March 2011 Archives

Y'all remember this little nugget of a little New Year's Resolution I made? I mean, it's one thing to out yourself to a bunch of drunk people at midnight for your New Years Resolution. I can't make it that easy. I make a promise to my daughter and then blog it, hoping, I'm sure completely subconsciously that it being in print and all, I'll simply be held accountable.

No one has held me accountable or called me out with "Hey, where's that fancy book you were gonna write?" I'm assuming it's for a few reasons. Number one - they don't want me to beat them with my fists of rage and defensiveness. Number two - they're pretty certain there would be no reason to ask. Had I written the book, I probably wouldn't have kept it secret.

Only one thing is certain about announcing you're a writer and have ambition to write a book - everyone else does too. Which is fine. I think we all have a book or two (or seven - you know - to match all the voices in my head - whatever) in hour heads and hearts. So, the dream is there. But apparently, I'm a big fat dreamer and not always a doer.

Let me take that back and own up and toot my own horn here for a moment. I AM a doer. I've done some pretty cool things. I've DONE an Olympic Triathlon. And I continue to DO triathlons. I've gotten up on stage and DONE comedy. And then there's the time, against my better judgment that I sure DID bear hug Mo Rocca. I did all of those things. And the way I grocery shop - I DO that every week. I'm pretty awesome. And I totally love myself, y'all don't worry. We're flying high over here in the self-esteem department.

Still, I've got somewhat of Writer's Block I've got going on. I'm not sure it's block - more like lack of discipline meshed with self-diagnosed A.D.H.D., twins, triathlons, and worrying about my weight while baking a cake. You know, very important stuff like that. Strangely enough, I've read more this year than ever.

I signed up for a Wade Rouse's Writer's Workshop. Say that five times fast. It's partly because I kind of have a crush on this guy - and his partner. I just want to hug them. Is that so wrong? I stumbled into Wade's last session at the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop. I almost missed this guy, and as he spoke, explained, and did a writing exercise, I believe the guy is a) brilliant and 2) not only a gifted writer, but a gifted teacher of the craft. And also, I just wanna hug him.

Rouse writes humor memoirs. You should read them. They are clever, emotionally gripping, and bust-a-gut funny. I find myself relating to his situations and relationships. That he connects with so many on so many levels is a sell for me. Teach me your ways, Sinsei.

Some people suggest, I should just write. That I don't need a workshop. And to you, I say, shut up. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, here! It just occurred to me today that perhaps there's some fancy writer's software that I should be using. When I roll in to Saugatuck, with my Microsoft Word document, I'm concerned I'll be mocked like that damned clothes swap all over again. "OMG - did you see what she was wearing/eating/writing on!?"

Signing up for the workshop is a lot like signing up for a triathlon. You click "submit" and when it's verified and paid for, you're like, "Shit, I better get to the gym, I guess. Now what was that combination for my lock?" Very similar. It holds you accountable. Helps you realize once again, "Hey Les, remember, you're serious about this writing gig."

Once I signed up, Gary - or as I like to say - me in a man's body - emailed me and suggested I have some writing done to work with. And there it is, someone to hold me accountable other than the voices in my head with a gentle nudge, "Uh, you better get that badonka donk to the gym. And you best git to writing."

So, here we are, dreams in my head, sore body from the badonka donk in the gym, and a clear mind from waking up early to write. Sometimes dreamers are doers. Just on our own time.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: Twisted by Jane Monheit

I realize and wholly acknowledge that this is one of my favorite and newest outfits.

I went to a clothes swap. In theory, it sounds like a really great idea. I mean, reduce, reuse, recycle, and all that, right? But I had reservations - like if I bring my clothes, will anyone laugh? And will anyone have clothes to fit me? I'm guessing no pants nor shoes for this six footer. But it might be fun to bring some size 11 heels. Or maybe one of my full length skirts would make a stellar tube top dress. I dunno.

My suspicions were confirmed that indeed, I have very shitty clothes. I don't know what it is, but they suck. Really. No, don't try to cushion the blow. Seriously, they're consistent with poor selection, comfort (Stacy and Clinton's least fav word) and completely out of date and fashion. I don't know what it is. Some of the clothes I took I seriously bought just a few months ago. And they're total crap.

The other downer. I should have worn my spanx, because my front butt was just on full display. Jeans and a thin long sleeve tshirt will do that these days. I've waited 5 weeks to actually be concerned for cramming my cottage cheese butt into a suit for a trip to Jamaica.

