Wednesday, August 27, 2014

The (MFing) Master Cleanse

Day 1
(written on Day 2)
  too. hungry. and. miserable. to. do. anything. but. be. hungry. and. miserable.

Day 2
(8:33pm) 
 As I am writing this using my phone's keyboard I cannot help but to feel the weight of my phone between my hands and envision my thumbs supporting the shape of a fat, dripping cheeseburger instead of composing this little update, which, frankly, I am doing solely to keep me from pacing the kitchen (again). I keep alternating between swinging the pantry and refrigerator's doors open, and gazing longingly at all the little foodies that I am forbidden to touch for the next eight days. What exactly am I looking for?? Maybe I'm just hoping that behind one of the doors will appear a time machine that will teleport me ten days into the future. Everything looks good. Even the salsa that I'm certain expired 4 months ago. Gimme.
 Anyway, I ran three miles today. Well. I'm lying. I stopped at 2.89 miles because I swear I saw a raccoon scurry past my treadmill. Call me crazy, but when I start to hallucinate animals that are not even kind of native to this area working out in my gym, I slow down to a walk. But I did feel particularly euphoric afterwards. I'm thinking exercise may be the key to me successfully completing this cleanse this time. I've only finished one from beginning to end five years ago, I've unsuccessfully attempted this cleanse before, I think, twice.

Day 3
 (1:54pm)
No time for exercise. School starts for both my little darlings in a few days and my schedule is bursting at the seams.
Today I have been obsessed with food all day. Not in that I want to consume it necessarily, which I do in waves, but I just want to be near it and touch it and look at it and caress it and tell it I love it.
I put my son down for a nap at 12:30 then sprinted to the kitchen where I busily started to throw together a gorgeous loaf of banana bread.
As soon as that cinnamon-y vanilla-y buttery gloriousness was out of sight and into the oven (side note: I just checked on it and muttered a "holy fucking shit it's beauuuuuuutiful" to myself, closed my eyes, shut the oven door, and backed away slowwwwlllyyy because I was in severe danger of jumping in with the golden brown butter/sugar sponge and shutting myself in, burning alive with a smile on my face. "Gruesome death by carbs..." my obituary would say, "she's in a better place now"...) I started browning some ground beef in olive oil and red onion and copious amounts of garlic. I'm making my mom's lasagna, baby. It's my favorite and I can't have a bite. I am so sensitive to each ingredient's scent too. I chopped a small bunch of parsley and have never smelled anything so magnificent. If it weren't so hot outside, I'd run through a field with it and make out with it behind a tree. Anyway, I'm gonna make myself another lemonade, all this parsley talk has gotten me all hot and bothered.
 
Day 4
(12:36pm)
First day of the salt water flush for me. It's a "natural laxative" drink composed of what feels like a gallon of luke-warm water mixed with sea salt. Except I drank it cold, which I thought may make it easier, and it made me throw up. It is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, I think, and I was nauseous all morning. Anyway, I thought I might have vomited too much up for it to be effective, but boy was I wrong. It cleans you OUT. I might as well have chugged a container of drain-o if you catch my drift. Anyway, I did a spin class today, felt great and had plenty of energy. I can honestly say I'm not craving anything in particular today, and processed food just looks gross. And meat! I have no desire to eat meat, and I am a self-proclaimed carnivore. Soooo, I've lost six pounds, which is great because I gained a couple poundies in Idaho at my Mom's house where she basically propped my mouth open with a stick and poured food and alcohol down my throat for seven days. So with the extra, I started at 125, weigh 119 today.

......(6:28 pm) (STILL day 4 ... HOW?!)
- I lied. Made dinner for Troy and the kids and I lied. I'm sorry. I apparantly lied when I mentioned that I have turned up my nose to meat. I just made linguine with sweet and hot sausage and sliced fennel and onions in a velvety tomato sauce and so much parm and all sorts of other deliciousness and ... I lied. I want to bathe in that sausagey concoction and smear it all over my face while simultaneously gulping it down in a bathtub made out of chicken wings. And Troy decanted a bottle of wine right in front of me. What a DICK. And it's raining, thundering, and lightening and ALMOST COLDISH and nothing, I mean NOTHING, sounds better than meat-doused pasta and wine right now. I'd stalk and hunt and kill one of the rabbits that eats my grass with my bare teeth at the moment .  Ughhhhhhhhh x 78 x infinity!!!!


