In my new valiant and somewhat sub_par effort for weight loss, I opted for a group fitness class a few days ago. As mentioned before, it’s a delicate selection of which class I go to. I have to plan the perfect one that requires absolutely no coordination, quick movement, nor literal thinking on my toes. And absolutely NO stepping of any kind, no whirlybirds or grapevines. I think I’ve mentioned this here, here and here. It’s a long fall from up here.
Yoga is cutting it close, but slow enough for my mind to catch up with my body. But that whole breathing and relaxing stuff, well, I’m secretly not doing those frivolous things. I do my research and pick Pump and Cut on Saturday morning. It’s basically choreographed group weightlifting _ lots of reps _ I can do that.
And then I realize, nothing says to me “you’re a fat ass” or “You’re way out of shape” like going to a group class. Sure I can run three miles, and I do all that triathlon stuff, but that is swimming, biking, and running in a straight line, for the most part. And here I am doing front, lateral, and back lunges _in a sequence. No matter how many reps we do, I can’t pick up on it. And then she keeps up with these “add_ons”. I’m supposed to take a weight and thread it between my legs while changing lunging legs. Clearly the instructor has more room and less thigh to accommodate ridiculous things like weight threading. I can’t hang. I decide to go against my better judgment and glance at the clock to see how much more time is left in the class. I’m guessing (hoping. praying.) mid_glance that we are halfway through. Much to my devastation, we’ve just finished “warming up” with squats and lunges and threading. It’s been 7 minutes. SEVEN MINUTES. 53 more to go. This is going to be a long journey back to fit. I bear down recommitting myself to it all and remind myself to get more ibuprofen in bulk at Sam’s Club. Because I’m going to be hurting in the morning, and then a few days after that.
I keep on my journey to a lesser me. Do planks hurt anyone else’s toes? Or maybe it hurts my back more. Planks make me feel like I’m going to break in half. Perhaps I’m doing them wrong. Or is it my large linear equation of a body that’s THAT different from everyone? Because no one else seems to have plank problems. I know because I’ve ended my plank process and I’m assessing everyone else’s. I fake a need for water and head back to the plank when she then says, “Stay in plank and go one handed and rotate your body, your hand under and through.” Uh, WHAT? Shit. I finished. Where’s my medal?
Two days later, I would do a happy dance because I can walk without a cane or wheel chair, but it would hurt too bad. I’m sore. I drag myself to the gym, concerned that my reflexes for driving might give me butt cramp. It’s that bad. Today, I’m self_medicating my body with my own regimen: steam room, swim, steam room, yoga, steam room.
Before yoga _ I specifically prepared in case the pool wasn’t open to be prepared to run. That’s how super committed I am to working out. Aren’t you impressed? I wore my favorite new running shirt. I got it as swag at a triathlon. The problem is, it’s a running shirt, it’s not really expecting a lot of movement and reaching. It’s short. So in yoga, that’s a problem. And it really shouldn’t be THAT big of a deal _ but instead of Sun Salutations, I’m greeting my blubbery stretchmarks. I’m in yoga today because I’m trying to change that view, and now I’m sharing this view of horror in pasty white stretchmarks with the world, or with 15 other people, whatever. It’s not good for my zen. Or theirs.
At some point, it’s going to get better right?
Today I have the wrong ponytail holder. While my butt was growing, my hair was getting longer too. So, my hair regimen has changed. I’m learning this while my ponytail is whacking me while I run jog 2 miles. My hair bouncing and whacking me.I try to enjoy the fact that my hair is that long now. But that only lasts about 30 seconds on the 20 minute run. Fine, it was 25. Whatever.
It’s a slow process. Learning to make my body do these things…again. It’s a vicious cycle. One day I’ll figure it all out that I should just keep doing it. But for now, workout ensembles, hair accessories, and coordination are all I can focus on for now.
The big key to a successful workout is not the workout itself, but the preparation for it. Wardrobe is 90% of the workout success rate.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen

My favorite show is Biggest Loser. I like to watch it while eating brownies. That was funny and comical 25 pounds of brownies ago…
Three days ago, I signed back on to the Weight Watchers wagon. I could tell by the change in the weather that mama needs a bit of help. As the weather changes, so do my clothes. I whipped my jeans back out. I admit my first sign should have been my eagerness to cover up with my jeans. My glee that shorts season was over should have been my first clue. Perhaps the back fat would be the second. Still, I’ve been squeezing into the jeans with a bit more wiggle and jiggle than usual. There’s a noticeable difference in my thighs, and the tight fit, and mobility in general.
