April 2008 Archives

I don't think I need to complain any more about how cold it's been here in the Big O. It's been so cold here for so long. I grew up in Houston, where spring cleaning means, you get out and clean the yard. But I think the true meaning of Spring Cleaning means, "We've been stuck in the house for like 8 months. Maybe we should clean the house, Leslie?" Hmm. Makes sense. So, I've been doing a little Nebraska Spring Cleaning. I've been throwing stuff out like crazy. Because, well, I guess the best way to put it, is that our current security system is extremely SECURE. If a robber were to break in our house, he would trip over our clutter. Random clutter. Stuff everywhere. Does anyone else have to take caution like this to the throne?

I don't remember anyone skateboarding through the house, but there was snow on the ground outside, so maybe in desperation, I allowed it... And yes, I most certainly did sit on my half-bath throne for the sake of this kodak moment.

When I got to the medicine cabinet, I started looking at expiration dates. We've lived together for a while, been married for 7 years, and moved four times. How some of this stuff even made the moves everytime is amazing, but how it's still on our shelves is disturbing.

This is a regular bathroom trashcan. I opted to take the picture when it was full - of out-dated medicine. There is no other trash in the can. It's simply filled with these bottles.

Sure, nothing that will kill us. But in there somewhere was kids cough medicine. Super. And I know you see it. Does anyone REALLY want to take an expired dose of Immodium A.D.? I think not.

I saw this label and felt an ethical need to prove that I wasn't making this up when Ricardo came home. Becuase I know he thinks I exaggerate on occasion. But this, my friend, was not that occasion.

I didn't even KNOW Ricardo when this expired. Not when it was PURCHASED...when it EXPIRED. I'm apalled too. Don't you worry. I've had a nice long talk with myself.

And put that phone down. Do not call CPS, I've cleaned it out.

After that, I decided to start another project. Or four. But this one took a bit longer than I ever imagined.
See this bare kitchen. It's missing something.

Backsplash. Right?

My aunt loves two things. Neither of which are me. She loves me, but she loves two things. She loves chocolate and travel. And she too has been doing some spring cleaning. She calls me, and asks if I would be interested in having some chocolate labels. We share a love for chocolate. I'm the lesser...uh, obsessed. But I said an abounding "SURE, I'D LOVE TO HAVE THEM!" I should have known a few labels was about, oh, a giant tupperware storage box. Like the size of what you store your christmas ornaments in. I sifted through about 2,000 chocolate labels from all over the world.

So, when I was spring cleaning, I found the giant container - that she totally suckered me to take - and pondered on how to preserve the trusted labels. And then it all came together. It took me about, total, 4 solid days, but I did it. And sweet auntie better have me in her will is all I'm sayin. (Just kiddinnnnng sweet aunty. Sort of.)

I think it sums me all up: collaged, busy, chocolate, family.

And THAT's how I roll.

Never, in all my life, did I think I'd rely on this guy to bail me out. But it worked.

So, last posting, I said, I just loooooove to listen to what the kids say and the conversations they carry on in the car. Yesterday, my Mom called as we were buckling up from picking up the kids. We had a complete conversation as I pulled out of the school parking lot, because it takes that long. It take about 20 minutes to get out of the parking lot if you do it right, and don't hold angst with road rage....

So, I hang up the phone, and from the parking spot to the turn lane, apparently, the whole Book of Revelations has been discussed.

Me: "Okay Mom, bye. I love you." Click.

Max: "Mom, did you know that when the world comes to an end, if we don't go up with Jesus, we have to kill ourselves or the devil will put a 666 on our forehead?"

I am absolutely speechless. Finally: "Who told you that?"

Sweet neighbor buddy we take home from school: "Ryan told me."

What I wanted to say, "Well who the fuck is Ryan?" But what I said, "Who is Ryan?"

"He's in my class?"

"This kid who told you all this is 6 years old?"

"Yes."

At this point, I'm in a panic, because the kids are big into what Jesus does and says. Which up to this point, is great. But 'the end of the world' to a six year old is when their free helium-filled balloon from Chuck E Cheese pops. So, digesting that they think they'll need to off themselves when that happens, not great.