By going to this swap meet, I've only depressed myself further. I snagged the only three tops in my size (large), and one of those items was a hat. I'm just sayin. The rest were all smalls and size 8's or smaller. It turns out that all of my very sustainable eco-friendly pals are size "you really shouldn't be here, Les". Is this an intervention, y'all? And if so, for which of my vices and bad habits is this for?Is it the fashion or for cupcake intervention? Tell me now. Help me. Teach me your ways oh fashion conscience and eat-righter friends of mine.

I walked out begging them to take my clothes to Goodwill, trying to guess what they'd be giggling about once I left - the size, or the audacity of some of the pieces I left.

That's how I roll.

Song of the day: Teach Me How To Dougie by Cali Swag District

I realize this is not the prettiest foot. But trust me, it's a much prettier hue of blue than what I just discovered tonight.

Tonight I just clipped Max and Lucy's toe nails. It's kind of like wiping down the kitchen cabinets, and you just don't want to do it, and then you realize how disgusting your kitchen is. I've been meaning to trim their nails for a while now. But Max obliges by just chewing his finger nails off. Lucy has figured out how to clip her own finger nails. And we're in the midst of winter. Yes, it's March, and it still qualifies as winter. In the summer, I look down and see their nasty toes and it only takes a few reminders of kids in flip flops to get me to trim their toe nails. But it's the arctic tundra, we have a socks necessity going. It's been a while since I've seen the toes.

So, tonight, while they read and did their home work, I snuck over and slipped off their socks. Max first. Oh dear God. What Saint do I pray to for this? That's disgusting. I clipped, and then I had to scrape out the muck and dirt. So gross. "Mom, that hurts." "Look kid, it's this or be treated for gangrene."

Then I moved on to Lucy's toes. Cuter, what with that worn off nail polish and all. But I get a little closer and oh my God - again - her nails are rapped around over the top of her toe. Gross.

I finished, sprayed my hands with vinegar and then washed them with scalding hot water and antibacterial soap. I explained the process of using soap in the shower and how to wash feet. Perhaps that escaped me when teaching them to wash, I don't know.

I feel better knowing that you all either feel my pain, are grossed out, or encouraged to check your kids' toes by now.

That's how I roll.
Song of the day: Prayer of St. Francis by Sarah McLachlan

When I was in high school - a good pal of mine - although at the time, I'm certain I was googly eyes for the guy because he was taller than me - but mostly he was a good pal of mine. Anyways, my pal told me I should try playing video games to increase my dexterity and coordination. I'm sure had using quote fingers at the time not been overshadowed by leg warmers or swatch watches, he'd have used quote fingers when suggesting me, dexterity and coordination in the same reference. And then he muffled his laugh, as if to say, "Yeah, like THAT'LL help." Snicker. Snicker.

I thought the suggestion was a little weird. Because I was discovering that perhaps - playing video games and attempting to help my dexterity and coordination- well, maybe a wee bit late in the ball game for that. Even back then, it'd been a while since I'd played Pac Man and Frogger - but really, I was certain that was not the answer. Maybe I should start by walking and talking and chewing gum all at once and practice that for a while. Then again, I never got around to that either.

Video games have come a long way since I played Frogger. When Ricardo talked me into the PS3, I knew to just sit and watch him "play" or whatever you do with Grand Theft Auto. And I got motion sickness. That so never happened crossing the street and jumping the logs on Atari. And hey, where's the joystick? Well, great. Now you can't even make a joystick reference these days. Nice.

There are way too many options on the game controllers now. Really. Seriously. No, like really. When we introduced the kids to our PS3 - but not Grand Theft Auto - thank you, I was very concerned about how we could possibly instruct them verbally on how to use the magic controllers. Ricardo just told me it would all be okay, and he gave them each a controller, and that was it. Voila. As if the dominant gene for all things video gamey was passed on to our off spring from Ricardo - not me - they just did it. They just know. I'm the only one in the family that finds this very creepy. Everyone else calls it "normal". Whatever.

The PS3 Move is my only saving grace because I can atleast functionally just move around and lose instead of just not being able to play because I can't handle the controller. I mean, I can mince garlic, saute onions, and flambe spinach all at once while changing the laundry. But I cannot handle one of those darn game controllers.

Still, I've resolved to try harder. Spend time with the kids. And so I relented and told Max I'd play Little Big Planet with him. Quite frankly, just the patheticness of him asking me because no one else was around was endearing enough. Had the dog still been around, he probably would have been a better candidate. But he's not. I really miss that dog. So, Max had to deal with me. I think he was shocked I said yes, "Sure I'll play with you."

And I mentally gave myself a pep talk: Dude, you can't just be present. You gotta really try.