I signed up for weight watchers online and opted out of meetings for now because I’m not quite ready to go back and face my very supportive group of peeps that I’ve dumped by “not calling anymore” twice now with “Oh, Baby, I need you, I’m right back where I started, please take me back.” I know they will, and then they’ll share some kick ass low_point recipe with me. But for now, due to time constraints, I”m just going with the online gig, _ and so, I made a guess of my weight. The next day, I heaved my lard ass up onto the scale and was horrified to see the reality: I’d underestimated my weight by 3 pounds. That’s a lot when you’re guessing your weight and then you think you’re sandbagging. Sandbags is right. On my arce.
And yes, I am still a proponent of Clean Eating. It’s just that, I make a clean meal, and then hit a whoopie pie. A whoopie pie is when you make cake batter as cookies. Then you take two cake cookies and put the cake about an inch_thick layer of icing between the two cake cookies. It’s like a cookie sandwich. It’s brilliant and mobile and yummy. Mmm. Whoopie Pies, for the record, are not clean. They are dirty, dirty. And delicious. And I might as well slap one on each ass cheek. The whoopie pies are adding up.
“But didn’t you do an Olympic Distance Triathlon just a month or so ago?” Uh, yes, I did. And then I ate a cake. And the extra frosting. It was delicious. And it set a pace of me being satisfied with eating more, and reveling in all my glory of a mere finish _ well, I’ve been a bit absent from getting back to the gym. Some people take a day off. Some people take a week off. It’s been 2 months for me.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: Back in the Saddle Again by Gene Autry

My all_world most favorite place to grocery shop has just lost some major points today.
First of all, I go there because they have good produce, and a smile on every aisle. I like the friendly and helpful peeps. I like that it’s organized and clean. And I like that they have whoopie pies in the bakery.
Today, I started my giant grocery shopping day. And before I even got through the produce goodness, I was approached. By a man. An older one. And his line was as old as he was. “I bet you played basketball.” Go back and read that seven times and that’ll take about the amount of time he took to say it. Just that sentence. Now, I’m all for old people and all that. But I am in my shopping domain. I have a full cup of coffee with me, which means, I haven’t had my quota of coffee, and I’m just getting started with giant grocery shopping day. Since playing in sport, I’ve now obtained stretchmarks, birthin hips, and wrinkles. Things have changed a bit. It’s been a while, and I’m visibly rushed. Then the guy wants to talk Nebraska Volleyball shop with me. I politely hold up for a while, but then when I think the conversation is done, I start to push my cart. He walks with me. Still going on about Nebraska Volleyball. I finally admit I played a very long time ago and I played in Texas. I’m thinking that’ll end the convo. Oh no, he starts dropping UT volleyball names. The guy knows his stuff. And he’s still following me. I’ve now jumped produce ship and skipped my sweet potatoes to get out of this.
What else can I do? Aha! I know, “Oh, I just played Division 2, sir. I didn’t play at UT, I’m just from Texas.” He processed and realized I wasn’t the greatest volleyball player ever to walk into the grocery store and walked away. The thing is, he came out of the deli restaurant and towards me. And then walked back to the deli after our brief and very awkward encounter. The guy got up out of his seat, to come talk to me.
Then I was in frozen foods, when an even older man shuffled by and exclaimed, “OH HEY LITTLE GIRL, WHY AREN’T YOU IN SCHOOL TODAY!” EW! I was floored. It was really weird. I mean, really weird. All I could say was, “Oh. Wow. That’s different.” And made sure to make no eye contact. He giggled with pride at his comment this really bizarre old man Simpsons cartoony laugh: TEE_HEE_HEE! I’m sure the guy was trying to make my day, by referring to me as looking so young I should be in school and pig tails, what with this 6’3″ frame of mine and all, but again, I am in my zone grocery shopping, y’all. I came early to miss the crowd. I don’t go to the shoe store and interrupt Stiletto shopping with friendly gab. But I guess I came too early because apparently the retirement home shuttle hasn’t picked up the Friday breakfast club yet.
The best part of my new grocery store is the checkers. But not today. I get the checker who really wants me to know, understand and acknowledge that she woke up very early today. She starts checking my groceries and says, “What do you use these for?”
“Uh, well, they are artichoke hearts, they’re a vegetable….”
Blank stare.
“I put them on my pizza.”
“Oh really? What do they taste like?”
“They taste like ARTICHOKE HEARTS.”
The bagger stepped up and change the subject of stupid to something else, and then I wowed her with another item:
“What’s this?”
“Well, that’s organic sugar.”