 Day 5
 (5:58pm)
 
 

 So today is the first day I'm dealing with a double dose of laxatives. The first being what I drank last night; the Smooth Move Tea, a euphemism if I've ever heard one, and the second being the salt water flush- which, drinking warm is a million times more palatable. Lesson learned. Anyway, as soon as I got the salt water down, things felt veeeerrrrrry fragile for a while below the belt. It can be assumed that I was scared to sneeze or raise my voice at the kids. I was gingerly whispering, "please don't punch your sister in the face," for fear that the force I put into being loud would push whatever was in my middle-region out, and my kids were confused at my super-odd behavior.  Either way, that weirdness ended, and I feel really good today. Not hungry, not cranky. I think I've gotten over the hump. My life has gone from "really miserable" to "just a little miserable" and I'm enjoying it heartily.

Ironic moment of the day: cashier at Walgreens complains of a headache because she hasn't eaten "aaaalll dayyyyy". HA!!

Day 6
 (7:03pm)

Second day of the salt water flush, second day of feeling bloated. I lost six lbs by day four, gained two by day five, and am a pound down from that today. So. Five pounds in exchange for pure torture?! No thanks. Not to mention my weight can fluctuate five pounds a day anyway. Lame. Feeling discouraged. How the HELL do you manage to NOT LOSE WEIGHT on 600-800 calories a day?! Amazing. I can only assume the salt water is making me retain water. So that's out, no more of that. Spoiler alert: I won't miss it. It makes my insides feel like it's lined with bubble wrap.

Went to PF Changs with my mother in law and kids and watched my daughter annihilate lettuce wraps, sauce dripping down her chin and licking her fingertips after each bite. It's was like Chinese water torture without the water and extra Chinese. Little Avery could only finish half her California roll (she couldn't pahhhhhsibly finish it) and I very seriously contemplated swiping a crab wonton from a unsuspecting waiter's tray as he passed by, wafting the steaming dish completely level with my face while we were walking out. No one would have known. I shoulda done it.

Then we took the kids to get frozen yogurt. How much longer to I have?!?! Four days. I. Can. Do. It.

Thought of the day: While talking to a fellow mom in Avery's Kindergarten classroom I wonder, "God, I hope there's nothing in my teeth. No, there's not, Sofia, you haven't eaten food in SIX MOTHERFUCKING DAYS."

Day 7
 
(12:36pm)
I am soooooo over this, but I've made it this far, I'm going to finish it, for no other reason but to prove to myself I can do it. I'm waiting for the day when I will feel great (they say day 7 is the day...) but I only feel great in spurts-usually when I'm distracted from the ever-nagging urge to eat food. I do like feeling empty and have enjoyed not experiencing any guilt this week about over-eating or eating something I shouldn't. I'm not bloated today (skipped the salt water flush), and am back to 119 which I can live with.

Day 8
 (1:23pm)
Feel comfortable in my smallest bathing suit today. Feeling thinner.
 I made lunch for my family today, stir fry with chicken, bok choy, carrots, haricot verts, sweet basil, garlic, and noodles with some peanut and teriyaki sauces. It smelled soooo good. And let me tell ya something. Watching my kids turn up their bratty little noses to healthy delicious, food that has wasted a sliver of my life to prepare, has always annoyed me into oblivion, but when Landon begs for me to "just give him Fruity Pebblesssss" instead of the very thing in the world I want the most in that moment is maddening. Needless to say, Little Boy went down for a nap with an empty tummy. Hungry Mommy don't play. Fruit Pebbles?! I will CUT a preschooler. Try me.

 Hoping Troy takes the kids to dinner tonight. I can't go through another torturous meal prep. It's been a week of abuse. Doing this cleanse with a family to feed is SO incredibly challenging. I would imagine I could do this cleanse for a month if I were single. And jobless. And had a personal lemonade chef. And had anesthesia that didn't wear off for thirty days. But yeah, this way is hard... Two more days... Two more days...

Day 9
 (2:13pm)
Feeling really thin today. I am wearing leggings and a t-shirt because the shorts I had on earlier were falling off and my summer dresses are too loose.