I think the thing I've learned here is when there is simply no hope - I laugh at me. I laugh outloud, real loud, real hard at me. I'm sure some would just prefer I try a little harder. But today, Max simply enjoyed me laughing at myself. A quality, I think he should learn. Perhaps I should take myself more seriously. But what this kid needs is to not take himself so seriously. Mission accomplished. I have officially taught by example. I mean really, he kept telling me, "Grab that floating ball, Mom." How the heck to you grab something. "Jump and then R1." What's R1? He paused the game to show me.

Later I kept getting killed off what with all that synchronized grabbing AND jumping. I couldn't handle it. And Max would just coach me with, "Just stay there, Mom. I'll come get you." Or, my personal favorite: "I'll wait for you, Mom. Don't worry."

And just when I thought he he couldn't get any sweeter, later he played with Lucy. He got really mad and yelled at her. Lucy's defense was that he was patient with me, why not with her. Max's response was classic, "Mom doesn't know any better Lucy! You do!"

I think what he meant to say, but knew that I was listening was, "We don't pick on people smaller than us, and we don't pick on people with gaming disabilities!" Probably something like that.

Max continues to ask me to play with him. I think he's hoping I'll improve. Like he's helping me. But I also think, deep down, he just gets a kick of being a part of making me laugh that hard. Me too.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: Video Killed the Radio Star - The Buggles

Me with my Adonis.

Last night we were watching ESPN. Well, Ricardo was. I was surfing the web, and then correcting or bettering the lame commentators. It's what I do. When Ricardo chimed in. I realize that guy sports talk is different. But I appreciate our own married knack for sports chatter. We notice details.

Ricardo: "Man, that guy is a frikkin specimen. Watch him when he steps up to the free throw line. Check out his shoulders. He's ripped."

Me: "Who?"

Ricardo: "He's right there, Dwight Howard."

Me: "Wow, he's like an Adonis."

Ricardo: "And he's 6'11"." And then changing his mind, "Well, wait. Was Adonis gay? Because his arm sleeves are gay."

Me making my politically correct stance, "Baby, I think you mean his arm sleeves are stupid. Not gay."

Ricardo: "You're right, Babe."

Me: "Unless he had two arm sleeves. Because a gay man might wear an arm sleeve on each arm, but probably not just one. Just one would be Michael Jackson."

Ricardo: "Well, look who's wearing two. LOOK!"

Me: "I can't see past his Adonisness. He's frikkin beautiful. Wait, are those like reflector stripes on the sleeves? Do you think he wears the sleeves to accentuate his shoulders?"

Ricardo: "I mean really, isn't that like leg warmers? They are playing indoors for crying out loud."

Me: "Oh, calm down. You're just jealous."

Ricardo: "Jealous of the arm sleeves or the 16.5 million he's making this year?"

Me: "Both."

Ricardo: "Yeah you're right. Jeez, look at those shoulders!"

An hour or so later, we crawled into bed. I kissed my man tonight and told him I loved him. His response: "I just don't get it. I understand sleeveless shirts. But I DO NOT understand shirtless sleeves."

I rolled over and went to sleep after wiping away the tears from the laughter. I'm sure the sleeves kept Ricardo up all night though.

Dear Dwight Howard, We do not think you're gay. Because it's not our place to deliberate on that. It is our place however, to comment on those arm sleeves. We acknowlege that you're an Adonis that could crush the both of us. And we enjoy watching you play ball - with or without (but preferably without) the arm sleeve things.

It's just how we roll.

Song of the day: Super Star by Lupe Fiasco

Ricardo is so close to finishing school. He's also successfully raised the bar while ruining the grading curve. To the point where he was just notified that he was nominated and won a major award for his geniusishness. I am very proud of him. And also a little creeped out at the fact that he can ace grad school with such grace all while applying it. He is realizing he was already a critical thinker and do all that with kids running through the house - one with a giant machine nerf rifle. The other tattling that she just got shot in the head and the house rules explicitly state that no child shall aim their nerf weapons at anyone's face. And then the other's defense is always, "I wasn't aiming! I'm just 8 years old you know!" Yeah, Ricardo's rocking through grad school with all that going on.

The other night, we got into bed and he leaned over to me real sexy like and said, "Will you help me study my finance note cards, please?" Yeah, that's right, that's how hot we do it over here. We crawl into bed and study. Finance. I grabbed the note cards and asked him the question, it was an equation. And then I turned over the card, awaited his answer, and panicked. I knew I was done for. I was found out. My very low intelligence level was about to surface. I've kept it a secret this long. The finance note cards had equations that even if he'd said it correctly, I wouldn't know. Things like:
VB = A(PVIFA) + FV(PVIF$)

Crap. He's gonna find me out. How will I even be able to know if his answer is correct?

