Well, He's Got MY Imagination...

Most of the time, my childrens' comedic outbursts are hilariously predictable. At the very least, their humor directly pertains to the conversational subject. Just as the audience “cooed” and “guffawed” at the adorable quips of Rudy on “The Cosby Show” or nodded in smiling approval at The Beaver as his innocent hilarity summed it all up…so do my children supply unyielding humor in my life and unending fuel for my blog…

However, sometimes, as kids will be kids, they will ask random questions and make random comments...like, (V: “Momma, I REALLY like your boobies...I have small boobies, you have BIG boobies!” or “Momma, little girls drink juice…When I’m a Momma like you, I can drink WINE!”) such was the case tonight, as my father (“Big Al”) and I moved furniture in my bedroom.

[Enter M, through the bedroom door…upstage]

M: Mom, do mosquitoes drink your blood?

Me: Yes

(Because I believe that honesty is the best policy, especially when it comes to science, and it’s true…mosquitoes DO drink you blood!)

M : [BURSTS INTO TEARS…NAY, HYSTERICS, SCREAMING…] NOOOOO! No, no, no…NOOO! NOOOO!

Me: [Stifling a laugh, because, bless his heart, he was honestly and earnestly TERRIFIED]

M: But Momma… [between sobs] I don’t wanna turn into a ZOMBIE!

We tried telling him that it simply wasn’t true. We tried telling him that if HE bit a MOSQUITO, the mosquito would turn into a BOY (which he reluctantly considered, but in the end rejected…) and finally we reasoned with him, pointing out that size ratio between a teeny-tiny mosquito versus a nearly 6 year old boy negated the possibility of enough sanguine consumption essential for full-on zombie transformation; a theorem that was (gratefully) accepted. I’m not sure when or where he gathered the information required to connect a mosquito bite with a zombie transformation, or why he decided, at that moment, to burst into the room with his query, however after several reassuring hugs from Big Al and Momma, M seemed adequately satiated, and ready to move on to his next hypothesis. Thankfully, I’ve just finished the Twilight saga, so I feel fully prepared to tackle any vampire or werewolf questions…

Mommy and Baby Yoga...Or How I Lost "The Baby Weight" ha ha.

When V turned two and traded the pull-ups for Princess Panties, I took a deep breath, pulled up my OWN big girl panties and admitted that once your child is potty-trained, you can no longer use “baby weight” as an excuse for being heavy. Subsequently, the past few years have been a fitness revolution for me, a muscle renaissance if you will. I have lost 30-ish pounds and kept them off (more or less…right now…less than more, but I’m working on that!) and revealed a never before seen love of exercise and being active. I have even discovered that I love being outdoors (a fact previously HARSHLY disputed citing “puffy hair” as an excuse…a pony tail has cured that.) I’ll be the first to admit that my first love is aerobics…Old Skool style, with “military-type” calisthenics rating a close second…mainly because they work. I have “tried” to love running (too boring,) tried to love swimming (I suck,) tried to love weight training (I’m so lazy that it takes Jillian Michael’s like beat-downs to get me to perform…I know I get great results when I lift…but I’m like the Hulk…You won’t like me when I’m angry...)

Since I really do enjoy trying new things in the fitness arena (Pilates proved extremely enjoyable!) I decided to take a yoga class. I’m so talkative and such a total spaz, that I wasn’t sure it would be a good match for me, or not. But I decided to try it anyway. Not for the yoga, so much, but because my friend Andy is the Yogi! Andy is a cool chick and mother of FOUR! (Big Daddy AFFECTIONATELY calls her “Quadramom”) All girls! The two oldest are a few months apart and the two youngest were… SURPRISE… twins! The first class I took was an awakening. I was so relaxed and stretched out afterwards, and I had no idea how *challenging* yoga can be! The best part was Andy led the class in such way that you, literally, could keep your eyes closed at all times…her descriptions of the various poses were so descriptive, and her vocal cues were so soothing. At the end she explained to me that she was trained in a way that allows one to use their “inner eye” as their guide…never worrying about what the instructor is doing, or what their neighbor is doing…rather…letting the practice come from the inside out, instead of from the outside in…I should listen to my friend Andy…she’s a cool dude.

Andy recently decided to offer a post-partum (“Mommy and Baby”) yoga class. To ensure that all of her participants are using proper body position for both mom and baby, Andy sent out a mass email asking for a volunteer to help her demonstrate…what caught me hook, line and sinker was the clause: “If you don’t have a baby, you can borrow one of mine!” LOVES! I emailed her back immediately.