 I was thinking a lot today about how lonely this cleanse has made me feel at times. I have only received a handful of positive comments in regards to this cleanse, whereas, for the most part, I have heard things like, "you're crazy" "you're going to gain all the weight back anyway" or "why would you do that to yourself" and the like. Would have been nice to have had a bit more support from my friends and family. But regardless, I am boundlessly proud of myself. This cleanse has taken a lot of self-control and discipline, and I can accredit the intense focus it has taken to get this far to no one but myself. So, go me! And, if nothing else, I have learned how being a supportive person can positively influence another. A good lesson for me to learn at a time when my daughter is starting school and will need unwavering support from me for a very long time. I need to remember how feeling unsupported in something that I felt was important for myself made me feel quite desperate at times.
I am looking very forward to eating again, eating with my family, and having a glass of wine. I am up for the challenge of keeping the weight off and taking advantage of my mind being sort of at "ground zero" in regards to food and eating until we leave for Europe in a little over a month, and hopefully long after as well. I feel good today. Only a day and a half to go. I can do it. I will do it.

Day 10 (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
 (6:41am)
Troy quote of the day: "You gotta get finished with this cleanse cz I can't keep drinking bottles of wine by myself anymore."

 Ok, Troy. Your wish is granted, I have made it to the end!!! I weighed in at 115.2 this AM! I'm drinking the lemonade drink up until dinner, then on to veggie broth for tonight. I can't waaaaiiiitttttt! I did it. I am SO proud of myself! It was so hard and there were SO many times I wanted to give up. I've lost ten pounds and can't wait to get back to a healthy diet and exercise schedule. I felt a bit too loopy and was too busy with school starting to work out the last couple days, I'm expecting to gain back half of what I lost fairly quickly, so I'm gonna enjoy the shit out of my 115. Get ready for some selfies, people.
 
SO, in short, it's been a challenging ten days, and I've come to the conclusion that my most favorite part of this cleanse was when it ended! And I'd like to never have any maple syrup ever again, thanks.

 

 

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

dramarama

So, my daughter is super dramatic. We've gone over this before. And as much as I may protest at times, I know that I must take the heat for passing on this particular gene, because, well, I know I can be an emotional tidal wave at times. A tsu-mommy, have you. 
 
Troy, on the other hand, likes to bottle his Beer (see what I did there?). He can keep his emotional waves under wraps for a pretty good amount of time. I think I've seen him cry maayyybe five times- two of which were at the births of our children (tears of joy for both, though I feel for the first birth a couple tears of horror and fear may have been shed- he DID watch the lower half of his newlywed bride rip in half afterall...) Anyway, yeah, Troy is very straight forward. Especially during the work week, and definitely especially while he's on the job. He speaks in monotone and is very short (but super tall) on the phone. No nonsense. Sometimes he won't say "hi" or "bye". It's serious. It's particularly annoying for me because I'm all hopped up on caffeine and am extra loopy from being locked up with a couple of nutso non-adults all day so when he calls, it kinda always goes like this: 
 
Phone rings. 
Me: "HiIiiIiiiiiiiIiiii Trooooyyyyyyyyy. What's your cute little handsome face doing being all buff and strong and lifting cars and saving children from avalanchessssss...?"
Troy: "...don't forget to change the the oil in your car."
Sofia: "What did you eat for lunch I miss yyyyyoooo--" 
::click:: 
 
He's busy. I get it. I'm not mad. He actively partakes in satisfying  my neediness when he's home, so it's cool. 
 
Anyway, so, on this particular day, it's about three o'clock. Landon is still sleeping, and I turn on Avery's new favorite show on Nickelodeon in my room to keep her quiet while I take a shower. I kinda think I heard Troy come in through the garage downstairs, so I figure he could grab Landon if he stirs, though I know Avery will come and get me too. So Lan and Avery are covered. I start the shower, set my phone on the countertop so I can see it through the shower door if need be, and hop in. 
 
After a couple minutes of glorious alone-time selfishness, I notice my phone vibrating. It's Troy. A flutter of panic starts to stir in my belly because he doesn't normally call at this time for no reason. Plus- isn't he home? Is he trapped under the garage door or something? Nah, he's fine... I let it ring until my voicemail picks it up. And as soon as the ringing ended, it immediately started again- still my husband. I'm soaking wet and would rather inconvenience my four-year-old than risk the well-being of my iPhone, so I holler at Avery to pick up the phone with her dry, though probably sticky hands, and ask daddy 'what's up'. She had a very sassy conversation with him because she's now missed thirty seconds of her show ("What do you WANT Daddy? Can't she just call you back later!?"), and in the end, she reports, "Daddy really really needs your help and then he just hung up on me." 
 
"Shit," I think, "I better get out." I hurriedly rinse the remaining soap from my body and hair and turn off the water. As the constant noise from the shower head ceases, I can now hear Troy shouting my name from downstairs. 
 
"SSOOFFIIAAA!!!!! SOFIA!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! I NEED YOU!!!"
 