Also, my kids are in public schools for a REASON. And this is it. I mean, how did this conversation go down and an adult/teacher never once picked up on it? Seriously.

And we are Catholic. We have other issues to worry about. Hell-Fire-&-Damnation are for other people, we'll stick to whiskey and Hail Mary's, kids.

The kids won't stop talking about it. I'm begging God to make them stop talking about it, and they just keep on. So, finally, I get up enough nerve to say,

"You guys learn about Jesus at church. Not from a 6 year old at school. Because when one kid tells another kid, and then another kid, the story changes. And that's how rumors get started. And there should never be a rumor about Jesus. So, the next time Ryan or any other kid starts speaking in tongues...wooops, I mean, talking about Jesus, just run the other way. Okay?"

Fine. I didn't tell them to run the other way, but I did tell them to clarify with their parents first. And I told them that they wouldn't have to worry about what happens when Jesus comes because they are children.

All I could do was wish to be home sooner (in that 1/2 a mile drive) so I could get them home and numb their brains with SpongeBob. And I needed to shower after that one. Uggh.

That's how I roll.

The thing I love about kids and cars is they're strapped in, and have nothing to do, or break, so they just talk. I think that might be why my parents loved road trips so much, and now I do. The following is a conversation I caught on to while driving my kids and the neighbor kid home from school. It was the longest 1/2 mile drive I've had in a while. Please, when reading, read in 5-year-old tone. They were yapping for a while before something caught my attention:

"MY mom has a tattoo on her foot. It's a butterfly. It's drawn on there and it will stay on there for ever. Someone used PERMANENT marker on it."

"Oh...well MY mom has a volleyball tattoo. Right mom?"

"It's not a tattoo, Lucy."

"Yes it is, Max, it's on there forEVER. Right Mom?"

"Yes, that's right, Mommy was silly in college."

"Where's your mom's tattoo?"

"It's on her.......butt."

"MY HIP. IT'S ON MY HIP!" I didn't have the courage to explain that although my hips sag enough to possibly merge into my butt, the tattoo is on my hip. I swear. Now everybody out of the car.

That's how I roll.

Well, in an effort to tell this next VERY enlightening story of my life, I have to fess up. I joined Weight Watchers. I've avoided telling my great fanbase thus far for several reasons. First, what if I gain weight? What if it doesn't work like all the other diets?

The other reason is one time I was doing the ol Dr. Phil diet & exercise program - back when he was normal and not bailing out teenagers so he could exploit their good cause of beating the crap out of someone - who by the way- should go to jail just for being stupid. Taping it and posting it on YouTube? C'mon. They should have a special jail for stupid people. Apparently it should be called the Dr. Phil Show. I officially break up with you, Dr. Phil. Anyways, when I was doing THAT program, I lost I think around 50 pounds. (This was the baby weight...I gained 100 pounds pregnant, and I'm proud of it because I had healthy babies, so leave me alone.) So, I'm in the dressing room, getting ready for some gig, and we've all gotten Dr. Phil tshirts for some walk through downtown or something. And this Miss Bitter Lady Gigantore shows up in my space giving the once over look and politely lecuring me that I shouldn't even be a part of this Dr. Phil promo because I'm skinny. A) Eff Off Fatty. And 2) I'm "skinny" because I did the program and IT WORKED. Mo-Ron. That's the day that I realized some fat people hate less-fat people for complete same reason that they feel judged. So, I've been apprehensive to tell all that I'm in Weight Watchers because I didn't want to hear it: "You don't need to lose weight." That's flattering and all. But I'm 6'3", I can hold a little extra drunk in my trunk, and with the right girdle, no one will ever know. But I knew that I was still carrying around some weight that I should lose. We're striving to be healthy.

So, at the beginning of the year, I did it. I weighed in, and was way heavier than I thought. It was a tough realization. Because I work out atleast 4-5 times a week. It turns out my workouts were mundane and not challenging enough but my caloric intake was. I had to, according to Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka: "Strike that & Reverse it." So, here I sit counting points. I really enjoy Weight Watchers because they have a great system, and they have COOKBOOKS. And mamma loves me some cookbooks. Mind you I just MENTIONED to Ricardo that I was doing this and he immediately dropped 10 pounds. Jeesh. I have 4 pounds to go to reach my goal weight, and I've been losing and gaining back the last pound for a while now.