Class today was so much fun!!! Andy’s daughter was an absolute DOLL! She is about 4 months old…and Andy had her dressed so cute…a red one-piece covered in colorful hibiscus! She smiled, she cooed, she chewed on her hand…she babbled, she participated, she turned her head every time she heard her Momma calmly giving the class our next instructions. She started off without a “paci,” but closed the class asleep, cradled in my arms, sucking intently on her pacifier. While another baby cried and fussed the entire class, I couldn’t help but feel pride... “MY” baby was GREAT! But still, I could feel the PALPABLE stress from that Mommy…who tried, alternately breast feeding her baby, rocking him, laying him down, picking him up, and eventually left the room. And there I was slim, trim and toned with my “borrowed” baby, who was the picture of perfection. I was reminded of the SHOCK I felt after I had my first child…NO ONE told me that for DAYS after you have a baby (and for some, months!), you remain looking 4-5 months pregnant. I was expecting to “bounce back,” after all Rachel did, after she had Emma on “Friends.” My OWN daughter V would have been crying just like the other Mommy’s son…V cried on her way out and didn’t stop crying until she was 6 months old. Hell, she STILL cries all the damn time, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get to me sometimes.

I looked down at Andy’s daughter’s sleeping face and smiled…I giggled to myself because MY OWN kids would NEVER have sat still for 45 minutes of baby yoga. I felt like a Stepford Wife. And it was GREAT! My whole philosophy on life amounts to, basically, “What you see is what you get.” But not today. Babies pick up on Momma’s stress…whether it is lack of sleep, lack of patience, poor post-partum body image…inability to breastfeed, feeling “judged” for NOT breastfeeding or having to deal with a baby who won’t take a bottle FORCING Mom to breastfeed. I truly felt for the Mommy of the crying baby…I have SOOO been there and done that. We juggle everything pertaining to family all at once, ourselves, with the (sometimes unbearable) truth that everyone else’s needs come before our own. But I got to coo and cuddle MY baby, and then give her back. It was every bit the cliché description on being a Grandparent, and of course, now in MY mind AP can (and will never!) be able to do any wrong. She’s the perfect baby. Period! And I am not Jennifer Aniston. I am “Rachel Green” from friends with my size 26 Lucky Brand Jeans and flawless hair.

Since Big Daddy and I have idly been toying with the idea of a 3^rd baby (don’t hold your breath… “toying” simply means picking out stupid baby names after too many drinks…like “Bandit” and “Foxy,”) I asked Andy if we could “show” AP to Big Daddy, so he could see me holding a baby…hell, I’m pretty sure being in such close proximity to all those babies and Mommies had me OVULATING the better part of the class…!

When we exited the YMCA, Big Daddy was sitting on a bench with V waiting for us.
“Look V!” I said “A baby! Do you know who this is?”

“Um…” she thought…confused…and then answered tentatively…

“Um…M [her big brother]?”

No, I had not entered a transgender rendering time machine…I just borrowed another Mommy’s baby to help her teach a yoga class. Big Daddy was tickled. He was all, “Wow, you lost ALL your baby weight SO FAST!” And I was all, “Yeah, it was like ALL baby this time…like ALL baby.” So now I like Yoga, too.

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Watch Out Linda Hamilton! I Single-Handedly *BROKE* the Best YMCA Instructor!

Tina and I have a saying: “I can’t win for losing.” Roughly translated it means: Even if I lose the MOST, I still…LOSE.

I have gained 10 pounds. Ugg. I can’t win for losing. I need to step up my game, not only putting the extra time in at the gym, but also watching calories in versus calories out. Ugg…More loseage. My family keeps REALLY tight tabs on my diet/exercise after my losing a few too many pounds last year resulted raised eyebrows and my hair falling out by the fistful in the shower. This week, in addition to rolling out my penis and “manning up” on the exercise and shutting my pie hole and putting down the Girl Scout Cookies…I am trying to fit in all in, in a balanced way, since I am soon to be VERY short on child care for a while.

But since I can’t seem to do anything simple, I went ahead and entered the “I can’t win for losing” zone. I literally told my mother as I walked out the door, “I don’t even know why I am going to the YMCA tonight, when I have so much other stuff to do…” My comment was met by my Mother who, full of parental judgment (and with LOUDLY, carefully placed emphasis…) said,

“I don’t EITHER!....” but let the last bit kind of drift off, by turning her head, as to feign interest. Too late…You’re my MOM, it doesn’t matter what you say or what *I* say, even though I am 33 years old and even if I think you are dead wrong, I still care…and I still have guilt.