I grab a towel and slap it on my soaking body and run out of my bathroom and into my bedroom. I yelp a panicked, "What, Troy?!!" downstairs to my husband, and in return, I can hear his huge feet clamber up each step and toward my voice. He's sprinting. He's freaking out- I can tell by the way his disheveled running sounds as he climbs the stairs. I brace myself because I'm expecting to see a gun shot wound in between his eyes or a zombie reaching for his ankles as he turns the corner at the top of the stairs, so I'm confused when he stops in front of me, panting, and looks absolutely normal. Albeit flustered, but physically normal.
 
I beg of him to tell me what is wrong, and when he catches his breath, he looks me square in the eyes, and then squeals a pained, "WHERE is the salad dressing?! I'm STTAARRVVVIINNGGGG!" 
 
Then I laughed at him a lot.
 
And that's why I decided to pull the trigger on acting lessons for Avery shortly after this happened. With my tendency to melt down at every single Johnson&Johnson baby soap commercial and Troy's apparent inability to lead a functional life without salad dressing in it's proper place, kid's gonna need an emotional outlet.
 
Maybe we should just skip the kids' theater course and go straight to a psychiatrist on second thought... but that's probably just me being dramatic.

 

 


Monday, August 5, 2013

The Flight

Watching my children grow is the most mind-blowingly magnificent thing I've ever seen but also the most depressing, most unexplainably sad experience of my life. I pridefully celebrate the arrival of each milestone, while mourning the death and forever-ending of the last. There is no stopping it- no pausing it even. It's inevitable and it makes me sad. 

It seems like overnight my son went from toddling in baby diapers to shitting in the toilet like a man, beating his chest while exclaiming his testosterone-fueled sheer triumph at the size of his "huuuuge poops".
 
 My daughter, in fact, has completely bypassed her youth, emulating the mannerisms of a lady who might be starring in a Telenovela rather than attending a pre-k class. I've never seen someone so small be so dramatic and expressive. She loves to act like an adult, speak to adults, be with adults, and walk and talk like a grown-ass woman. She calls me, her Mommy, "Mom," and her Daddy, "Dad". She sneaks her bikini tops under her t-shirts so she can feel like she's wearing a bra.  It's a bit terrifying. 


I'll get back to that later, but no matter what kind of two- and four- year old, no matter how grown-up you think they may be, flying on a plane with them is the worst idea you've ever had. 

Shit, it sucks. There's no way around it's imminent suckiness. And although there's no way to make it an enjoyable experience, there is a way to make it worse- fly riiiight around nap time and keep your two year old up three hours past his bedtime the night prior. It'll be a doosy, I promise. 

I've spent the last ten days with my mommy (I, unlike my womanchild, have grown out of my too-grown-up-for-a-mommy phase) in Idaho which was a literal breath of fresh air from the muggy burning hell of a Las Vegas summer we're having. I enjoyed her help, beat her so mercilessly at Scrabble that she cried, and let my laziness levels peak at an all time high, soaking in my mommy-sister-wife vacation. Anyway, it had to come to an end, and it did. 

Troy met us for the last four days, so he was flying back home with us. It was a short flight, only about two hours, and due to the help from my husband, the quick flight, but mostly to my laziness induced coma, I didn't pack any sort of toddler distractions for the flight. I didn't really think I'd need them, and most the time, they don't work anyway. 

So there we are. In the airport, my son, an absolute ticking time bomb, and my teenage princess diva of a preschooler daughter with a swollen and mucousey eye who, in alignment with my luck, came down with her very first case of "pink eye" the night prior to the flight home. With some ibuprofen, the redness and swelling went down enough for it to be overlooked by strangers, so that was good enough for me.

 So, yeah, on the plane Landon was an absolute tornado in (but mostly out of) a seat belt. He was kicking (his dad, for the most part, who was in the row in front of us, and unable to assist me), he was screaming and jumping, he was grabbing and pulling at his sister and me. He was in a fit of exhaustion and discomfort. He was actually delirious. It was awful. 

About an hour into the abuse, I bought, from the airline attendant, the kids each a snack, hoping that satisfying his hunger might calm him. And plus each snack pack came with those little golden pilot's wing pins that they used to give us kids for free, but now come with a four dollar pack of eight goldfish and two Oreos.