And then he rattled his answer off just like this: "Annuity times Present Value Interest Factor of an Annuity (that little A there) plus Future Value times the Present Value Interest Factor of Money (that little money sign there)."

That man knew I wasn't going to get it and not only got the damned equation correct, but in doing so, translated a finance equation so that I could understand it and help him study.

Next note card: Me: "Define Perpetuity."

Ricardo: "Perpetuity is a perpetual annuity."

Me: "Sounds like a George W. made up word. "

Ricardo: "Next card please."

Me: "Find the value of preferred stock."

Ricardo explains the correct answer.

Me: "I guess you're right, but I think the value of Preferred Stock at Walmart right now is probably $18.88. It's a cologne."

Ricardo: "Uh, sure. Next card please."

Today, I was helping Lucy make cupcakes for their 1/2 birthday - that's her justification, not mine. But who am I to argue? Meanwhile, Ricardo was quizzing himself for his Finance class. This time he had his own notecards with terms and was checking the equations. Lucy was shouting the number "2" for every answer.

Ricardo humored her with, "Close, sweetie. It's the annuity times the present value interest factor plus the future value times the present value interest factor."

I finished my very important task of responsible parenting: putting the cupcakes in the oven; and looked up while Ricardo was mid-sentenced in one of his equation answers only to find he was actually not reading the answers. He didn't even have it memorized. He just knew it. Impressive. And annoying.

"Wow baby, you just remember this stuff?"

He very humbly replied, "Well yeah, you have to."

Uh, not if you're a Communications Major. But as a Master of Communications - I'm happy to acknowledge that I may not finance well, but we all communicate- very effectively here. I'm also certain that Ricardo knows to keep all that Finance to himself. It's our silent deal. Our love language.

That's how I roll.

Song of the day: Murder By Numbers - The Police

Doesn't everyone have that one loved one they like to dress up with? I mean really. If JulzHOLLA! and I ever went into show biz, I'm certain we've already been type cast - don't you think?

Every big idea explanation to Ricardo always starts with: "Guess what I walked into in the locker room." So, I'll start with that here...I walked into the gym locker room and JulzHOLLA! had beat me there and was in very deep convo about a charity event that involved dressing up in costume. What? We LOVE dressing up in costume! It also turns out her husband didn't really care to oblige the dressing up nor the party. And so, I was considered husband-alternate. I will take it.

"Do you think Ricardo would mind?"

I consider the facts: costume and fancy party and then speak on his behalf:

"Uh-no. He'll be fine with it." You are welcome, hunny.

"And it's for a really good cause and half of it is a tax write off!"

"Wait, did you just say costume of silver screen duo?"

"It's such a good cause for the kids."

"We can dress up? And go out together? And we don't need a sitter because we're doing our husbands a favor by not dragging them to the party? We're in."

The actual invitation said something like, "Dress as your favorite silver screen duo or dress like you're walking the red carpet!" We went through a Lucy and Ethel discussion. But then that's not silver screen either. Then we went to Galinda and Elphaba. But that's not silver screen, that's the THEATUH! (Read in snobby British accent. Cuz that's how we say it.) Sure, Glinda the Good Witch and The Wicked Witch of the West are silver screen. But we can no longer represent that. We're Galinda and Elphaba. Once you go WICKED, there's not regressing back. Trust me.

Who could we be? Who could we be? It must be perfect in every way. Hmmmm....I wonder how JulzHOLLA! Feels about cross-dressing. No, that won't work. We need to take advantage of two chicks as a couple. Two chicks duo...on silver screen....willing to do anything for each other...who could we be? Ding! Thelma and Louise. PERFECT. And so it was. The costumes were so easy to throw together. If only we'd found a '66 Tbird...and Brad Pitt. Brad, it turns out, was busy. But we made it work.

JulzHOLLA! and I have been busy - unfortunately not together - but with our own family-ness. So, we needed a get away - Thelma & Louise style. I rented Thelma & Louise and we watched it while we got ready together, like two high school girls going to prom. Except we had only each other, and were sporting denim. I got to JulzHOLLA's and was escorted upstairs to a prepared snack bar for our festivities.

We knew it was a costume party, but that some people would be just dressed up like they were going to walk the red carpet. You can imagine our surprise when we walked in jeans, me in my double denim - which by the way is theatrically correct - only to find everyone in formal attire staring at us. Uh-oh. And then Princess Leia came to my rescue. Whew that was a close one. Soon, other respectables surfaced: Dumb and Dumber in the pastel tuxes, Wayne and Garth from Wayne's World, and a couple of Audrey Hepburns. It was such a fun evening.

I really needed a night out with my girl. I think I'm gonna start referring to her as My Boo. Too much? I think not.

That's how I roll.