Tuesday afternoon “Interval Class” is probably my favorite at the local YMCA. The instructor, T, has a “reputation.” Three word…People Fear Her. She’s not overtly mean, like Jillian Michael’s of “The Biggest Loser” fame,and yet, she expects just as much. She is totally DIESEL, but still feminine…not bulky, but definitely muscular and toned, but at the same time, teeny tiny. She is dark haired and tan…not the fake bouncy Barbie-ish Holly Madison-like aerobics instructor that makes you feel inadequate just being in the same room with her…rather…she makes you feel like you want to BE like her, like in some alternate universe, you ARE her when you are taking her class. She is tough, but smiles the whole time…a juxtaposition that makes her both a little “scary,” (as in… “Will I be able to DO THIS?”) but also likeable (like, “I want to show T…I can DO THIS!”). She uses an Old Skool, jumping jacks/squat thrusts/plank position training regime that is hard as nails but WORKS. It’s the reason only the MOST fit people take her classes and the reason when she subs for other instructors, the whimpy soccer moms walk out and shoot the shit on the stationary bike, instead, but the determined, overweight recently laid off substitute teacher stays and sweats it out…Because the people who take Tanya’s classes want their ASSES KICKED…(in a GOOD way) …and GET RESULTS.

Tonight T was teaching…but she wasn’t *teaching.* My YMCA friend Lola told me that “rumor has it,” but when T “calls a class” (meaning: she has a sport’s injury so she *instructs* rather that *participates*) the class is BRUTAL…and that it was. I’m quite sure that I have NEVER sweated in a group fitness class the way I sweated tonight. I mean, I’m a sweater…that’s for sure…but I was dripping tonight…drenched. T was brutal and unrelenting…and I was in heaven.

In the beginning of class, T asked for a volunteer to demonstrate her class as she called it. Her fractured heel was keeping her, reluctantly, at bay. Girlfriend did NOT want to be out of commission, and I’m sure that, as strong as she is, it is probably pretty devastated and unreal to be told, “You CAN’T” do something. I’m sure it was sheer terror that kept anyone from being forthcoming. I, a little bit, wanted to be like, “Me…pick ME!” Because I felt up to it, but no…I didn’t want to be “showy.”

Forty minutes into the class, I had used muscles I’m sure I haven’t used since childbirth thanks to a little frisbie lookin’ thing called a “glider.” It was like I had my Somoan War Dance Face on…man, I was DOMINATING. She had me at “jog it out.” And when I knew we were doing the jumping jack/heel kick forward, side, back and up…I KNEW I was in “the Zone.” What a GREAT WORKOUT!

Sweaty, tired, beat-down…we had about 10-15 minutes left of class…one or two more intervals and we were done. “Ok, PARTNER UP!” She said. A few people moaned. “You don’t like partners?” Asked Tanya? “FIND A PARTNER!” I looked over…she had a HUGE smile on her face!

“Ok…Who wants to be MY partner?” She queried.

Well, why not? I was IN THE ZONE! If I can keep up with T?! Watch out, Linda Hamilton, I can fight the Terminator on my OWN…(but don’t expect me to make out with that creepy horse/dog mullet guy who lives in the sewer. Goo!) I can DO IT! WATCH OUT! I have FINALLY SURVIVED T’s CLASS AND I HAVE LIVED TO TELL THE TALE! I’VE WON!!! It was like a freakin’ GUN SHOW up in there!!!.... Or not…I’ll go ahead and nutshell-it-up…I was T's partner…we were demonstrating a shuffling/punching/jabbing thing (with no actual touching), I was shuffling backwards…she was shuffling forwards…she overcompensated, tripped, fell, and well…even though it was totally unrelated to me…I took ownership. Oh My God. I broke the best instructor at the Y. Strong in body and mind…she tried to go on, but after the initial pain failed to recede…T was forced to admit…that was it. She was hurt. A slew of core Y employees circulated in and out, mostly trying to keep her comfy and keep things light…but when “we need to cut her pants off…oh, and grab the defibrillator and scissors! We need to cut her shirt off! See? Then you’ll forget all ABOUT your heel and knee!!!” was said, the room erupted in giggles…even T.

Tonight, the Mighty T (a name I bestow with ALL due respect ) was taken, kicking and screaming, out of the YMCA in a wheelchair. And I couldn’t help but feel that because I was her partner (although we were never touching….) it was all my fault. Yes, I could survive and even DOMINATE T’s class…but…then I broke the teacher. There’s the whole…”can’t win for losing” thing.