The snack doesn't work. Landon is demanding Avery's cookies and is being a total dick. He's still kicking and shouting. Whereas initially I was sitting in the front-ish of the plane, I now feel like I'm in the center of the aircraft and all the passengers are seated, circling and facing me, staring and shaking their heads at my parental incapability. I'm mortified. I tried fastening the airline's stupid wing pins onto the kids' shirts as a distraction, almost impaling my never-still son through the heart as a result. Avery thought hers was cool because it resembled any kind of semblance of jewelry and she's apparently turning thirty-eight on her next birthday.

I'm on the verge of tears when the pilot announces that we are beginning to descend. Landon is clawing at me, in the aisle seat, to let him into the aisle. Big Girl Avery asks what "descends" means, and Desperate Mom lowers her voice and threateningly explains that "descends" means that anyone who is not in his seat with his seat belt on will be arrested and put in jail. 

What? It worked.

Landon was terrified, but he sat in his seat for the rest of the descent, wide eyed and fearing for his freedom. So. That. 

Anyway, we gather ourselves and head off the plane. Almost there. Just need to take a tram from the C-gates to the passenger pick up, where my sister-in-law is already waiting for us. We scurry to the back of the subway-car-like tram, and squeeze into the furthest seats because it's quite full. A woman sitting with her friend was admiring So Sooo Big Avery and said to her, "I love your pin!" referring to the winged airline pin I had fastened to her shirt and first layer of epidermis. Avery took this opportunity to engage in conversation with the much older woman, and to perhaps show off a bit, explaining, "I have a pin but I ALSO have a pink eye!" 

Woman looks at the floor, gives her friend an I'm-getting-my-tubes-tied-today sort of a look, I apologize, and she rushes out of the tram as soon as it stops, making damn sure not to touch anyone nearby who could possibly have an chance of being in our family. 

Anyway, we're home! We did it. Don't get me wrong, I still love and appreciate my kids' "phases", whether it be "the terrible twos" or the "freaking act your age fours"  but am happier to do so behind closed doors. And not on a plane. And with antibiotics.
 
 






Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Hot mama.

Because I've been missing for the last five weeks, I'll share something that happened a little while ago. 

First, it's hot. It's so hot here. It's feels like Satan, himself, has been hugging and squeezing and wringing the entire city of Las Vegas for the last month and a half. The wind feels like it has just been blasted from a hair dryer. The inside of my car feels like the absolute center of the earth's core.  It's unlivable and it's making me crazy.

 That said, we've been spending our time in the pool, which has, thanks to it's surrounding convention oven-like atmosphere, been feeling a lot more like a sauna than a pool,  but is still the only appropriate way to make it through the summer here. Unless you want to coop up a four- and two- year old inside canned air conditioning all day, and in that case, I'd rather sit in a heated frying pan. Which is, as a matter of fact, exactly what it feels like outside. It's making us all bananas... foster. Bananas foster, you know, the dessert that's blasted with a blow torch at the end? Yeah, that's it. We're all irritable. Even our indigestion-prone dog has been taking out his frustration on me by throwing up more frequently. So that's nice.

Anyway, it was a sunny inside-of-a-toaster kind of an afternoon about a three weeks ago, and my kids were, of course, swimming for hours. They had spent the whole day dunking each other; my two year old, Landon, gulping big gulps of pool water in fairly regular intervals as a result. And as ehhhhveryone knows, this makes a little tummy like his a tumultuous war zone. I knew this. So when I attempted to distract my over-swimmed VERY newly potty trained son with a bowl heaping with loads of fresh, refreshing watermelon to defer the incessant sibling fighting, I should have known better. Looking back on my incredibly dumb decision, I wonder if I may have been suffering early onset heat stroke at the time I made that particular choice.
 
So, the kids are over it at this point. They want inside. They're tired and want to watch a show to unwind from the eighteen hours they just spent in the pool.

I take off Landon's swim trunks and lay them over a patio chair, because I know they'll dry in 3.4 seconds. My little boy is naked. He runs to our completely carpeted upstairs while I strip Avery of her wet bathing suit. And upon my entrance to the house, I hear a squeaky, scared, and definitely guilty, "oh no, mama, poooooop!!" from upstairs. 

This is where I stop and collect myself because I know what I've done to this kid and I know what's in store for me. I've pumped him, all day, with a double dose of toddler laxatives, and I'm about to pay for it dearly.

Then I'm off. I sprint upstairs, and right in the doorway of my daughter's room ( was that intentional, Landon?) is a pile of diarrhea like no one has ever seen before. It was almost like a cartoon; all the gruesome scene was missing was a couple of squiggly lines signifying a repulsive stench and a swarm of black flies hovering above. 