I swear to God she said, “What do you use it for?”
“Uh….well, I use it for sugar.”
She pondered on that and then reminded me how tired she was from waking up so early and what a devoted employee she was but that she’s going to stop talking now because she’s so tired.
Good plan.
I’m headed to Wal_mart for a better experience. I swear to you on all eternity, this stuff really happens to me. The Seinfeld moments of mommyhood. You’re welcome.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: (EAR MUFFS) Candy Shop by Dan Finnerty and the Dan Band Hangover Soundtrack

Does anyone else stop to ponder when seeing these shoes, “Where the heck are the laces tied?” Or is that just me?
The other day, Max informed us that he was going to need some cool skater shoes to match his skate board. Those shoes with the nerve of having ridiculous options like tread, cushion support, and arches just weren’t cool for skateboarding. I obliged because Max gets a lot of great hand_me_downs from his cousins. And so, maybe a new pair of shoes isn’t too much to ask, I suppose.
So, we get him the shoes. They are very cool. And then we went to tie them. First of all, there are two sets of laces in each shoe. And they were approximately four feet long…each. And I seem to remember watching some teenagers skateboarding at the skate park, because that’s where we hang out for the life lesson of ineffective and non_creative ways to use expletives. So, in doing all that, I noticed the teenagers had intricate lacing system, but no ties. Interesting. But how did they do it?
Our next stop was the mall, and I can’t stop staring at skater shoes walking by. Eventually, we breeze by some SK8R BOI store of some sort. Because it turns out, they have those specialty shops at the mall. So I just walked in and announced myself. And you know how when you bring your kids into a fancy store, the lady runs over and asks to help you for fear that they are going to break something and they need to keep an eye on you and those pesky kids? Well, I think these guys were reciprocating that scene except they were pissed some minivan driving mom was in their store ruining their reputation of bad assness. Because they jumped off the cashiers table he was sitting on and rushed over to ask what the hell I wanted or I guess, could he help me. Mind you, I’m wearing workout capris, a t shirt, ASICS and my hair is in a pony tail. I’ve got my certified mommy purse and kids in tow. Ricardo is lagging way back for fear of embarrassing him as well.
“Uh, Hi, clearly I’m not fashion savvy, and I know and you know that if my son steps foot at school with this travesty of laces, actually laced and tied…can you help him?”
He looked down at them and agreed, yes, indeed. It was a travesty of shoe laces. And then the grimy low_riding jeans with the wallet chain and perfectly messy hair, tattooed all up and down guy, took Max over, and very kindly re_laced his shoes for him. This time, the cool way. I still don’t quite get how he did it. And I imagine a bunch of a guys at the skate park re_configuring shoe lace threading and tying as we know it. Some how they are tied under the tongue of the shoe. I don’t get it. Doesn’t look very comfortable to me.
I’m pretty sure they re_laced his shoes because they felt sorry for him that he had such an unhip and unfashionable mother. Trust me kid, I’ve seen that look of fashion pity before. Still, for the guy’s efforts, I bought a dress for Lucy on sale. Ricardo was worried it wouldn’t fit since it wasn’t a kid’s store. However, as suspected, it turns out, it did….their clothes fit a third grader who might be up to 60 pounds by now. Is that bad fashion form? To buy an 8 year_old a dress from a grunge teen shop? Yeah? No? Well, they took my money. So, there’s that.
I have to tie Max’s shoes now. It’s become quite a heavy responsibility and also a problem. I hope I get this right. Once we perfect it, I’ll be the mom encouraging him to just leave them tied so we can just slip them on and off.
So, sorry guy in the SK8R store for potentially ruining your mojo rep. And thank you for helping my son with his shoe fashion statement. I think the guy appreciated I would waltz in and ask for fashion help for my kid. I hope Max saw it. Because OTHER moms would simply make their son do the laces all wrong.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the day: Fake Believe by They Might Be Giants

I cannot stop staring at this picture. Remember when Michelle Pfeiffer sang “Who’s That Guy” in Grease 2? “Who’s that guy, where did he come from!? Who’s that guy, where can I get one! I never knew anyone could be so cooooooooooolllll.” Now I get it.
Several months ago, I walked into the locker room, and I heard the following conversation:
“I think YOUR husband would just be perfect for the part.”
“No way, YOUR husband is taller and there’s no way Bob would do it.”
And then I rounded the corner. Now, I know these ladies pretty well. I mean, heck, most of our conversation goes on in the locker room where we are naked and brushing, shifting and covering stuff up. So, you know, it’s a whole new level of interpersonal communication. We know each other. And we know each other’s husbands. So, clearly, my man is the tallest of the three. And they know it.