True, it’s not REALLY my fault and I know that….but I will still be making T a batch of rice crispie treats. I’m a mom…it’s the only thing I know to make it all better! I just hope and pray T is okay and back in commission soon…! And selfishly…I hope no one blames me. I’ll be prepared for a good stoning tomorrow  …can’t win for losing!

What Your Kid(s) Say About You

I asked my kids, separately a la "Family Feud," a series of questions. Here are their answers, with my comments in italics.

M – Age 5

1.What is something mom always says to you?

I love you, too. awh!

2. What makes mom happy?
When I say “I love you” and write her a sentence. Nothing makes my heart sing more...

3. What makes mom sad?
Me spanking her.

4. How does your mom make you laugh?
Tickle me

5. What was your mom like as a child?
Good subject to opinion and/or brown-nosing

6. How old is your mom?
33 correct

7. How tall is your mom?
6 feet incorrect. I am 5' 3"

8. What is her favorite thing to do?
be with me and read the books Twilight and Coraline but to be fair, I am currently reading *Water for Elephants,* which is one of the best books I've ever read.

9. What does your mom do when you're not around?
Have some quiet time ahhhhh.

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
Saying French words like “Point a le pomme.” (Point to the apple) It should be pointed out that I DO NOT speak French and I had NO IDEA M DOES.

11. What is your mom really good at?
Math and sports No and no.

12. What is your mom not very good at?
Bike riding wrong again!


13. What does your mom do for a job?
Milk the goats. True.


14.What is your mom's favorite food?
salad and lasagna okay, but Mexican ranks pretty high, too.


15.What makes you proud of your mom?
When she wins a race. Loves!


16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
C3PO on Star Was the Clone Wars I would have said someone cute like, "Josie" from "Josie and the Pussycats" or "Tinkerbell," but the kid's got a point...I AM a lot like C3PO...

17. What do you and your mom do together?
Um…play and kiss and hug true.

18. How are you and your mom the same?
we love each other true.

19. How are you and your mom different?
She is taller than me 3 in a row!

20. How do you know your mom loves you?
because she hugs me and kisses me and tells me “I love you, too.”

21. What does your mom like most about your dad?
He’s gonna marry her. Yes, one day, he'll make an honest woman outta me...

22. Where is your mom's favorite place to go?
The pet store. Partial credit. I don't like pet stores, but I DO like pets. I don't like the animal shelter, but I'm glad it's there and I'm happy we got our dog (a.k.a the best dog in the history of canines) there.

Answered separately by V, just shy of 4 years old:

1.What is something mom always says to you?

No! embarrassing and pitiful...but true.

2. What makes mom happy?
Getting flowers. only when you pick 'em yourself, hun!

3. What makes mom sad?
Making messes. double true.

4. How does your mom make you laugh?
Making funny faces, like…! (Demonstrates!)

5. What was your mom like as a child?
Good please refer to Max's #5

6. How old is your mom?
36 INCORRECT!

7. How tall is your mom?
Medium okay

8. What is her favorite thing to do?
Read books! In my head, when I was asking her this, I was thing, "Oh God, please don't let her answer 'drink wine,' even though she'd be TRUE." Although, "reading" is a great answer, too.

9. What does your mom do when you're not around?
Do computer.

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
Making up a song. I gotta hand it to V...even though I'll never be famous for anything...this is more realistic than "Speaking French" like M said...And I DO make up some pretty awesome songs...even if they are for V's ears only...

11. What is your mom really good at?
Reading books. One of those moments when you hope your kid wants to be "just like mom."

12. What is your mom not very good at?
Crying. Sweet!


13. What does your mom do for a job?
Computer So TOTALLY wrong (WAAAAYYYYY too boring for mom!)


14.What is your mom's favorite food?
Broccoli okay.


15.What makes you proud of your mom?
That she gives me hugs and kisses


16. If your mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
A farmer true!

17. What do you and your mom do together?
Play some games

18. How are you and your mom the same?
We make friends together

19. How are you and your mom different?
We have on different shirts.

20. How do you know your mom loves you?
I don’t know! How about you tell me? Riddle me this, V...

21. What does your mom like most about your dad?
Calling pretty names of you. Wow, I didn't know English was V's second language...but it sounds like it when she talks like that!

22. Where is your mom's favorite place to go?
The farm!!! And...scene!

Not Your Momma's Barbie Doll

Do you remember when Barbie was just a hot chick in a modest one-piece?

Remember when Barbie, in all of her total-unable-to-realistically-occur-in-nature glory, stood beautiful and proud, 38 G breasts perky and firm, set snuggly inside her Bob Mackie gown could be relied upon for good, wholesome fun?