I grab the nearest roll of paper towels and a plastic bag. Nauseated, I line my hand with each towel, scoop up handfuls of the warm-to-the-touch mess, and plop them into the ill-fated bag until the bulk is removed.  I'm gagging. I'm spraying and scrubbing so much carpet cleaner into the carpet that the tips of my fingers are being eaten away by the harsh chemicals. I stand up to heave and gag one more time before I need to sprint downstairs to grab another roll of paper towels, then I depart. Profusely sweating, I reach the final step of our carpeted staircase, stomach turning, then,
SMACK! 

I've just forcefully immersed my entire bare foot into an enormous pile of my asshole dog's vomit. 

I stand there for a while. I look at my hands, fingernails stuffed with my son's feces, the insides of each toe coated in canine puke. I start to cry. I look up to the heavens and offer a VERY dramatic "whhyyyy?" (I do this a lot), then collected myself and limped and hopped to the sink to rid myself of my son's and dog's guts. 

After another hour of scrubbing and sanitizing and vacuuming while satisfying my kids' never-ending requests for Goldfish (NO MORE WATERMELON) and shows and drinks all while breaking up fights and offering countless hugs to soften hurt feelings, my husband returns home from work. I smile and say hi, purposely not hinting at the shit storm that just swept through his seemingly calm home. I make dinner, bathe the kids, check Instagram a billion times hoping to find that someone is having a worse day than I am at the moment (#sorrynotsorry #everyonedoesit), pour myself a taaaall glass of vodka, then bathe, prepare, and all but drop-kick the kids to bed, wash and put away the dishes, wipe down the stove and counter tops, finish the laundry, don't update my blog, then go.. the fuck... to bed.

Being a stay-at-home mom is such a blessing blah blah blah but sometimes it's really fucking hard and never-ending, and no one knows, no matter how many vaguely panicked Facebook statuses she's posting, just how insane things can get behind closed doors for any particular mom. Because maybe her kid bites or hits uncontrollably or has tantrums til he's 9 or never sleeps or maybe half the house is emptying their insides all over the floor and mommy is elbow deep in unthinkable putridness, but she doesn't want to seem ungrateful (you don't have to "go to work", remember? Be thankful!) or unput-together or incapable in front of her spouse, children, friends, or the world so she chooses to smile instead. 
 
Aaaaand that's why moms are the best.

We've got a long stressful hotttttttttttt summer still ahead of us, but I guess I could take the pressure off a bit by passing up the fresh fruit aisle at the store for a couple more months for a start. Might be a good idea.

On another note, it really is amazing how much shit you go through when your kids are little.
 
 Literally.
 




Friday, May 31, 2013

You're stressing me (Sc)out

You can force a person to poop. 

It's true. If you really will it strongly enough, you can.

I'll get into that later, but first, let's talk classic cars. "Classic" is generous. Let me rephrase. Let's talk "really old cars".  I mean, I have absolutely zero interest in them, but, nevertheless, they are ruining my life. Not all of them, just the kind my husband is obsessed with. Specifically,  a car called an International Scout II, and, I know what you're thinking, and I agree- what the eff is that, right? How about a picture. 
 
 

There she is. The blue broken-looking one on the top there. Troy's Scout #4, a real beauty before her insides melted and burned holes in a bunch of probably very crucial machinery while I was following behind the old girl on the freeway in the beautiful land of freaking Barstow, California on Tuesday afternoon.

It goes without note, that a four- and two- year old who had already endured a four hour drive thanks to good ol' SoCal traffic are not the most fun road trip companions. Especially when you have to crawl-drive behind a rickety old car that could blow at any moment. And especially when my daughter is convinced she's about to shit her pants at the exact moment Troy gives me the signal to pull over while he calls a tow truck to scoop up his completely unnecessary car. In freaking Barstow. Did I mention that? Bar. Stow. 

Anyway, after about a half an hour wait, the tow truck guy comes, and we follow him to the nearest auto parts store because all the body shops are closed due to the day's lateness. Avery is sitting on her hands, holding her bottom, her little palms emulating a lid to an about-to-boil and whistle and explode-all-over-the-stove tea kettle. 

We arrive at the parts store. I frantically snap Landon out of his seat and then snatch Avery out of hers. I scurry to the store's front door, upon which the sign "No public restrooms available." has been taped. I smirk, pleased at myself, because whereas, usually, I'm annoyed at my obnoxious tendency to be an avid rule-follower, I know, right now, I'm like a rogue cowboy busting through the wooden half doors of a saloon with my guns blazing. "Let them try to stop me" I think. 