It was as if I was cued by these two women to round the corner. These are two pretty impressive and fairly influential ladies. Maybe they are into witch craft and voodooed me to come to the gym. Because when I rounded the corner they both gave me this look, started foaming at the mouth, and almost screamed right at me, “OH YOUR husband would be perfect for the part!”
I mean, yes, he’s perfect and pretty much for any part. But what did they want him to do? Change a light bulb? Reach something on the top shelf? I dunno. So, when they wiped the froth from their mouths, they explain, in a tag team, that they need someone to dress up as Fronkensteen from the Musical Young Frankenstein. It turns out both ladies are on a committee, or a board _ I’m sure I’m getting it all wrong which is why I am not on any boards nor committees _ and they are putting together a major fundraiser for the Omaha Performing Arts. And one of the shows Omaha Performing Arts is bringing in is Young Frankenstein. And please can Ricardo dress up, they have a make up artist and they’ll get his tux and everything?
I tell them no way. That there’s no way I’m volunteering him to do it, and also, uh, he would never do it. A few days later, back in the locker room, I get approached again. But this time, they hit me where I cannot resist. They’ve planned this. And they are brilliant, very slowly they explain,
“PSSSST, over here….Hey, uh, it hasn’t been announced yet, but WICKED is coming back to town next year. If Ricardo could do the Fronkensteen bit, we could get you whatever you Want. WHATEVER. YOU. WANT. ” Wink, Wink.
Oh no she did not. Uh, yeah, she did. She went there. I consider it all, because really, all I heard was WICKED is coming back. And really, I can weather the nosebleed seats I can afford. It’s really actually eye level when things and characters start flying. That’s doable. But I promise I will ask Ricardo, ending with, “But he’ll never do it.”
I finally remember to mention it to Ricardo. I tell him how excited I am that WICKED is coming, and with no manipulation tactics at all, I simply tell him what’s been relayed to me.I expect nothing but a giggle that I even brought this to him. As I’m babbling, I think Ricardo is adding up the cost of me buying tickets to a show I’ve already seen twice. I babble some more and then he simply says, “So, what would I have to do again?”
Just when you think you know your husband and what his response to “Hey will you dress up as a comical Frankenstein, I think it involves make up and a tux.” Whammo _ he hits me with a yes!? What the hell just happened?
He agreed. I went back to the ladies of influence and power (what now with those WICKED tickets and all), and told them the good news. And after a tux fitting and 45 minutes in a make up chair, my man, the shy guy, walked out with his top hat and cane, and greeted each hopeful donor and took their picture.
The man is in a top hat, covered in green, and you guessed it, the comment of the night was, “Man, you’re tall.” Nice.
Even better, the ladies of influence and power let me tag along, and dress up all pretty and attend the event as well. I stood off to the side, offering my monster some water on quick breaks in pictures. And I stood there in awe. He was doing this all for me. He doesn’t even want to go to WICKED. I’m taking my girl JULZHOLLA! He’s doing this for me. Well, and I guess that community involvement stuff to, but seriously, all for me.
And then one of those ladies’ husbands came up to us. I was explaining how grateful he should be that he’s not the man in green tonight, when he gazes into Ricardo’s eyes, and in all seriousness, this former Husker Offensive Lineman who shall go nameless for now, says, “Hey man, is that your real eye color, or does the green make your eyes pop that much?” Ricardo explained it was his real eye color. Awkward.
Then he went back to working the crowd. Did Ricardo just put his arm around the Mayor and his wife and joke around with them!? He’s having a great time, and charming everyone. So, while Ricardo charmed all of the local Omaha dignitaries and posed for hundreds of pictures as a green monster, I stood back in awe and just fell in love even harder with my man. I just watched him selflessly do all of this for me. I am so impressed and feel so loved, by the guy in green.
You know, we do a lot of selfless stuff for our family, but it’s mostly for our kids. It’s missed too much to just do something totally selfless for our spouse.
On our way home, I thanked him and told him much I loved him and then thank you again. He looked at me with those blue eyes and green face and said,
“Dude, didn’t we have it in our vows or something that we wouldn’t get all mushy like this?”
Good point.
I am so in love. I feel so loved. All in the name of Fronkensteen.
That’s how I roll. (But really, I’m still flying high on mushy love.)
Song of the Day: I Feel Pretty _ West Side Story (It’s on the docket for this season as well.)