I mean, even after making Ken dinner, engaging in non-genital-having sex with him and then having a 5-year-old child sized fist of cotton shoved up her blouse to mime pregnancy (was I the only one who did that?!), Barbie personified the fantasy life of so many idol worshipping little girls who wanted nothing more than to be like Barbie when she grows up.
In the ‘50’s Barbie was usually a movie star or fancy socialite. As the years passed, Barbie transformed herself from pink Corvette driving beach babe to talented equestrian (complete with winking wonder horse), from older, more mature (and hot) big sister to “Skipper” to career woman. Barbie has, apparently been to veterinary school, flight school, cosmetology school, as well as both nursing AND medical school. Girlfriend’s got more degrees than a thermometer. Barbie has been a member of every single armed force in the United States,

not to mention a Canadian Mountie. Not only has Barbie been an Astronaut, but she has also served under Captains James Kirk AND Jean-Luc Picard (that’s STARFLEET, Bitches!)

She’s the only dame who can not only fly the plane, but can also pass out cocktails and peanuts as both the pilot and flight attendant. Barbie has worked at McDonald’s,

performed as a “Spice Girl,” and may possibly be the only Princess who was also a NASCAR driver.


That’s our gal, the embodiment of a woman who can truly “do it all.” That being said, it appears the folks at Mattel are running low on ideas. When I first saw the commercial for Barbie’s yellow lab that SHITS out little brown tic-tacs, I rubbed my eyes like a child waking from an afternoon nap, wondering in disbelief if my eyes had deceived me. No, no…there’s Barbie with a poop picker-upper (a long piece of plastic with a magnet on one end) and oh, yes er…uh…yep…let’s just say the ANUS on the dog qualifies it as more anatomically correct than Barbie herself. I can’t remember the exact name of the toy, but it was something along the lines of “Barbie and Her Dog That Takes A Dump.” I bought it the very next day.


About a week later, I was driven to hysterics when Barbie’s friend “Teresa” showed up on my doorstep, a gag gift from my friend Becky. Teresa is Barbie’s uglier, fatter, dumpier friend. (*SARCASM*) I know this because a) her name is Teresa and not Barbie and b) she is brunette, which automatically knocks her down to “side kick” or “wing man,” a fact that drives me, the mother of a very gorgeous brunette, BERSERK! It’s not that I have anything against the name “Teresa” per se…but why not “Gi Gi?” or “Jacqueline” why? Because Barbie is a jealous bitch and wants to hold Teresa back…
Upon opening Teresa’s box, I find that not only is Teresa a “cat person,” but her cat PEES in a LITTER BOX. And not only that…but it WHIZZES out of it’s BELLY BUTTON, not unlike a cat with a surgical procedure called a perianalurethrotomy or PU (Yes, the surgery to correct a severely blocked cat is called a “P.U.”) where the urethra is surgically shortened and altered to bypass the urogenital opening allowing urine to drain from a small hole in the lower abdomen…hopefully Barbie was her surgeon and gave her a discount. V promptly flushed the little rubber cat down the guest room toilet, who resurfaced several hours and hundred dollars later, and yes, the plumber was kind enough to ask if we wanted the toy back before reattaching the commode.
But just when I thought the bar of ridiculousness had been set too high to possibly top, I was jolted right up out of my chair as I was zoning out, vapidly reading facebook “status updates,” when my daughter started SQEALING in the next room. V is, by nature, accident prone and has a tendency towards tormenting our cranky older cat, so as visions of a 4 year old girl tangled up with a 10 year old orange tabby blurred through my brain, I was delightedly stopped in my tracks by V, who was laughing, shrieking and pointing at the television screaming “Momma! MOMMA! I want that! I WANT THAT! It’s called “Barbie Gets A Stamp!” I followed her transfixed eyes and pointed finger…no it’s not…it’s called…

Barbie Totally Stylin Tattoos!

Wait…er…WHAT?!

Seriously? TATTOOS?!

I used to only have to worry about banal things like the state of the economy and national security, now I have to worry about my 4 year old getting inked by Barbie?! I mean, really Mattel, what’s next? “Barbie’s Gardasil Vaccine Clinic?!” “Penis Enlargement Surgery Ken?” I mean, I thought the line was crossed with “Barbie Whose Dog Shits on the Floor,” and “Teresa’s Water Sports Wonder Cat!” It’s not that I’m against tattoos, obviously, it’s just all in due time. V should be learning to color inside the lines, not watching a fake Barbie dog take a crap. At least I waited until I was 18 before I, myself, got a tattoo. At this rate, V will be in Kindergarten.