I punch the stores door open, prepare myself for intense opposition and a heated argument with whoever stands in my way, then shout in my sassiest sass voice at the first worker I see, "I've got a four-year-old who REALLY needs to use your bathroom and I read the sign but..." 

"It's straight back and to the left, ma'am." 

Dammit. I'm an asshole. Whatever. We're running and sprinting. I'm dragging her by the wrist, hoping to all things holy my son is following suit and hasn't been snatched by a wild Barstownian. At the toilet, I rip her pants down, plop her on the potty, shout a, "GO!!" at her, and she replies with a, "I don't have to go anymore." 

It's at that point, my eyes squinted, narrowed, and zeroed in on my daughter as she sat on that disgusting Barstow toilet, which may or may not have ever been used by any male less than 47 years of age in it's existence. It's in that moment that I, without restraint,  and after I completely discarded any sort of "mommy filter" that I carry with me daily,  threatened her life and everything she knew and loved if she didn't drop a deuce immediately. Because I knew, the second we left that bathroom, and only after I strapped her into her carseat and hit the potty-less freeway would she feel the need to "go" again. So, after I made my stance, she sat wide-eyed and absolutely terrified of her mother, and that's when the little girl stared at me as she absorbed my threats and then grit her teeth and pooped, what I claim, was a poop that I forced  her to poop. 

Aaand that's how you make someone do THAT. Mind over fecal matter, people.

So, anyway, an hour passes. Finally, the stuuuupid Scout is temporarily "fixed" enough to embark home, but I am still summoned to slowwwly follow the car home on the desolate I-15 freeway all the way back to Vegas. Keep in mind, the kids have been prisoner to their carseats now for six hours. Landon is so insanely tired that he has completely lost his mind about a fly that is zipping around the car. The exhaustion-induced drama pouring from my son is making me crazy. I'm rolling my eyes as he's screaming at the goddamn fly to "go away". And just before I'm about to call CPS on myself for what will surely be my most intense melt down, I glance at my review mirror while my toddler screams, "GO 'WAY BAD FWY!!!! 'WAN' GO HOME!!!!", and I notice that the dumb fly is not only near my son, but is perfectly perched upon Landon's little freaked out eyebrow, glued, while Lanman is exhausting his entire thirteen word vocabulary at the tiny, completely stationary, insect. It was sad.  

Even sadder (and way, way more satisfying) was watching Troy get blasted by simultaneous dust storms as he drove ahead of me, because his ancient vehicle doesn't have AC and it's freaking hot in the desert so his windows were down. I swear it was a gift. 

Then the sun went down. 

Then my totally fed-up kids passed out in their respective carseats. 

Then thanks to the day's stresses I became VERY sleepy. 

"I need to listen to the radio."

 I decided that NPR was the best choice in that maybe an interesting story might keep me from drifting. Little do I know, the particular story, which, after the whole potty incident was very ironically about the power of the mind, reads more like a soft, almost melodious bedtime story, and by the end of the segment, my sleeping brain and waking brain morphed and I began to hallucinate. Shadows on the freeway began to take on lifelike features, the lights on my odometer started to unnaturally flit back and forth, and Troy's Scout, which I was still tailing, began to look like a different car completely. A hallucination I was grateful to my brain for, because even if my dream-driving may have eventually led me to crash and make three-quarters of my family obsolete, at least I wouldn't be looking at that godforsaken car in my last moments. 
 
 
Thankfully we made it home safely. I'm glad to know that I have new talent out of the whole thing. I'll be happy to assist whoever with any digestive issues if you need assistance.
 
GO!!




Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Oh my quad.

Sometimes it feels like I don't live for much.
 
What I mean by that is, if it doesn't involve a two- or four-year-old human that once emerged from my nether region, I am likely not a part of it. Sure, I'd love to have a hobby or be a movie enthusiast or go to every new nightclub's grand opening, but, you see, stay-at-home moms have a bit of baggage. Baggage that happens to need their noses and asses wiped at all hours of the day and night. Baggage that can't be brought to movies or bars or parties. That kind of baggage.

So, when I discovered that I could partake in something for myself that came stock with childcare, I was in. I could check in, drop my precious but whiney and ever-thirsty (only for chocolate milk, never for water) baggage at the door and do something for myself and ONLY myself.

As most of you already know, I love working out. Love it. Spin class, especially, because it makes me feel like I'm fulfilling my deepest need at this point of my life, which is to go through the motions of going somewhere really, really fast and far away while actually being completely stationary because, let's be honest, I don't actually have any real desire to go anywhere at all. I'm in the heartabouttoburstwithloveandgratitude/getmethehellllllouttahere phase of my life.