Uh, yes I did. I was pretty sure Shelly would catch that one. Shelly and I used to work together. She’s taught me some very valuable lessons in life and she’s very precious to me. And she also let her daughter have a tv in her room. I thought that was atrocious and I would NEVER do that with my kids! Mind you, my kids were 6 months old at the time, and I was in the business of tough love at bedtime. Still, as much as I love to fall asleep watching tv, I don’t let my kids have that luxury. Until Aunt Charlotte ruined everything.
We were visiting family at their house, and she mentioned that their grown_up_and_moved_out kids had left a bunch of their stuff and would the kids want anything? I politely declined. And then she sneaked the kids upstairs. Max admired the TVs in each bed room. And Charlotte must have said in her sweetest teacher voice, “If your MOTHER says it’s okay, you can each pick a TV to take home with you! WOULDN’T THAT BE GREAT?”
And then maybe, “YOU get a TV and YOU get a TV and YOU get a TV!” Thank you Oprah.
Thanks for the set up Aunt Charlotte. I gotta keep my eye on her.So, I relented and said yes because I was having a weak moment at the end of a very long road trip for all of us. That Charlotte, she’ll get ya. So, we loaded up two TVs. My kids danced with glee and anticipation of having TVs in their rooms. I tried to explain that there’s no cable hook_ups in their rooms. But they seemed to be okay with just watching movies on their own.
When the kids ignore me while watching TV, it’s not the ones in their rooms, but the one we all share, the big ass TV in the TV room. Strangely enough, Lucy would rather watch her 1.5″ ipod screen than her TV. She never watches it. Max on the other hand, has convinced the entire family that he needs the PS3 in his room. Neither of them watch tv nor play video games at night at all. Max has his moments when he goes on video game binges. But its only if he has the time to do so, which is rare. So, when he does have the time, we let him enjoy it.
Aunt Charlotte must have foreseen that my kids have better discipline in TV watching than I do. And clearly, she’s the favorite right now. I’m still a bit embarrassed to out myself that my kids have TV’s in their rooms. But I’m working it out.
So, Shelly, I hope you’re getting a real kick out of this. As a mother, you’ve taught me well, to never say never, among many other things.
That’s how I roll
Song of the day: Video Killed The Radio Star by the Buggles

But I thought you had twins?
Yes, I do. However, it was 8 years ago this very day when Dr. Phil and Lucy broke my water. And this time, I was sure it was my water breaking, and not that weird pee thing. Lucy was born an hour and a half before Max. I don’t know if any of you have ever been in between birthing babies and had to wait an hour and a half before the second one came out. So don’t go judging me and my irrational favoritism.
I consider myself to be a pretty fair person. Still, today, Lucy is my favorite.
Don’t go getting your undies in a bunch. Unless you’re wearing thongs, because they don’t bunch. I’m just sayin. Still, don’t get all holier than thou on me. My favorite child policy and celebration is fairly private and completely unwarranted. I keep all to myself aside from the millions who read this blog today.
While we’re at it, lets give a quick shout out to Dr. Phil. He was helpful in launching me into motherhood.
I can see it now, now that I know my babies. It probably went down in my uterus like this,
“MAX! Come on! We’ve gotta go! We need to get out of here. Let’s GO MAX! MAX there’s more room out there and we’re totally ready for this! MAX let’s GO! MAX! MAX! MAX! MAX Come ONNNNNNNN!”
“LUCYYYYYYYYYYYYY! Leave me alone I want to stay it’s nice and wa……..”
“MAX LETS GO!”
“LUCCCYYYYYYYYYYYY! It’s nice and warm and I want to stay and….”
“MAX you need to come out before they come get you it won’t be fun.”
“LUCYYYYY! You interrupted me!”
“MAX! Let’s go!”
“LUCYYYYYYYY! It’s warm and snuggly up in here. I’m staying.”
“MAX!”
“Let go of my tiny little baby arm. I’m going to crawl up higher so you can’t reach me! I’m gonna do it! You’re NOT THE BOSS OF ME!”
“Fine Max, I’ll go, but they’re coming in to get you.”
“Lucy? Where did you go?”
That’s probably exactly how it all happened! And yes, a little part of me loves that Max wanted to stay and snuggle just a little bit longer. Lucy doesn’t let me have a lot of Max time ever since that day 8 years ago. So, maybe he was on to something. Maybe Max is the forward thinker.
I don’t really have favorites y’all. Favorites are for ice cream. But still, it’s on this day 8 years ago, that my life began thanks to Dr. Phil, and Lucy, and eventually Max.
That’s how I roll.
Song of the Day: (for sooooo many reasons!) The Fire by the Roots