas bag like Veronica carries, because that’s how I roll.

For those who missed it, (like me), Veronica Mars is a junior in high school and her father is a private investigator.  She helps her father with different cases, but everyone in her school comes to her with their own mysteries to solve.  Predominant in the first season is the mystery of who killed her best friend, Lily.  The second season has another mystery that spans the episodes, and season three, yet another.

Love triangles, excellent dialogue…you’d expect that it was written by Joss Whedon, because it’s basically Buffy without the vampires.

I love it.

She’s smart, she’s sassy, she’s awesome.

Best show ever?

Probably not, but I am enjoying every second that I watch.

I’ve roped Monkey Girl in, after having the prerequisite conversations about “Don’t do as they do” because of the drinking and sex, but she gets why I love it, and she loves it, too.

There were only three seasons of the show, from 2004-2007, but a kickstarter campaign, begun by Kristen Bell (who plays Veronica) and Rob Thomas (the producer) a few years ago funded a movie that tied up loose ends and made the fans happy.

We are both partway through season 3, and because I’m already beginning to mourn the loss of the show, I’ve gotten a commitment from Monkey Girl that, once we finish season 3 and watch the movie, she’ll give Buffy a try.

Because you’ve gotta love a show about a smart girl who doesn’t take any crap from anyone and stands on her own two feet.

I keep seeing this on Facebook, and I’ll be honest…it bugs me a little.

Sorry, Not Sorry.

or

#sorrynotsorry

I mean, are you sorry or not?

Because, I gotta be honest, the “not sorry” part at the end cancels the “sorry” at the beginning, so why say anything at all?

That is, it bugged me until this weekend.

Because, this weekend, I got it.

I had a plan, you see.

A grand plan to spend hours writing.

Hours writing for you.

I was going to write a bunch of posts, (because they are all swirling around in the nether-regions of my brain), and schedule them to publish in the coming weeks, so I could have some sort of routine, again, to the blog.

It was a good plan.

And then this happened…

And this…

And all of this…

And so, I get it, because I meant to write for you, but I didn’t.

So, I’m sorry.

Not sorry.

So, it’s not like I haven’t been writing anything over the past few months.

I have kept my writing chops in some sort of shape by entering writing contests.

I haven’t won any, yet…

However, it engages my mind and keeps me fresh.

Since I already know that I didn’t win the last contest I entered, I thought that I might share my entry with you.

The prompt was to write a short story (they gave us a word count, etc) that began with this first sentence:

“If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it.”

As I said, I didn’t win, but I’m kinda proud of my entry, and since I wrote it with the purpose of being read, I’m going to share it with you, today.

If you like it, please feel free to share it!

————-

It’s been awhile, my friends, and it’s not for lack of interest in the blog.

I have a million ideas in my head for you.

A thousand posts I want to write.

Hundreds of witty Facebook updates I would like to make.

However, I’m not a full-time blogger/writer.

I’m an administrator at a middle school and a piano teacher, so my writing has always gotten done in whatever time I can find.

But winter is my busiest season, and here’s why:

As the choral director for the spring musical, my February is consumed with rehearsals.

And I love it.

Every single second of it.

When it’s agonizing.

When it’s slow-going.

When it’s amazing.

I love everything about it.

The end result was phenomenal, and I was so proud of the entire cast (particularly Glinda, my Monkey Girl).

It did, though, take a lot of my time, but now we’re done, and so I’m back, friends.

So sorry that I didn’t get a chance to write about how much I hated, but couldn’t turn away from The Bachelor.

Sad to have missed the opportunity to write a timely post about Frozen and my family and their obsession (no, no…it’s really my obsession) with the film.

Didn’t get the chance to write about the polar vortex, the miles of snow, and the fact that I was pretty sure that we’d never see our lawn again.

I’ve cleaned the house, paid the bills, done the laundry, and so I’m back to write for you, again.

While I’ve been away, some of my I Just Want to Pee Alone co-authors penned a new book called I Just Want to Be Alone.

It’s a hilarious anthology about relationships and I urge you to pick up your copy, today!

So, while everyone else in my town is at the St. Patrick’s Day parade, today, we are going to play outside and I’m going to organize my thoughts, and start writing.

Because I’ve missed the blog and I’ve missed all of you!

So, I’m a little creeped out, at times, by the targeted ads that Facebook shares with me.

I’m a little curious what, in my shopping history, has persuaded Facebook to show me an ad for Handerpants.

However, I’m not the least bit surprised when I see ads for weight loss products.

So, it wasn’t a shock when ads for Zaggora Atomica Hot Pants started showing up on the right side of my screen.

For months and months, when I would log in to Facebook, there it would be.

The ad for Zaggora Hot Pants with Thermofit Technology that would help me burn more calories.

Pants that burn calories.

Uh-huh.

Sure.

But one day, I was weak.

I’m not sure exactly what it was that pushed me over the edge, but I finally licked the Cheetos dust from my fingers, moved the mouse, and clicked on the hot pants.

I read what the website had to say and I was intrigued.

Convinced?

No.

But intrigued enough to click around some more.

As it turns out, they were having a huge sale and I had a Visa gift card burning a hole in my pocket.

So, I ordered them.

They feel a lot like a scuba suit.

Kinda like I’m wearing styrofoam pants.

But, if you wear them for 96 hours straight, say, like, during the season of never ending snow days, they become quite comfortable and almost like a second skin.

Okay, I guess anything becomes like a second skin if you wear it for 96 hours straight, but you see what I’m saying.

I started to feel like I was losing inches and then I wondered if I was losing weight, as well.

So, I hopped on the scale.

Nothing.

So, I went back to the website to register my complaint.

And found this:

“Both studies confirm the finding that exercising in Zaggora Hotwear can increase calorie burn.

The UB Study tested 13 subjects in Zaggora HotPants and 13 in standard active wear and found that exercising in HotPants can increase energy expenditure during exercise by an average of 11%.

The ETS Study first tested 30 subjects in Zaggora Hotwear and 30 subjects in standard active wear and found that exercising in Zaggora Hotwear can lead to an increase in energy expenditure as compared to standard active wear of 6% on average.

When testing a group of 10 subjects running at a constant speed, subjects in Zaggora Hotwear burned 9.7% more calories than subjects in standard exercise clothing during 30 minutes of exercise.”

Wait?

I have to exercise in them?

I can’t just lounge around and feel the burn?

I altered the plan and did some exercise while wearing the hotpants.

I definitely sweated more in the areas the pants were covering.

And afterward, my jeans were a little looser, but I really don’t know if it’s because I lost any inches or if it’s because after being that compressed for that long, it takes awhile for your organs and skin to go back to their original positions.

I guess if I really were serious about losing inches, I’d run a 5k every morning, like Real Man does.