Anyway, I've become quite good at spinning throughout the last year. I was just telling my mom the other day that I was fairly confident I could crack a walnut with my quads, in fact. So, I had that down. And thanks to my fresh new Lulu gear (I can call it lulu now. We're friends.) I was feeling good today. Pastel and matchy-matchy and extra perky, I swing my leg over my bike, take a look at myself in the mirror, and amongst a sea of bikes, notice the reflection of a new spin class go-er in the dark room. She's right behind me. "This is my first class", she actually admits to the instructor. So, because I'm feeling extra cocky today, I decide, in that moment, I would completely show off. I look awesome, after all, I mean, my freaking headband matches my outfit. So do my socks. And fingernails. This is my moment to get someone to think I'm cool and great, and maybe, with some persistence, I'll even push her to feel a little bad about her inability to keep up. I realize the immense assholeness of this inner declaration while it's unravelling in my mind, but I go with it anyway. Because before I know it, I think, I will be home again and scrubbing my indigestion-prone dog's vomit off the couch for the fourth time this week. This is as close to feeling noticed as its gonna get. I feel like I deserve the boost.

Off we go. I'm spinning like a maniac. I can see my nutshell-destroying thighs tense and swell and shimmer with sweat as my legs fly. The newbie behind me is struggling, sitting down and taking her time, but not at all phased by my Hulk-smash strength. She's smiling, in fact, seeming grateful just to be a part of the class as I'm pulling every trick I've got to get some attention. But, as luck would have it,  I'm being completely overlooked.

I'm kinda ticked and sweating profusely and my chest is heaving up and down. I'm killing myself for the hope of a desperate ego boost at someone else's expense. And that's when I notice it. I wipe my brow with a towel, glance at the mirror, and notice, in the reflection, the newbie's leg behind me is shimmering too. Good god, she has a freaking prosthetic leg. Holy fucking shit, I'm the biggest douche bag who has ever lived. I just spent twenty minutes insanely competing against a handicapped woman who surely could teach me a thing or two about self confidence. What a courageous lady.

It seems fitting that during the daily time that I deem my most selfishly deserved, is the exact hour I am taught a lesson that happens to really be the most important lesson I could teach my children. "You're not better than anyone, even while wearing Lululemon." Maybe a more important lesson for my daughter rather than my son, but now that I think of it, they do have a pretty impressive men's line...
 
Anyway, I'm pretty mad at myself. Needless to say, the next time I need walnuts I'm buying them already shelled. Because, god forbid, the nutcracker goes missing and my panties and bra happen to match.

Monday, May 13, 2013

Lululemonday

My husband is a smart man. Very smart. His mind works quickly and sharply. He can fix just about anything, he's creative, insanely talented, and he can make me laugh in a millisecond. My god, you should have seen his gay German airline attendant impersonation yesterday... Let's just say my post-baby bladder did not react kindly.

So, when he told me, for Mother's Day, to go to Lululemon and buy myself whatever I "needed", I was temporarily blinded by his blaring stupidity. So much so that I had to make sure I had correctly heard his proposal. I checked, then re-checked, then wiggled my index finger into an ear drum to loosen what surely was blocked by a pound of earwax, then checked again. And sure enough, there I was, given a free pass to make several deposits into a very, very dangerous account.

Dangerous, I say, because I am completely ruined to regular workout clothes now. I want absolutely nothing to do with them. You should know, I had only previously coveted the over-priced gym duds from afar, standing in line for spin class and jealously scowling at all the brightly clothed women who emulated a flock of exotic birds while I impersonated a sad, dull, gray pigeon, thinking, "Someday... Someday."
 
So, when I slid the first pair of obnoxiously hot pink pants up over my calves, thighs, then rear, then watched doves appear and fly out of my fitting room as trumpets sounded, I knew I was destroyed. Blinking in disbelief, I stood there, ran my fingers over what felt like a second layer of skin, fell madly in love, and instantly knew Troy had made a HUGE mistake. I spent over four hundred dollars on five, just five, items of delicious, glorious, living, breathing clothing and have been battling the pounding urge to get in my car and head straight back since. This morning, it took everything in my power not to respond to the kind, 'hello-how-was-your-weekend's' from fellow gym-goers with a "LULULEMON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'M A FREAKING PEACOCK!"
 
I drank the Kool-Aid and I can't fucking wait to burn off the calories in these magnificent florescent pants.