One of the reasons I love Weight Watchers is the particular meeting we go to. It's at night, and weighing in at night is not fun. I'm still struggling with it. I prefer going in the morning when I'm my lightest. My pal suggested we go, citing that the night time weigh in is well worth it. I wasn't buying it, so she bribed me with a get out of jail free card: We will go out to eat afterwards and eat whatever we want. When you're counting points, eating out is a luxury. It's our one meal we don't count. I'm in. So we go. It turns out, the speaker at the night meetings is worth every extra water weighted pound in gold. This woman is real. She's good and honest. And hillarious. I knew I loved her when she gave us a recipe for pie, cited how many points per serving and then cited how many points for the entire pie, just in case we needed it. God Bless this Weight Watcher Woman's Soul.

Last week, at the meeting, she was talking about what triggers bad eating, or in all our fat butt's cases: binge eating. I hate these talks because I am not an emotional eater. I just love food is all. I love to read about it, watch shows about it, smell it, eat it, eat more...look at the pictures in the cookbooks, make menus, grocery lists, cook for friends, eat more. If I could have any celebrities over for dinner it would be Rachel Ray, Paula Deen, Emeril, and Alton Brown. I love food. So the word "trigger point" for me with food is moot. But I sat there and listened. I guess if I AM an emotional eater, it's when I'm happy. And I'm pretty much always happy. And that's totally unfair.

So, we're talking about times in the day that we're triggered to eat. Someone brings up late at night. And I hone in. Me too. I chime in, and after I get playfully chastised for eating in bed - appparently that's a no-no. Whatever - I save points up for it. Awesome leader lady starts asking what other things we can do when it's late at night and we can do something else rather than eat. If we can find something else to pre-occupy ourselves for just 15-20 minutes, chances are, we won't eat. The craving will pass. I think the following is a list of suggestions from the audience of us fatties:
Read (I can do that eating)
Take a hot bath (If under the right conditions I can do THAT and eat too.)
Knit
Draw
Journal

All fairly good ideas.

She says "What else?"

Wow. The pressure is on. I'm thinking. She's fishing. I hate it when teachers do this. I take it very personally that she's counting on me to come up with the RIGHT ANSWER. Thinking. Thinking. I come up with something and then doubt myself as to if it's the right answer. I hesitate to raise my hand because remember when you were in school and your teacher asks a question and you totally know you've got it, finally, you know something and can so shine? Teacher calls on you and you tell teacher the answer only to hear, "Well, not quite." It's crushing. So, I resist answering.

"What else can we do to distract ourselves from eating late at night for 15-20 minutes?"

I'VE GOT IT! I'VE GOT THE RIGHT ANSWER. This HAS to be it. It's what she's searching for, because she's real, and funny and this is the best most correct answer in all the land! This MUST BE IT.

"Yes Leslie."

"Have sex!"

Jaw drops, she gets a little flush. Pulls her sweater up tighter around her up to her neck. Doesn't quite know what to say, apparently, it was NOT THE RIGHT ANSWER. But she finally says, "For 20 minutes? Really?"

I grin, proudly. Well, yes. I've never been more proud to be wrong in all my life. So, tonight, when you have that midnight craving, consider it. And tell your husband I said, "You're Welcome."

That's how I roll.

...It turns out white man CAN jump.

The other night, I had a hot date. And by "hot" I mean, I started it out just like us girls do in college, where I totally planned a group "meet me there" gig, and then manipulated a boy to take me to it. I better back up and explain, so get cozy.

As mentioned before, I'm competitive when I can be. So, with all this March Madness, our gym is having a promotion and competition. We get a team of 5 people, and earn points by working out, and going to different classes. If you can get your whole team of 5 to a class, you triple your points. Holla TEAM ST. MARY'S! I picked St. Mary's because it fit with my team: Women, holy and pure. The actual NCAA Men's Basketball team of St. Mary's lost first round, but whatever.

So, this forces my gym to get me to try new things. Spinning is still a big no-no for me.Then there was this big Boot Camp Party Workout, and it helps you rack up the points for your team. Personally, I see an extreme gramatical error in listing "workout", "bootcamp" and suggesting it's all fun with "party", but I mean, come on,TRIPLE POINT PLAY? I'm in. Let's do this.

Atleast with this, I'm fairly certain I'll win a free t-shirt. So, I signed us up for the Boot Camp Workout Party.And by "us" I mean, Ricardo and I. Let it be known that Ricardo is NOT on my team nor anyone elses for that matter, but I thought it would be fun for us to do together. And cue the luring of a guy to a "party" so he can meet me there. I was brilliant enough to not tell him the EXACT specifications of the workout party of this party. "It's some kind of workout and then party...I can't remember the name of it, but there's food and beer afterwards....Yeah? You cool with it? Sweet, I'll sign us up, baby." You workout and then get fed and beer, so you are simply working for your beer. Yin and Yang. The balance of nature, really.

Once Ricardo figured out it was bootcamp, he only cringed for half a second. I think he's in good enough shape that he knows he can handle it. AND, he's willing to see how soon I'll barf in front of all the other people. I'm happy to say, we both made it. I didn't barf, even though I'm sure it was worth it for the anticipatioin for him.

After the workout, we were sitting with friends and discussing creative workouts - and the one we just did in Boot Camp. Ricardo casually mentions one of his college workouts when he was a superstar. The workout, per his suggestion, was a dunking contest. Of which Ricardo's goal, back in the day, was to touch the TOP of the backboard. I'm fascinated and can't believe I didn't already know this. He goes on to mention that he could dunk from the free throw line and in this workout, he could touch his armpit to the rim of the effn basketball goal. Are you kidding me!? And, ow. I bet that hurt. First of all, I guess white men can jump. And secondly, had I even thought of, let alone, mentioned a workout, my coach would have me on the line to run sprints with "How about this for a workout Leslie?" and a kackle not far from a mix of the Wicked Witch of the West mixed with a little Dr. Evil all rolled into one.

I was fascinated with the fact that he not only could do such a workout, but that he was so blaise about it. He wasn't even bragging. He was just remembering the good ol days. His glory days were a slight bit different then mine, with him being at a larger school and being successful and all. And by "successful" I mean four-time All-American, second in the nation, and that measley little 18 year record and all that. What blew me away even more is that I didn't know this about him already. I knew he'd been a very successful high jumper and had a lot of fun in college. A LOT. I'm guessing I was so busy talking and yapping about MY glory days all these years, that he couldn't get a word in edgewise, so now I'm forced to listen in on conversations with other people.

Ricardo and I have been together roughly for about 10 years. Today is our anniversary: Lucky number SEVEN. I think noting our anniversary isn't half as important as learning something new about this guy - other than stuff like he leaves his dirty clothes behind the door of our bathroom instead of putting them in the hamper that's three feet away. I'm willing to accept that it's simply physically impossible for him to do so. Just like it's physically impossible for me to go to bed at night without eating chocolate. Fair enough. For days now, I've been day dreaming of my man dunking in his track suit. And watching how much fun he must have had with his team mates.

This is all good, because typically, we end up forgetting our anniversary, only to be reminded by his Gramma who sends us a nice card. Atleast we mutually forget.

This year, did something very romantic. VERY. We went to a waterpark/hotel with the kids, JulzHOLLA! and her family. Escorting kids to the bathroom from the pool, scurrying screaming kids in wet suits up to the room, pizza delivery, trying to explain that "slumber party" for 5 year olds means "go to sleep...ALL OF YOU....ALL TOGETHER AND RIGHT NOW!" So Romantic!

I wouldn't have it any other way. It's like having a slam dunk contest in training for high jumping: Pertinent to the performance, breaking up the workouts with some fun, lots of work, more smiles, sharing it with great pals and ultimately, keepin it fresh. And every now and then, a big hairy armpit hits the rim....wait a second....

That's how I roll.
Happy Anniversary, My Wesley!